Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (29 page)

That answer seemed to please him.

“Well, move. Now that you’ve had your pleasure, I might as well go make soap.”

“Dream another dream, witchling. You are not leaving this chamber lest I give you permission. And I can assure you that will not be for a long time yet.”

She closed her eyes for a brief instant, praying for strength. Would she be able to withstand this rogue’s allure if he “assaulted” her again?

“Thank you,” he whispered huskily, running the pad of his thumb across her bottom lip.

“For what?”
The sly dog is up to some new trick.

“For giving me more pleasure than I have ever received in the coupling.” He brushed his lips lightly across hers. She felt the kiss all the way to her toes, and that mortifyingly wet place in between.

“You probably say that to all women.”

He playfully finger-walked a trail from the side of her hip to the side of one breast. “Nay, I’ve never said it afore.” His attention was focused more on the breast he was studying as he pushed it up from the underside, then fitted it perfectly in the palm of his big hand. “Have I told you how much I like your nipples?”

“About two dozen times. Stop touching them.” She slapped his hand away.

“You could touch mine,” he offered magnanimously.

She had to laugh at his false generosity. But then she wondered aloud, “Does it feel…uh, the same, when a man’s nipples are touched as a woman’s?” Her face flamed hotly at asking such an intimate question.

“Good, you mean?”

“Never mind,” she said.

“Try and see,” he urged, taking one of her hands and placing it over his chest.

When she grazed her fingertips over the flat male nipples, she felt that part of him still inside her jump.

“More,” he coaxed.

She experimented with different touches on him. He seemed to like them all, especially when she flicked the nubs with a fingernail. The evidence of her success burgeoned to life again inside her. The final proof was when she leaned down and licked one nipple before suckling it wetly. He let loose with a moany exhalation and rolled
onto his back, taking her with him. To her surprise, she found herself astraddle the man, impaled.

“Oh, my!” she gasped.

“Oh, my!” he echoed.

I am sitting bare-naked, skewered on a Viking manpart,
she thought. Then she smiled. “Did you think up this trick yourself? Or do all men know about this?”

“I’m the only one.” He winked at her then.

“Don’t think that because I’m letting you do these things to me that I like you,” she declared, wanting to establish some pride in this unprideful situation she found herself in.

“Letting?” But then he told her, “I don’t much like you, either, Alinor.”

“But I do like your lovemaking,” she admitted.

“That’s good enough for me,” he said with a grin. “By the by, can you ride, my lady?”

“Horses?”

“Nay. Vikings.”

It turned out, she could.

Two days later, in the middle of the afternoon, Alinor was still in Tykir’s bed.

Oh, he had taken her to the bathhouse late at night when everyone else was asleep, and to the privy when nature called. But mostly, he kept her under lock and key, with Girta putting fresh food and bed linens, along with clean chamber pots, outside the locked door several times a day. Alinor would never be able to face the Viking woman again. Or anyone else in the keep.

Worst of all, Tykir’s men had returned this morn from the hunt, but he refused to leave his bedchamber, not even when Adam came knocking on the door. “Come down, Tykir. You must see the game we bagged on the hunt afore it is all dressed down.”

“Later,” Tykir had mumbled. Her face flamed even now to think what he’d been doing to her at the time. It involved floral-scented skin oils and a belly button stone.

Nor did Tykir budge when Rurik had come inquiring, “Are you alive, Tykir? Or blue? Has the witch snared you so securely that you cannot escape? Shall I break down the door?”

Tykir’s only response to Rurik had been a foul expletive and the comment, “Go away!” At that time, he’d been in the midst of persuading her (
he was an expert at persuading
) to try a new position…something involving better access to a secret Viking erotic spot on
her
body. It was a very interesting spot, indeed.

Even Bolthor, now reciting a new saga outside in the corridor, did not move the infuriating Viking to release her.

“Good Lord! He is awful,” Alinor observed.

“Yea,” Tykir agreed, quickly followed by “Hmmm.” Apparently he’d gotten an inspiration—
the man had way too many inspirations!
—from Bolthor’s saga and was busy trying to braid her maiden hair. Which was an impossible task. And it took him a long time. In the end, he never succeeded, his fingers being too large and clumsy and…well, it being an impossible task…but they both had a good time with the trying, accompanied by a great deal of laughter. And moaning.

“Do I hear moaning in there?” Adam asked, back again and now obviously pressing his ear against the door. How long had he been standing there? Maybe he’d never left.
“Best you come down soon, Tykir,” he advised, laughing uproariously, “Bolthor just skipped belowstairs—well, mayhap he did not skip—more like lumbered. And I misremember his exact words, but methinks he is spinning a saga about how to make a Viking groan. Its title is ‘When Norsemen Groan and Witches Moan.’ Dost know what he means?”

They both moaned and groaned together.

“Be careful the witch doesn’t grind your cock down to a nub,” Rurik chimed in.
Merciful heavens! The two men must be standing with ears pressed to the door.
“I knew a witch once who could do that. ’Twas not the witch who struck me blue. ’Twas another witch.”

“You know a hell of a lot of witches,” Tykir remarked dryly.

Then Rurik addressed Adam. “I still say we should get a log and ram the door.”

“Nay,” Adam said. “Let them do a bit more
grinding.
Tykir hasn’t had enough grinding in his life lately.”

“I’ll show that pup grinding,” Tykir grumbled, getting out of bed and storming over to unlock the door. With no modesty whatsoever, he stood in the half-open doorway, bare-naked, and shouted down to Girta’s husband, “Red Gunn, bring a bathing tub and hot water up here. My lady has worked up a mighty stink. Just jesting,” he called back to Alinor, whose nakedness was fortunately hidden from view by his large frame. Then he added to her humiliation by shouting to Red Gunn again, “Make sure it’s the
big
tub…the one large enough for two people.”

The laughter rising up from the great hall must have come from dozens of men, by the sound of its volume.

“Ty-kir! Are those scratches and bite marks all over your body?” Adam questioned. “Oh, for shame! Look at that, Rurik. Do my eyes prove me false, or are those fin
germarks on Tykir’s manpart?” To Tykir, he added, “Does it hurt?”

“I told you she was a witch, but would anyone believe me? Nay!” Rurik snorted with disgust. “No doubt those fingermarks will turn blue. Blue, I tell you, Tykir. Blue!”

“Why don’t you go heal someone, healer,” Tykir suggested with a loud yawn. “And Rurik, best you go check your own manpart, for I am now convinced the witch has impressive…uh, powers.”

A gurgling sound was Rurik’s only response. He was checking the inside of his breechclout, she would wager.

“’Tis true I am a master healer,” Adam boasted. “Is it possible Alinor is covered with as many bruises as you? Mayhap you should let me come in to check. ’Tis not good to let these things fester.”

Tykir laughed and slammed the door in both their faces.

Alinor was going to kill the clod. The problem was, she couldn’t move. She was plastered facedown on the mattress—boneless, sated and sore in some important places. And, yea, she was covered with bruises, all gained from the enthusiasm of their bedsport, not from any intended pain on Tykir’s part. Even the air touching her over-stimulated skin felt like a caress.

“Time to get up, witchling,” he said, donning a pair of low-slung braises. “Come. Let us break fast and get about the day’s work.”

“False promises do you make, Viking. Seems to me you said that very thing to me two morns ago.” She mimicked his deep voice then, “Time to get up, witchling.”

“Do you make mock of me?” he inquired with a short laugh.

Before her fuzzy brain could come up with an answer, a feather tickled the back of her knees. She shot to a sitting position. There was no way in the world she could with
stand another of his feather tortures, though she had to admit to having reversed the torture on him a time or two last evening. Or was it the evening before?

He was leaning against the bottom bedpost, arms folded over his naked chest. His eyes swept her nude body ever so slowly—a maddening habit of his that she had become accustomed to. She did not hide herself in modesty, having learned he would not allow such. Besides, she was not ashamed of her body now. Tykir had succeeded in one thing, at least—making her feel beautiful. Well, he had succeeded in many things, but not all of them so commendable.

“You
are
bruised,” he observed with concern, stepping forward to run his knuckles over the top of one breast. “I did not mean to hurt you thus.”

Thus
being the key word, Alinor thought. She accepted that he’d meant her no physical pain, but he certainly cared not a whit if she was hurt in other ways. She was beginning to suspect that he had kept her overlong in this bedchamber today, even knowing he was needed below, to make a point with her, his soldiers and all his people. Her status was to be thrall from now on. Oh, not a castle drudge or scullery maid. Nay, he had something more loathsome in mind. What had he called it? A love slave. Yea, he was establishing her status firmly for all to see. His own personal whore.

And that hurt Alinor more than any bruise.

The suspicion was reinforced a short time later when they had both finished bathing and Tykir held out the last of the gift boxes for her.

“Nay,” she said, shaking her head vehemently, knowing its contents even before he pressed the latch and the red silken harem apparel spilled forth.

“Yea, Alinor. You will wear it.”

“There are many things you can make me do, Viking. That is not one of them. I will kill myself afore I parade about in that scant costume for one and all to see. Believe me when I say that. I prefer death to that public humiliation.”

“You will wear the garb, but only for me.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You will wear the outfit for me alone in our chamber—”

Our
chamber? The fine hairs stood out on her body. So, this intimate confinement with the Viking was to continue? For the entire winter?
Oh, my God!
she thought.
Oh, my God!

“—and you will wear it belowstairs, but under your gown.”

She arched a brow in question.

“
I
will know it is there.” His voice was husky with meaning.

A short time later she was attired in the scandalous garment which pushed her breasts up and gave them the appearance of greater size. Vast amounts of skin were left bare—her shoulders and abdomen—and even more skin was visible through the almost sheer fabric. Worst of all, the only way she could avoid the tinkling of her bells was to take tiny steps, like a humble thrall. She blinked her eyes several time to keep the tears that scalded there from welling over. “I will hate you for this, Tykir,” she declared softly. “I think I was beginning to love you a little…fool that I am, but now—”

“Love?” he scoffed in horror. “I never asked you for love. Nor do I want it.”

She saw a momentary flash of regret in his eyes and knew that he lied. But it was too late now. The die was cast.

The days passed, and they were not so bad for Alinor.

Still, Alinor’s pride could not be reconciled to her less than honorable position at Dragonstead. She fought Tykir at every step, even on the reasonable requests he made of her, like the mending of a favored tunic or trimming his overlong hair. And she took offense at even the slightest insult.

Right now she was refusing to speak to the troll because he’d failed to introduce her, at first, to a visiting Viking jarl who’d passed through that afternoon by horse-driven sleigh on his way to a neighboring reindeer farm he owned. Tykir had been puzzled by her feelings of being slighted. “Jarl Jorund is a boorish lout,” he’d explained, trying to defend himself. “I was trying to protect your sensibilities.”

“A likely excuse.” She’d sniffed indignantly and slapped away the placating hand he’d set on her arm.

“Why would you want to meet another lout? Am I not lout enough for you?” he’d teased.

“You forgot I was even there.”

He’d grinned sheepishly then. “Is that such a great sin?”

Nay, it was not. But it was part of a pattern that bothered Alinor tremendously. A pattern that said she was a small part of his life, and that one less than honorable.

“Why do you fight your fate so?” Adam inquired now.

“Because I deny it is fate.”

She and Adam were seated before a roaring fire in the chilly great hall after dinner. Dozens of others sat about in groups in front of other hearths, drinking, conversing, dicing. A scene that was reminiscent of those taking place in noble Saxon homes she was familiar with.

“He treats you almost like mistress of his castle,”
Adam argued as he watched her grading the poor wool she’d found in Tykir’s storerooms. It was not near the quality of her own sheep fur, but she was carding, spinning and weaving it nonetheless…a familiar task that gave her comfort. She would use the finished wool for servants’ clothing

Alinor gave Adam a skeptical look on considering his words.
Mistress of Tykir’s castle?
“In all ways except one,” she pointed out.

Adam quirked a brow at her.

“That exception is when he takes me by the hand and draws me peremptorily to his bedchamber with clear sexual intent.” ’Twas odd that she felt comfortable discussing such matters with this young man who’d become a friend to her, but she was so frustrated that she needed to vent her fury somewhere.

Adam grinned at her blunt confession, clearly thinking Tykir was not such a bad fellow. “It does happen often.”

If he’d intended to make her feel better, he was sorely mistaken. “It matters not to Tykir whether it be midmorning and I am in the midst of setting the day’s menus with Girta, or afternoon helping Bodhil churn butter, or evening before the hearth fire in the great hall. The man is…insatiable.”

“Alinor, Alinor, Alinor,” Adam said, laughing heartily. “There are some women who consider such demands for their company a compliment. Mayhap you do too good a job in providing for his bed pleasure.”

“Oh, you just don’t understand. He gives me no choice.”

“A wife would have no choice either,” he noted.

“Wife? Who said anything about a wife?”

Adam frowned. “Methought we were discussing the difference in respect given to a leman, compared to a
wife.” He studied her intently. “What really is at the heart of your complaints?”

She took a deep breath. “Tykir makes his joy in our coupling too evident,” she disclosed. It was a deeply personal thing to confess to a mere friend, but she had no one else who might conceivably be able to advise her. “He wants me with a bottomless hunger, and he doesn’t care if anyone knows.”

That’s why she felt pegged as mere bedmate, rather than respected lifemate. It was not that she wanted that kind of permanent relationship with the Viking. At least, she did not think she would want that. But surely a man did not stare at a wife so lasciviously all the time, but especially when she walked fast all of a sudden, causing one of her bells to jingle ignominiously. Nor did a normal husband feel the need to touch his wife incessantly, whether in passing, with a light caress of her hair, or in assaulting her with a sudden exuberant hug.

Adam’s mouth dropped open. He did not laugh at her again, though. Instead, he shook his head with disbelief, and took both her hands in his. “Alinor, my dear, what you describe is a woman-blessing. A man loving a woman beyond all reason.”

“Oh, nay, nay, nay! I never said aught of love.”

He shrugged. “I know I am young, but I am well traveled, and I can tell you that God has laid a gift in your hands. You can toss it aside or tend it with care. Mayhap it is not love, precisely, but who knows what it could be? Tykir’s a good man, Alinor. Look beyond his actions to their cause.”

“The man is a troll,” she argued.

“Some would say you are a witch,” he countered. “Troll, witch, Viking, Saxon, man, woman…they are all just words.”

Adam walked away then, leaving her to her hand-spinning. She used the time to ponder Adam’s words and her own niggling suspicions. In the end, she came to an alarming conclusion.
God help me, but I love him.
How that disastrous situation had come about, she could not say. The simple answer could be that the lout brought her incredible sexual pleasure. Or that he was bone-meltingly handsome, especially when he smiled or winked at her. Or that his roguish teasing actually brought her joy. But the truth was, he touched her in a more elemental way. There was an invisible bond connecting them that seemed to have an almost mystical basis.