Her Lord and Master (3 page)

“Varn?” he asked, his eyes never leaving her face.

“Warm?” she discerned. “Yes. I am warm. Very, very warm.”

Her own voice sounded far away, as if in a dream. His hands melted her flesh where they touched her, and she felt like clay in his hands. Her eyes blurred.

Leisurely, he untied the laces that held her cloak together. One, by one, ever-so-slowly, he unlaced the stays. He pulled back the seams that concealed her from his view, sliding the coat partially down over her shoulders. For some reason, she didn’t stop him. She couldn’t. He held her, spellbound, like a spider’s sticky web.

Finally, he spread the garment wide, fully revealing her body for his viewing pleasure. Her breasts swelled under his smoldering gaze, and her nipples strained against the fabric of her dress. His gaze mesmerized her, riveting her to him.

Elizabeth saw a glimmer of surprise flash in his eyes when he encountered her scantily clad skin beneath. Under her bulky woolen nun’s habit, she wore only a thin linen kirtle. He cocked a brow and grinned with approval. The kirtle was nearly transparent, barely anything more than a night rail. She wore no chemise or undergarments beneath it, nor surcoat over it. His eyes devoured her hungrily.

The nuns never even looked at one another, so what did it matter what she donned beneath her cloak? She had never dreamed anyone would see her like this. Never in a million years had she thought to find herself disrobed in plain sight of a man, any man, this day or any day for that matter. But for some reason, it felt good.

A wide smile flashed unexpectedly across his handsome visage. His facade softened for an instant, and he actually looked charming. Elizabeth glowed under his scrutiny.

Then the moment was broken, and his chilling scowl returned.

Without a word, the man hauled her off her feet, tossed her roughly over his shoulder, and resumed walking.

She landed upon him with thud that knocked the wind right out of her lungs. It hurt so badly, salty tears filled her eyes. She bit her lip until it was bloody to keep from crying out in pain. She thought she would die of humiliation.

“Let me go, you beast,” she hissed.

He whacked her buttocks loudly with a slap of his right hand.

“Nej.”

She pummeled his back with her fists but he was unmoved. Each movement brought her dangerously close to the battle axe that hung from his back. A long, curved drinking horn swung precariously close to her each time she moved. Finally, for her own safety, she held still, albeit begrudgingly.

“I said, let me go!” she tried again.

Without warning, the man did let go, and Elizabeth nearly tumbled off his shoulder. She clutched at him frantically to prevent the fall, barely avoiding his sharp blade and sinister horn.

He laughed aloud at her discomfiture.

The Viking chieftain hauled her higher up onto his shoulder, and placed his hand squarely on her bottom. Molten lava burned her core, and her womanhood felt suddenly damp and soft. And empty. The strange, new sensation scared her.

This time, she didn’t fight him.  

The Viking leader did not stop walking. In fact, he did not slow his pace at all. His long legs ate up the ground beneath his feet, the additional weight of his unwieldy passenger apparently as inconsequential to him as a fly on the rump of a hog. Seeing there was no way out of her predicament, Elizabeth let herself relax for a moment, relieved, at least, that her feet were no longer killing her.  

“Vard?” she heard him say gruffly.

Damnit, why did all the words in his language sound the same?

He pushed the long, curved drinking-horn up his hip towards her. Elizabeth wasn’t certain if he was inviting her to drink water, or tempting her with his fury, but she grabbed the canteen greedily and downed the contents nonetheless. As no punishment was forthcoming, she whispered a word of appreciation at his back.

Not that he would understand such civilities as gratitude, she thought.

The hasty march continued, and Elizabeth became keenly conscious of the man’s body against hers. She could feel the rock-solid formation of his muscular arms molded against her hip where he held her, and the potent strength of his fingers clasping her skin. Her legs dangled against the bulging pectoral muscles of his chest, and she held on as tightly to his corded back as she could with bound hands. The man was built like a mountain.

His soft, fine, blonde hair tickled her face each time an errant breeze rustled it.

How ironic that he should have pale, downy locks, like a babe, she thought. The soft little ringlets hung incongruously against his thick, hard neck, tanned deep copper from years of seafaring and raiding. For a moment, she was tempted to run her fingers through the silky tresses, just to assure herself that they were real. His hair looked truly like an angel, an innocent babe. But she knew inside he was a devil.

Black, horned spikes would suit him more accurately, she scoffed. He was a kidnapper, a thief, and probably an assassin, too. He would most assuredly slit her throat this night in her sleep if she didn’t keep one eye open.

He was her enemy in every way and she hated him with every fiber of her being. Didn’t she?

Then another thought struck her. Mayhap he did not intend to let her sleep this night at all. He probably planned to deflower her!

The appalling idea almost made her shriek. She clasped her hand over her mouth to stifle the sound. Certainly, he intended to force his vile self upon her tonight. Perhaps even in front of his men!

She vowed to fight him tooth and nail if he laid a hand upon her, futile as it may be.

Just then, the man whistled.

The loud, piercing sound perforated the still summer air. A giant, one-eyed Norseman appeared immediately – right out of nowhere - mounted upon one of the horses stolen from the convent. His instantaneous arrival was soundless.

Elizabeth was stunned.

Was the Viking lord able to see his men, even when they were out of sight? To hear them, when they were silent? To know where each and every soldier was located, even when they were hidden from view? What powers did these men possess?

They had truly honed their senses to perceive the imperceptible.

These men were dangerous beyond measure. Elizabeth couldn’t help but tingle. The man’s dominance of everyone, and everything, around him, even the natural world, was hypnotic.

The two Norsemen exchanged words in their tongue, and Elizabeth was suddenly handed, unceremoniously, up into the saddle. Her hands were still tied, and the transfer was mortifyingly awkward. She scrambled to clasp her cloak together, but her bound hands were clumsy, and the task was nearly impossible.

For a split second, she felt a pang of disappointment. The Viking chieftain was going to leave her alone with this man, to give her away to him for all the troubles she had caused him? Just like her parents had done so many years ago, when they sent her to the abbey. Unaccountably, the little ping grew into a full blown ache in her chest.

Then, to her relief, the one-eyed Dane dismounted, and her captor swung easily up behind her. The big, old warrior vanished, like an apparition, right into thin air before her eyes.

Elizabeth chastened herself. What was the matter with her? Why had she felt distraught the thought of being separated from the querulous, kidnapping knave? She hated him and hoped she never saw him again as long as she lived. Perhaps the unrelenting sun was making her lose her mind. Her mother had always warned her as a young girl of such an occurrence. It ran in the family.

The Viking lord settled himself into the saddle behind Elizabeth, and guided the horse into a walk. Her feet were feeling slightly better now, and she was finally starting to cool down. In fact, she was beginning to feel downright drowsy.

The rhythmic gate of the work horse felt surprisingly soothing, and the man’s hard, strong body felt curiously comforting. He eased her back to lean upon his strapping chest, and his hand guided her weary head to rest in the crook of his neck.

He loosened her grip on the edges of her cloak, and splayed the seams to give her air, relieving her hot discomfort. Elizabeth allowed him to do so, pulled to him by some mesmeric force against her will. It was as if the fates were playing mischievous tricks on her this day. Her own body seemed bent on betraying her pledge to hate him.

Unbidden and unwelcome, the man wrapped one of his steel arms protectively around her waist as he urged the horse to trot. Elizabeth tried to pull away, but he held firm. With each staccato clop of the steed’s hooves, the wayward arm crept higher and higher, until it was finally nestled snugly beneath her breasts. The heat of his contact burned right through the thin material of her kirtle. Elizabeth seethed at his audacity, but her body responded uncontrollably to him.  

Little-by-little, as if by accident, his hand turned upward. His big, hot palm cupped her breast. Elizabeth knew she must remove it, but she didn’t. It simply felt too lovely to resist. Instead, she continued riding along upon the draft horse, jostling up and down, with her left breast bouncing up and down in a stranger’s hand. It was ridiculous. But for some reason, it didn’t feel wrong. It felt divine.

She didn’t even know his name, yet here he was, holding her intimately as if he were her lord and master.

Indeed, he was.

Ironically, Elizabeth realized at that moment, she was free. She was free to eat food, free to feel the sun on her face, free to enjoy its warmth and beauty. Free to let a strange man fondle her breast. Free to put salt on her supper! She never had to return to the oppressive confines of the convent ever again. She couldn’t help but smile.

Whatever the future held in store for her, it could never be as bad as the bleak, hopelessness of the abbey. She turned her head towards the man, and rested her forehead against his neck, inhaling his enticing scent, feeling his prickly stubble against her skin. She reveled in the clash of his hard planes against her soft ones.

The man’s palm continued to caress the heavy weight of her orbs. His thumb arched across her breast, and flicked surreptitiously across her nipple. She jumped as a jolt of pleasure coursed through her veins. She mewed unwittingly. He chuckled, and did it again. Her eyes flashed to his face, but he stared straight ahead, his face an unreadable mask of stone. She hoped he didn’t stop. She wanted him to continue. She wished for him to do more, but for what, precisely, she did not know.

Elizabeth closed her eyes and nestled her head against her captor’s neck again. His thumb continued to minister to her aching breasts, first one, then the other, until her languid limbs went limp with desire. He traced imaginary lines around the outside of her globes with his fingers, until her tight nipples ached with need.

“Ragnor,” he said quietly in a mix of Danish and Anglo-Saxon. “Mit...
name
... er Ragnor.”

“Ragnor,” she repeated.

The name felt beautiful on her tongue. Masculine and powerful. Commanding and authoritative. Yet, comfortable and familiar. Like she had waited her whole life to say it. Like she would give her life to say it again.

“Ragnor,” she replied, “I am Elizabeth.”

“Værdifuld,” he murmured. “Elizaveta.”

His soft whispers continued to flow into her ear, flowery, unintelligible words in his mother tongue. Elizabeth didn’t need to comprehend them, to understand what they meant. Her body knew, and it responded. Mayhap it had known his for a thousand years, mayhap all eternity. His body serenaded hers in a primordial song that was older than time itself. Elizabeth sighed and gave in to it, sinking into the whole new world of sensation that he was so expertly evoking in her with each passing moment.

Ragnor looked down at the girl he held in his arms. She was beautiful. She was beyond beautiful; she was stunning. Her body was perfect in every way, and her face was an angelic seductress. She was like nothing he had ever seen in his life.

He grimaced inwardly as he recalled the horrible conditions in which he had found this angel. What kind of a society locked away perfectly good, hale and hearty young women rather than celebrating them? Kept them captive in dark, dank cells behind stone walls rather than bedding them? It was a disgusting waste: in his lands, any woman who was fit and healthy was considered a treasure.

Even slaves lived better in Scandinavia than these women did. Although they were considered property by the law, most slaves were treated more like family members. They ate, slept and lived inside the house alongside the family, worked the fields together with the Viking men, and cared for the children jointly with the women. Many of Ragnor’s own men relied on their slaves to watch over their wives, children and crops while they were away on summer raids. 

Free Viking women had almost the same rights as men, including the right to carry arms, to speak their mind openly, and even to divorce if they were mistreated. Most men considered their wife their most faithful advisor and trusted ally. She was their cherished companion to be cared for and protected at all times. Ragnor’s father honored his mother above all others, and relied on her as an equal partner in both work and wisdom.

Someday, he hoped to find what his parents had.

But today, he would start by breaking in his new slave, he thought. Ragnor suckled gently on the young woman’s earlobe, enjoying the slow process of seducing her. As his prisoner of war, he could have just tossed her over a log behind a tree, pulled up her skirt, and rutted her like a randy stag. But there was no thrill in that. Building up her desire slowly, teasing her relentlessly, stirring up her passion into a boiling cauldron of rhapsody - and then watching her explode in a cataclysm of rapture – it was all worth the wait. And the momentary discomfort in his balls, he mused, shifting in his seat. 

Although she was afraid, she had left the convent without putting up much of a fight, he thought, all things considered. She would prove to be a willing partner and a lusty one, too, he anticipated eagerly. Tonight, he would teach her joy like she had never imagined.