Dark Viking (27 page)

He groaned.

“Betcha I can make you smile.”

He, of course, refused to smile, though she could see the humor in his eyes. “Odin and Thor were up in Valhalla, just hanging around, when Thor said it had been way too long since he‟d swived a wench, and the Valkyries weren‟t any fun at all, wanting to stay virgins forever.”

“Oh, good gods! You really are going to make a jest. Now?”

“Yep! Odin suggested that Thor go down to earth where there were lots of wanton wenches.”

“I am not listening,” Steven said.

“Next night Odin saw that lackwit Thor, he was grinning from ear to ear, claimed to have had sex with one woman twenty-one times.”

“Have a caution, Ree-tah, or Thor will strike you down with his mighty hammer.”

“His hammer was all worn down, if you ask me. In fact, Odin chastised him, saying that mortal women couldn‟t take so much sex and that he must go down and apologize immediately.”

“This is the dumbest story you have told so far, even dumber than time travel.”

“Tsk, tsk! Thor returned to earth and found the wanton wench, and he told her, „Sorry I am to have used you so, but I am Thor, and— “ „Thor? Hah! You think you‟re Thor. I can hardly thit down to pith.‟”

When he didn‟t laugh, she said, “Don‟t you get it? The woman had a lisp. A lisp is when—”

They were at the bathhouse, and Steven shoved her inside, closed the door with a boot, and had her up against the wall before she could blink.

“I know what a lisp is,” he said then.

“You‟re smiling.”

“Not about a joke.” He already had her gown hiked up to her waist and was undoing the bows on her panties. Amazing how men, no matter the time period, learned how to remove a woman‟s undergarments in seconds, whether they be corset or bra, no matter how complicated the fastenings were. Not that bows required a rocket scientist. Still . . .

“You missed me,” she guessed, and was already unlacing the front of his braies, shoving them down where they pooled at his knees.

“Is it so obvious?” he murmured against her neck.

“Oh, yeah!” She pressed her belly against his “obvious.” Then, “You‟ve only been gone a half day.”

“Seems like half a year.”

“You‟re insatiable.”

“And that is a bad thing?”

“No, that is a very good thing.” She put her hand to him, then tickled his balls.

He closed his eyes and probably saw stars behind his lids. “I do not think I can wait,” he gritted out.

“Does it look like I care?”

He leaned his head back to look at her.

She licked her lips, slowly, just the way that drove men wild, according to
Cosmo
magazine.

He grinned, bent his knees a bit to align their bodies, and thrust into her welcoming folds, already moist for him. Then he lifted her by the knees and arranged her legs around his waist.

With his hands cupping her buttocks, guiding her, the sex jump-started into fast and furious.

And very, very satisfying. A short time later, she was half-lying along the steps into the bathing pool with Steven behind her. Her legs were between his legs, her back to his chest. He had just dropped some hot rocks, making the water lukewarm.

Snuggling her in tighter, he confessed, “I am perplexed by the hold you have on me.”

That goes two ways.
“You mean the insatiable thing?”

He shrugged. “That and more. I am usually bored by now with a woman.”

“And you‟re not with me?”

“Not yet.”

She pinched the hand that was resting on her stomach. She knew what he meant, though, except she knew what the problem was, even if he did not. They were falling in love with each other.

Love was scary in the best of circumstances, making a person vulnerable, even weak. Its highs and lows made a person reel, as if they were bordering on madness. But love between a man and woman separated by a thousand years, that was the scariest of all. In fact, it was impossible.

Rita turned so that she was lying atop Steven. Taking his face in both her hands, she said, “Let‟s just take one day at a time. Each one a gift . . .” Left unsaid, was: “. . . until we part.”

But they both knew it was there.

The poignant, gentle lovemaking that followed was a testament to that inevitable end.

What’s love got to do with it? . . .

The days that followed were busy ones at Norstead as folks began to arrive for the Althing.

From dawn until the evening meal, Steven was busy arranging accommodations, stabling animals, sending out hunters and fishermen, greeting and visiting with Norse dignitaries. He was not averse to delegating responsibilities and did so with expertise, but still there was always something that called for a leader‟s hand. In particular, he had been investigating Brodir‟s claims that someone in his hird of soldiers had been with Thorfinn at the time the pirate said there had been proof of his innocence.

The only time he saw Rita was when he crawled into the bed furs at night where she, thank the gods, welcomed him with open arms and thighs. She was a blessing he feared would slip through his fingers if he were not careful. Nay, that was not quite true. She would definitely slip through his fingers; the question was: How long could he postpone the inevitable?

In the meantime, she was still experimenting with her deodorants, even on him. He had to admit to liking the pine-scented ones, though he was still sweat-soaked at the end of a day.

Perhaps not such smelly sweat, though, he conceded.

“You are in love with the woman.”

“What are you going to do about it?”

Kraka and Grima had jumped in front of him as he stepped out of the garderobe, spouting nonsense about love, of all things. Frigg‟s foot! They must have been hiding behind a bush, waiting to ambush him.

“By thunder! You two are enough to scare a dragon!”

“The moon is on the wane, the darkness returns, all will be lost anon at Norstead,” one of them predicted with a few cackles thrown in, “lest the master open his burdened heart to the magic of the light.”

The light prattle again!
Their message, if that is what it was, was as clear as mud. “Do you two ever comb your hair?” he asked. “Is that a cobweb on your shoulder? For Asgard‟s sake! That bag around your neck is made of snakeskin. Yeech!”

“Saba, saba, ulick, abba. Cat eyes boil and manparts coil. Ick vee, ick vee, cast thee rune rope.” The other witch . . . he never could tell the two of them apart . . . had a stick raised over his head as she chanted and danced around him.

“Enough!” He glowered at the two barmies. “What exactly do you want from me?”

One of the witches narrowed her eyes at him. “Three of your man hairs?”

His eyes widened with surprise before he laughed out loud. “Not going to happen! Why would you want such anyhow?”

“For the love potion,” one witch replied. “We could get none from your lady love.”

That being because she was bald thereabouts, he supposed.

“Not that you are not already under the influence,” the other witch added.

“We just need to reinforce the spell.”

“I am not in love,” he told them.

To which they both laughed, or rather cackle-laughed.

“I do not believe in love.”

More cackle-laughing.

“Assuming that you are referring to Ree-tah, she will be leaving here eventually.”

“Not if you convince her to stay,” Kraka and Grima said at the same time.

“Me? Why would I do that?” he asked, though he could think of one or twenty reasons, all of them involving bedsport.

“Love,” they both replied and were gone so quickly that he almost might believe he had imagined their conversation.

As he walked back to the keep, he pondered their words. Was he in love with Rita? How would he know, never having experienced the sentiment before? Was it a good or bad thing if he was?

What did love have to do with it anyhow? Love was not needed for good sex. Nor was good sex a guarantee of love. So, why the constant blathering of the skalds or the witches about love?

So many questions. So few answers. 

She refused to be the other woman . . .

If Rita hadn‟t been convinced before that she had time-traveled, she was now. She had never read nor seen anything like it. There was no way she could have imagined the scene before her.

In a flat valley of about five acres, tents of many sizes and colors and rough shelters made of tree limbs and thatch had been erected for the visiting Vikings and their families. They were arranged around one much larger open-sided tent where the Althing meetings would be held, starting tomorrow morning. Most of the people would eat and sleep out here, the only ones housed inside being King Olaf and several minor kings or chieftains with their families.

Booths were set up in some sections selling everything from wine to fur cloaks to roast meat and vegetables on a stick, like kabobs, to jewelry. Soapstone candleholders. Bone needles.

Antler combs. And services were for sale as well, like barbers and fortune-tellers who read rune stones. Then there were competitions . . . wrestling, archery, lance throwing, and swordplay.

It was like a huge state fair, with important business to be decided along with the fun and games.

Since Steven was so busy during the day, Rita spent her time with Kraka and Grima at their booth selling herbs or walking about with Sigge, who had developed an attraction for Sigurd, a young soldier from a neighboring jarldom.

Thus, Lady Thora was able to find her alone one day while Sigge went walking with her new boyfriend. “So, what do you think of Lady Isrid?”

“Who?”

“King Olaf‟s daughter Isrid. Have you not met her?”

Rita frowned, trying to remember. Yes, she recalled now. A young woman of about twenty who had been assigned one of the bedchambers with three other “noble” women. She had talked constantly, with one train of thought leading to another, nonstop. “You must be the Lady Mermaid,” she had remarked amiably. “I have ne‟er met a mermaid afore. Of course I have ne‟er met any sea creatures either. Dost think you could make me one of those chastity belts I hear so much about? Oh, look at that adorable baby over there. Do you have any babies?

Where is my maid? She was supposed to find me a blue riband. I do not like to wear yellow ribands on Thorsday, do you?” That was the way the young woman had blathered on.

“Yes, I‟ve met her,” Rita told Thora.

“What did you think of her?” The look of malice on Lady Thora‟s face should have forewarned her. “Since she will be Lord Steven‟s wife, your time in his bed furs may be on the wane. Assuming he does not set aside your mistress duties all together. Or mayhap he will pass you on to one of his soldiers or a visiting jarl.”

“I have no idea what you‟re talking about.” “Lord Steven and Lady Isrid are to be wed. Mayhap even here at the Althing, if King Olaf has his way.”

Rita froze in place, not wanting to believe Steven would betray her in this way. Even if they weren‟t married or engaged, fidelity was a given. Or at least she‟d thought it was.

“On the other hand, it may not matter . . . if you are traded to Brodir in exchange for Lady Disa.”

“Are you saying that Steven is considering that?”

Thora examined her fingernails as she spoke with a seeming nonchalance. “It was mentioned in a meeting with his hersirs afore he went to negotiate with the pirate.”

Rita turned on her heel and stomped away, not wanting to hear any more. It was probably lies. Lady Thora loved to stir up trouble. There was no reason why she should believe her. Still . . .

When she saw Sigge at the witches‟ booth a short time later, she said right off, “Is Steven engaged to marry King Olaf‟s daughter?”

Sigge‟s face bloomed with color. “Uh . . . well, methinks they may have been betrothed when they were children by both fathers, but that does not mean—”

Rita put up a halting hand. So, it was true. He probably considered her his bit on the side until the wedding. Heck, he might even, in all his arrogance, think she would continue to have an affair with him after his marriage. Hah! He had another think coming. She was not, nor ever would be, the other woman.

Rita knew she couldn‟t confront Steven while he was busy around other people. Someone might accidentally, or not so accidentally, lop her head off. So, time crawled the rest of that day until it was time to go to bed. When he finally came into the bedchamber, closing the door behind him, she was fully awake, fully clothed, and so steamed her brain was probably cooked.

He smiled at her. The unsuspecting idiot! “I put your new deodorant on tonight, sweetling.

The apple-scented one. Oslac says I smell good enough to eat.” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

“You louse! You stinking, two-timing sonofabitch!”

“What?” He ducked as she threw a boot at him. “What in bloody hell has your bowels in an uproar?”

“You do, you lying scumbag.” She threw a second boot, which he caught deftly in an upraised hand.

“Why didn‟t you tell me that you‟re engaged?”

“Engaged in what?”

She missed him with one of Luta‟s hair fillets, and it landed at his feet.

“Aaarrgh! Engaged to marry. Does the name Isrid ring any bells?”

She could see the flush of guilt on his face, which pretty well sealed her fate with him. She fought the tears that filled her eyes and blinked them away.

“Ree-tah!” he said, picking her up by the waist and hugging her tightly, despite her kicks and slapping hands. Only when she‟d worn down did he release her slightly to sit down on the bed with her on his lap. “It does not change anything.”

“It changes everything.”

“I have no intention of wedding Isrid.”

“You don‟t?”

“Not unless I have to.” She slapped at him again, and this time was successful, until he pinned her arms to her sides and kissed her neck.

“I was only nine years old when Isrid was born. My father and hers made a pact for our eventual wedding, but I ne‟er agreed. And no doubt they were
blindfuller
at the time. Drunk as a lord!”

“So, it‟s not binding?”

“Not unless King Olaf deems it so, and he has not mentioned it for some time.”