Rough and Ready (20 page)

Never

handsome to begin with, his hair and beard were mostly gray now, tangled and unkempt.

Torolf's tunic and braies were covered with blood, as were Steinolf's. Torolf had a mean slice across his cheek that would need stitching, and another on his thigh. But most worrisome, Steinolf, yellow teeth bared with savage fury, had a lock secured on Torolf's neck from behind with an arm, pinning his right wrist with the other to prevent him using his sword. But Torolf managed to escape Steinolf's slippery hold on him and sprang around and back on his feet. They were both panting for breath.

It was then that Hilda noticed the mortal stab wound in Steinolf's chest, but that was not all she noticed. From his burly neck hung an amber medallion encased in gold, suspended on a thick chain. Her father's.

Hilda went berserk then. All the destruction and pain caused by this man hit her like a mace to the head. She saw him through a red haze as she ran, dagger drawn. Without thinking, she lunged forward, reflexively aiming the sharp knife in the manner the SEALs had taught her… no direct stab, but arcing upward from his fat belly where the vital organs were located.

Everyone was stunned speechless, watching her.

Steinolf's eyes went wide with horror, and his last words were, "Bloody bitch!"

afore he fell backward to the ground, blood gushing forth in pools.

The red haze began to clear, and the buzzing noise in her ears subsided as she began to register the scene before and around her. Torolf was coming toward her, a worried look on his face. Why? I am fine. Steinolf is dead. The Norselands will be at peace again.

Torolf picked her up.

She wanted to tell the lout to put her down.

He kept whispering nonsensical soothing things in her ear, as if she would be shattered over killing the beast. She tried to tell him to put her down, that she was glad of mood, ecstatic over the killing, but no words would come from her mouth. She glanced in front of her, saw the bloody knife still in her hand, and screamed. It was Steinolf's blood, and it almost totally covered the white skin of her hand.

She dropped the knife with a whimper. Then she lost consciousness.

You can't go home again…

"Find a clean place for me to lay the lady down," Torolf yelled to the cowering housecarls and maids in the hall.

"Yea, milord."

" 'Tis fair good to see ye back, milord," a toothless old man told him, his rheumy eyes tear-filled with joy at his presumed return.

"May the gods bless ye for comin' to save us from the beast," one maid said.

Over and over, his people—that's how they regarded themselves, considering him jarl of this estate—touched him in passing or called out their thanks. Little did they know, he was not staying. Still, he was touched by their sentiments and heartsick over what they must have suffered.

The maids led him to a large master bedchamber off the great hall, which had its own fireplace for heat, a novelty in the Norselands at this time. Torolf knew this because his own grandsire had designed it for his wife, Lady Asgar. One maid was pulling soiled linens and bed furs off the bed, and two others were already putting on clean sheets and a wool blanket. Tears streaked their faces, no doubt tears of joy.

He placed Hilda down gently and kissed her forehead. Then he motioned for the women to clean up the rest of the filthy chamber. He also whispered to one woman to bring a tub and hot water here for a bath, if one were available. Hilda would want to wash off the blood as soon as she awakened.

While the women did their work, he went out to find Thorfinn, who was already lording it over everyone. Torolf had told him days ago that Norstead was his for the taking as long as he paid Hilda for her lifetime ten mancuses of gold each year, or sent to The Sanctuary its equivalent in game, oats, produce, and trade goods for a period of no less than twenty years. He'd also advised Steven to do the same with Amberstead, in the event Hilda would not wed with him, which she had sworn she would not, preferring to continue her work at The Sanctuary.

"How many dead and wounded?" he asked Thorfinn.

"A hundred of Steinolf's men dead, including himself and three of his chieftains. Thirty-seven wounded, some gravely."

"Our side?"

"Ten dead, ten wounded. I have heard naught from Steven. There may be more on their way to Valhalla or to the healer."

"And captives secured?"

Thorfinn rolled his eyes. "More than I care to mention. Each will have to be dealt with separately. I will hold a Thing on the morrow, and some of your old retainers here can help me identify those who can be trusted to join with us and those guilty of such cruelty that we would not want them in our midst."

"What will you do with those?"

Thorfinn looked surprised at his question. "Send them to burn in the fires of Muspell, of course."

Torolf nodded. "You said you have no intention of marrying again. You'll have to marry if you're to rule here. There must be heirs to carry on."

"I suppose, though not anytime soon." He shrugged. "If Hilda does not take my brother, mayhap I will offer for her one day. She is not very comely, nor built to please a man's hunger, but then my wife was comely, with breasts to turn a monk to sin. She turned out to be a harlot. Yea, methinks I will seek a homely wife this time."

"Are you blind? Hilda is not homely," he snapped. "And if you measure a woman's sexiness by the size of her boobs, then you are a world-class… boob."

Thorfinn grinned, or what passed for a grin with him. "Smitten, are you?"

"I am not smitten. It's just that I admire Hilda tremendously. You have no idea what tortures she and her women experienced under Steinolf, and how hard Hilda worked to build a refuge for them at The Sanctuary."

"A saint, she is, then?" Thorfinn arched his eyebrows at him in the infuriatingly condescending way he had. " 'Tis not much joy in bedding a saint, if you ask me."

Torolf fisted his hands and willed himself not to argue with the jerk anymore.

He hated to think of Hilda giving herself to such a cold man. It wouldn't be much of a marriage. Hardly better than her other three husbands, though Thorfinn was younger. Would he give her pleasure, or care only about making a child and his own needs? I should not care. I do not care. It is not my problem. "I'll help you here at Norstead as much as I can. Then I'm going back to The Sanctuary with any of the women who care to return. From there, my friends and I are going home." If we can.

"What should we do with Steinolf's body? He is a nithing, and I am loath to give him any respect, even in death. Better that his body be left for the wolves to savor."

"I agree."

"The others we will put on a funeral pyre away from the keep. The stink will be unbearable. We could toss them off the rock cliff and into the sea, but I fear they would just wash back with the waves."

"Fire is best, but no funeral rites for these villains. And let me talk to Hilda about Steinolf first. She had some… um, plans for Steinolf's body. I'm not sure she would really go through with it, but I have to ask."

Thorfinn tilted his head in question.

"The Blood Eagle."

Getting to know you … me …

Hilda awakened, disoriented, in a strange bedchamber, to find Torolf washing her face and hands with a damp cloth. The wooden basin on the floor was red with the blood he'd wiped off her… Steinolf's blood.

It was an oddly intimate thing for him to be doing, ministering to her personal care. Tears welled in her eyes and began to leak out, both at his tender gesture and at all that had happened that day, including her fainting. Overwhelmed, that is how she felt.

"The bodies are going to be burned soon, Hilda, away from the keep. But I need to know what to do about Steinolf. You don't really want to put a Blood Eagle on him, do you?"

She thought for a long moment, then shook her head no. "I thought I needed to do to him the same as he did to my father, but 'tis enough that he is dead." A soft sob escaped her lips.

"Oh, baby, don't cry. It's all over now." He tossed the cloth aside and took both of her hands in his, kissing the knuckles of one hand, then the other.

When the tears continued to flow, he lay down on the bed beside her, boots and all, and took her into his arms, making soothing sounds as he rubbed a hand from her shoulders to her waist, over and over. Unbidden, Hilda recalled something she had heard one time when she was a child, whispered betwixt her mother and friends.

"No more tears? Good. What are you smiling about?"

Without thinking, she told him, "There was a famous lady who once said to her lady friends, 'My lord came home from the wars today, and he made love to me with his boots on.' " She was immediately embarrassed to have revealed her thoughts.

Torolf stilled his hand, glanced down at his boots, then looked her in the eyes.

"Hilda?"

"Torolf?"

"You want a victory… celebration?"

Yes. No. "Mayhap."

"You said you didn't want to do it again."

"Can a woman not change her mind?"

"Oh, yeah." He was already peeling off her belt and loose-necked gunna, grinning at the balls-of-yarn breasts. "Thank God women change their minds. Thank God you've changed your mind."

"It would only be this time." 'Tis embarrassing how many times I have said that and then yielded.

"Definitely."

She impatiently untied his belt and tugged his bloodstained tunic over his head.

Moving to the end of the bed, she helped him unlace his boots. Soon they were both naked, kneeling, looking at each other. He had a beautiful, muscle-sculpted body. He had beautiful, thick, dark blond hair. He had beautiful, warm honey-brown eyes fringed with dark lashes. His manpart jutted out, thick and long, and it was beautiful, too.

If she was not careful, she could grow to love this rascal. Good thing I am a careful woman.

"Your cut needs stitching," she remarked, touching the deep cut still oozing blood that ran from cheekbone to chin. "Your thigh, as well."

"Later." He ran the fingertips of one hand across her lips, over her chin, then a straight line from her neck to her groin, creating a path of fire and pleasure. "Hilda, have you ever masturbated?" At her obvious confusion, he explained, "Self-pleasure."

She shook her head slowly, having no idea one could do to oneself what he had done to her. Well, yea, she knew men sometimes touched themselves, but not women, surely. "Dost mean a woman could make herself peak?"

"Definitely. Men have been doing it through the ages. There's even a line in the Bible about some guy spilling his seed upon the ground. The sin of Onan, that's what they call it. And, honey, there's only one way a guy spills his seed on the ground. Jacking off. Or leaving before the Gospel."

"But Onan was a man." What a lackwit thing to say! A woman wouldn't be spilling her seed.

"Okay, sweetie, here's my gift to you. I'm going to teach you how to do yourself."

"Why?"

"Believe me, I'll get as much pleasure from watching. More important, though, I don't want you to ever feel you need to marry someone just to have sex."

"As if I ever would!" Is he thinking of someone specific, like Steven or Thorfinn?

He grinned. "Well, you might now that you know what sex can be. In any case, if you can climax yourself, you don't have to be all hot for a man to do you."

Do me? "Oh, I am not sure I could—"

"Will you do it for me?"

She nodded hesitantly.

"Keep on kneeling, but spread your legs, honey." He shimmied himself into a prone position with his legs straight between hers, his manpart close to her nether parts. "Wider."

She did, and while she should have been embarrassed, she was surprisingly not.

"Close your eyes and touch your face, like a lover would. Learn your contours, pretend it is a man's fingers tracing you."

She did as he instructed, and then some. When the tracing of her lips with a forefinger brought her a slight tingling, she put the finger in her mouth and sucked. It felt so good, her nipples pearled, and her nether parts swelled.

It

must have felt good to Torolf, too, because he groaned.

"Caress your body now, everywhere. Keep your eyes closed. You're still picturing a lover's hands on you …my hands on you."

She was tentative and shy in her self-caressing but found herself getting aroused.

"Your breasts now, Hildy. I love your breasts… yes, I do. They're like no other breasts in the world. Perfect for you. Raise them up from underneath. Like that.

Oh, baby! Play with the nipples. Find out what feels good."

She experimented. Hard and soft. Rubbing and flicking. "I cannot do to my breasts the best thing," she confessed and opened her eyes.

His eyes were hazy brown, half-lidded, his mouth parted. "What is that?"

"Suckling. I love when you suckle me."

His manpart lurched at her words, and she smiled that she could affect him that way. "Witch!" he said, not unkindly. "Wet your fingertips in your mouth and pretend it is my mouth."

She did. It was nice, but not as nice as his wet lips and tongue.

"Lower now, honey. Lower. Real slow. No, don't close your eyes. I want to see if your eyes change when you come."

Hilda figured "come" must mean the same as peaking. She tried to recall the way in which Torolf had caressed her lower body. Her waist and belly, her buttocks, then a whispery pass over her woman's fleece. She whimpered at the almost too intense pleasure that brought.

"Keep going," he encouraged.

She did an unspeakable thing then. She touched herself betwixt her legs, and she was wet. She whimpered, and her suddenly weak legs gave way so she now sat on her haunches.

"Do you know what a clit is, Hildy… a clitoris?"

She shook her head. It felt as if her blood had thickened and grown warm. All over her body, she felt more sensitive, as if even the fine hairs that covered her were standing at attention, waiting for some monumental event.

"Every woman has a sort of bud between her legs, the center of all her sexual pleasure. A woman can climax without her clit ever being touched, but usually it makes it more intense, better. Can you find it yourself? Do you want me to show you?"