Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (14 page)

“Only because I badgered him to justify his conduct. And, actually, ’twas Bolthor who filled in most of the picture.”

“So, dost thou think there is any chance of Tykir being my guardian Viking—”

“Guardian Viking?” Rachelle choked out a laugh.

“—sent by God to champion my cause against my brothers?” Even Alinor had to smile at how foolish her words sounded.

“Who can say? Who can say? I do not believe Tykir will release you and jeopardize Adam. But mayhap God has a finger in this porridge. Yea, in reflecting on it, I am beginning to suspect you will play a pivotal role in the unraveling of this mess.”

“But there is the chance that Tykir will sacrifice me for Adam…that he will leave Trondelag with Adam, and me behind to handle my fate with my own devices, such as they are.”

“Yea, there is that chance.” Rachelle studied her for a moment. “Do you have…devices?”

Alinor laughed at that. So, even Rachelle was not altogether sure she was not a witch. “There are devices and there are devices,” she answered enigmatically. Suddenly, a marvelous plan occurred to Alinor. Stepping away from her newfound friend, she paced back and forth along the hearth. “Is it possible,” she asked Rachelle, “that Tykir might be convinced to set me up in business?”

“Hah! And what business might that be?” Rurik asked, coming through the doorway, bringing a gust of frosty wind with him. So tall was he that the roof beams of the
low ceiling grazed his head, as they did for Tykir and Bolthor. “The witch business?”

Alinor glared at Rurik. Then, slowly, she let a slow grin slip across her lips. Her eyes dropped deliberately to the region of his precious manparts and, surreptitiously, so no one else would notice, she waggled her fingers.

“Did you see that? Did you see that?” Rurik raged. “The witch just put a spell on me.”

Tykir, who came in behind him, looked from Rurik, who was peering inside his braies, to her, and back again, then shrugged, seeing nothing amiss. “As to businesses, you’d best not be thinking I’d get involved with sheep, My lady of the Freckles,” Tykir remarked to her as he proceeded to the hearth fire, where he rubbed his hands briskly over the flames…and winked at a giggling Maida—
the lecherous lout.
“I had more than enough of those smelly creatures on the journey from Graycote to Jorvik.”

“My sheep do not smell,” Alinor said indignantly and brushed her gown aside with repugnance when Tykir stepped too close to her, giving her one of those lascivious I-can-see-you-naked looks.

Bolthor was the last to come in, along with Ottar and Karl, who washed their hands in a bucket on a bench near the door. “I have a thought for a new saga,” Bolthor began. Everyone rolled their eyes, but not so the giant could see. “How Tykir the Great Came to Be a Sheep Herder.”

Hours later, Tykir prepared to slip into his bed furs, where the Lady Alinor awaited him.

Well, “awaited” was not precisely the correct word.

He could practically hear the grinding of her teeth from halfway across the room.

Despite his softening toward Alinor in some regards, considering that she had tried to poison him with one of her potions, he did not trust her any farther than he could see her. As a result, he’d informed her an hour past that she would share his bed furs or be trussed up against one of the roof support beams, where she would, no doubt, turn into an icicle once the hearth fires died down—a uniquely speckled icicle, at that.

She’d raged, nagged, cajoled, then raged again, to no avail.

Finally, Rurik and Bolthor had gone out, griping mightily, to seek quieter sleep companions—well, mayhap not so quiet…most men, and they were no exception, relished a woman who was vocal in her bed-pleasures. And Viking men were known for their abilities to give women bed-pleasures. In any case, Rurik and Bolthor had contended that they would be unable to rest in this longhouse with their ears ringing from Alinor’s screeching voice.

Of course, Rurik had no choice but to depart anyway since Rachelle had slapped his face—not once, but twice—for suggesting she engage in some perverse activity with him.

Then, too, when she thought no one was looking, Alinor had taken to waggling her fingers in the oddest way at Rurik’s manparts, which made Rurik turn nigh green in the face.

Tykir thought he might go mad before he ever reached Trondelag.

Now Ottar and Karl snored lustily at the far end of the long house, near the front door. Rachelle had long since gone to her bench bed on the other side of the raised hearth with Thibaud, who was exhausted by an hour of wrestling on the rush-covered floors with Tykir, Rurik and Bolthor. Holy Thor, how the straw had flown!

Rachelle had just smiled at their rough antics. But Alinor had tsk-ed and tsk-ed, calling them all “naught but little boys” themselves…to which he and Rurik and Bolthor had grinned in agreement, and crossed their eyes at her…which just made Alinor tsk some more.

Now he banked the hearth fire and yawned, open-mouthed, as he approached his bed furs on the other side of the hearth, where Alinor lay on her back with the skins pulled up to her chin. He suddenly realized how bone-weary he was. It had been a very long day. Good thing he had not succumbed to Rurik and Bolthor’s exhortation that he accompany them to a bawdy house. He doubted he would be up to the bedsport tonight.

With another robust yawn, he began to remove his clothing. First, he hopped about on one foot, then another, as he unlaced his cross-gartered ankle boots. He thought he heard Alinor make a teeth-sucking noise of disgust at the ruckus he was making. No one else seemed to notice, though, apparently being fast asleep.

Alinor’s disapproval annoyed him, along with her constant complaints all the evening long…in fact, these past two sennights. What kind of captive was she that she felt free to berate her captors? What did that say about him as the captor?

He would turn the tables on her, he decided. He would undress in front of her, slowly, and imprint an image on her brain of him, naked, just as he had of her. That would show her.

He hoped.

But the witch defeated him by keeping her eyes scrunched tight. He was fairly certain she did not see his naked form—which was magnificent, if he did say so himself—because he watched her closely. She did not once blink or peek.

That annoyed him, too.

With a muttered curse, he slipped into the furs beside her. She squealed with outrage, unable to maintain her cool composure. Mayhap she had seen him after all, and was now swoony with concern over the size of his…form. Some women were missish in that regard, not realizing that the female body was made to accommodate any…form.

“Your toes are cold, you brute. Don’t touch me. Move your feet.”

Well, mayhap not so swoony…or missish.

She waggled her bare toes against his bare toes, and he experienced the shock of it all the way to the top of his scalp, the ends of his fingers and the very tip of his manhood. The last time he’d felt such an immediate jolt was when Bolthor, who weighed as much as a midsize horse, had stepped on his big toe. Blessed Freyja! He had seen stars then. But that had been different. This shock was painful, too, but in a most delicious way.
Who would have thought toes could be such an erotic body part?

“Stop squirming,” he grumbled, trying to make himself comfortable, “lest you arouse me.” That last disclosure was an impulsive inspiration, for which he congratulated himself.

She stilled immediately. “You lecherous lout! Are you naked?”

“Of course I’m naked. ’Tis how most mortal men, and women, sleep. Aren’t you?” He reached out a hand to check, and encountered her underchemise.
Helvtis,
he thought, though why he should care, he could not say.
Damn, damn, damn.

“No, I’m not naked,” she snapped, slapping his hand away. She rolled over to her side and turned to face the wall, taking most of the bed furs with her.

He grinned and pulled his half of the bed furs back. Then, risking bodily damage, he nestled against her, spoon-fashion. She had no place to go. Thank the gods!

“Stop pressing your knee into my backside,” she ordered in an icy voice, which, no doubt, had a chilling effect on her sheep. But none whatsoever on him.

He chuckled. “My knee is nowhere near your rump,” he told her. And it wasn’t.

When understanding dawned, she bolted up into a sitting position and tried to flee the bed furs. “You loathsome wretch!”

“Shhhh,” he cautioned, pushing her down so she lay on her back. “You’ll wake everyone.” With that, he rolled over onto his side and threw one leg over her thighs and an arm across her chest, thus imprisoning her.

But what he accomplished, instead, was a soul-searing blow to his senses. With his legs, through her night rail, he perceived the shapeliness of her thighs, causing the very hairs to stand up on his legs, and everywhere else. Under his forearm, the nipple of her breast budded, begging for his touch. The witch felt so damn good in his arms that the very breath seemed to stop in his lungs, and his heart skipped a beat.

She gasped, as if equally affected, and stopped struggling.

With a groan, he nuzzled her rose-scented hair and whispered, “You should stop using Eadyth’s hair ointment.”

“Why?” she whispered back.

He felt her breath against his cheek as she turned to speak to him. It was warm and fresh and dangerously enticing. “Because I like it too much,” he answered.

That gave her pause. The lady would not like him liking anything about her…not her naked body, not the smell
of her hair, not her sweet breath and definitely not the imprint of her nipple on his flesh.

I am doomed,
he thought.
The witch has ensorcelled me with her spells. And I do not care. All I care about is—

“All you care about is your lustful impulses,” she charged, trying to shift out of his embrace. “You are just like every other man, thinking only of yourself.”

“I am like no other man,” he assured her, tightening his arm and leg across her.

“If I lie still, will you leave me alone?”

Smart woman! Knows when to fight and when to negotiate
. “Mayhap.”

“I would like to offer you a bargain…one that could be very lucrative for you.”

His mind went suddenly alert. What was she up to now? “Lucrative in what way? I have more than enough wealth.”

“Nobody has too much wealth.”

“I do.”

“Nay, you do not,” she argued.

“Make your damn offer and be done with this foolishness. But know that if it involves your release and an exchange of money, I am not interested.”

“Loosen your hold on me first. I’m suffocating.”

“I’m not on top of you. You do not bear my weight. And my arm and leg are only resting lightly on you. How can you be suffocating?”

“Your nearness suffocates me.”

Ah, so she was aware of this strange connection betwixt them. He couldn’t quite explain it. It was more than a spark, but less than a flame. Was her body making ready for the bedsport, even as her stubborn mind resisted? He did have that effect on women betimes. He smiled widely with satisfaction.

“Stop smiling,” she chastised.

“How can you tell I’m smiling?” The room was dark, but not totally black due to the brightness cast by the banked fire.

“I sensed it.”

“You sensed a smile?”

“Aaarrgh! Let us get back to the subject at hand. I will not ask that you release me now—”

“Good thing,” he interrupted, “because I would not.”

“—not this instant, I mean. I know that you are honor bound to deliver me to King Anlaf’s court. Your nephew Adam’s safety is important to you, and—”

“Adam? Who told you about Adam? That god Loki must be stirring trouble again in the form of a certain someone who has a loose tongue in my company.”

“It does not matter how I found out. The important thing is that you deliver me to King Anlaf’s court,
and
that you offer me your protection there. Most significant, you will promise to return me to my home at Graycote…let us say, by Christmas.”

“Let us say…not in my bloody lifetime.”

“Now, do not be hasty. Do you not want to know my terms?”

“Nay.”

He thought she said something foul in an undertone before speaking aloud. “I can give you three hundred marks of silver, if you will agree to my safe return to Northumbria.”

He wondered how she was able to lay her hands on that considerable sum, but he’d been truthful in telling her he had wealth enough. “You would ransom yourself?”

“No one else will.”

Any other woman would moan and bewail her misfortune in making that statement, but not Alinor. She just
brushed it off as a fact of her life. He did not want to admire the shrew, but sometimes he could not help himself.

“Well?”

He laughed at her persistence. “’Twould not be worth the aggravation.”

“Aggra-aggravation,” she sputtered.

He rather enjoyed making her sputter.

“Five hundred marks, then.”

Now that surprised him. “Alinor, how in the name of your holy saints would you obtain five hundred marks to give me?”

“You do not need to know the how of it. But if you must know, sheep.”

“Sheep,” he repeated drolly. “Your familiars would bring the coin here?”

“Familiars? Blessed Lord! You can’t be that lackwitted. I have many folds of sheep…just animals. Nothing magical about them, except the fine fabrics to be gleaned from their fur.”

“There is
that
much to be gained from those smelly beasts?”

“My sheep do not smell, I tell you.” If she’d been standing up, she would have stamped her foot, Tykir would warrant.

“I don’t want money from you,” he said.

“Well, what do you want from me?”

Oh, she should not have asked that. She really should not have. “Let’s make love,” he blurted out in a voice that sounded husky, even to his own ears.

She inhaled sharply with shock, then scoffed, “That is lust speaking.”

“Yea.”

“Really, what is it about men and sex? Three minutes
of bouncing atop a woman—one minute of which is spent in trying to get the wick to stand up properly—and they’re in a swoon.”