Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (30 page)

Was it possible that fate, or some celestial being, had destined them to be together? Did God want her to tame the savage Viking? Now that was a daunting prospect, she thought with a silent laugh. And amusing, really, to think that the blessed Lord would use a Viking king’s crooked manpart to gain his ultimate ends with her.

She had no more time to ponder her fate then, because the bane of her life arrived…well, the
other
bane of her life. Rurik. He slumped down onto a bench near her, elbows braced on his widespread knees, and stared glumly into the fire.

“Now what?” she finally asked. “Didn’t the chicken dung ointment I suggested for removing your blue mark do the job? Never mind. I can see that it didn’t.”

He cast her a sidelong glare. “I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

“Nobody is.” She thought a moment. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. You have run out of women in all of Trondelag to lure into your bed furs.”

His lips turned up reluctantly, and she had to admit he would be a tempting bit of manhood, if she was the type of woman attracted to his particular brand of arrogance.
“There are a few left, but those are old crones…not worth the effort.”

“You could start over again.”

“I could.”

“So that’s not the source of your sour mood? Could it be your favorite part has shriveled up and died from overuse?”

“Enough!” he said. After several moments, he revealed his dilemma. “I need your help.”

Uh-oh.

“People are starting to believe you are
not
a witch.”

“And that’s a problem?”

“Yea, it is. No one wants to buy my crosses or holy water anymore. You have to do more witchly things, Alinor.”

At first, she just gaped at him, slack-jawed with surprise. “You don’t believe I’m a witch anymore?”

“Nay. Well, leastways, not every day. Come, Alinor. ’Twould be a small thing to do a few witchly acts betimes.”

She hooted with laughter.

“It’s not amusing. Would it hurt you to waggle your fingers at some other men’s private parts on occasion? Can’t you pretend to boil up a cauldron of bats’ wings and snake eyes? Or”—he grinned at her—“dance naked in the forest?”

“You are impossible,” she stated and soon sent him on his way, grumbling with dissatisfaction.

It was getting late. Deciding to end her chores for the night, she put her spinning materials inside a wide basket, then looked up to see Tykir watching her from across the hall. The usual smoldering glint in his honey eyes struck a spark in her, which she tried mightily to resist, despite the instant sexual fire ignited in her belly.

He crooked a finger at her.

She sat up stiffly.
The arrogance of the man, demanding I come to him. I will show him.
Alinor crooked her finger back at him, thinking to prompt some adverse reaction.

Instead, Tykir smiled and stood immediately, making his way toward her. How could she hate a man who could be so demanding one instant and so willing to bend the next? Apparently he didn’t care which one did the coming, him or her.

When he stepped close to her, he took her by the upper arms and pulled her to her feet. She felt the heat of his body and the even greater heat of his need of her. ’Twas a heady, heady aphrodisiac, being wanted so much by such a virile man. Mayhap for now that was enough.

“I missed you, sweetling,” he murmured.

Sweetling?
“I missed you, too, troll,” she conceded.

He smiled widely, a wonderfully open display of gratitude for her simple concession…a smile that caused her toes to curl and her heart to expand with joy.

Yea, ’tis enough for now.

Then he pinched her buttock playfully as they made their way to the stairway and whispered in her ear, “Have I told you of a bed game I just remembered? ’Tis called ‘The Flaming Lance.’”

She stumbled, then righted herself, causing her bells to jingle. She flashed the grinning oaf a glare.

On the other hand
…

It was the best yule season Dragonstead had ever witnessed, and they owed it all to Alinor.

With great satisfaction, Tykir looked about his great hall festooned with holly and evergreen branches—decorations more akin to Saxon homes than Viking. But his people seemed to like them. In truth, his estate had been well run
for years, even in his absence, but Alinor had gone one step further and turned his castle into a home.

A dangerous, dangerous turn of events. One he could not dwell on. Best to turn his mind to the merriment around him.

Vikings welcomed any excuse for feasting. And it was a rare good feast Alinor had put on to celebrate the coming of the Christian God-child. There were Saxon and Norse foods alike, and some he could put no nationality to. Plum pudding and Yorkshire pudding, which was really not a pudding at all, but a bread baked in roast meat drippings. He’d insisted with an exaggerated horror that no chicken be served, though they did have many boiled eggs sprinkled with rare eastern spices. Some were even sliced into a jellied aspic rendered from reindeer hooves. No doubt Alinor would make everyone as sick of chicken eggs as she had of chicken broth. Then, too, there was an abundance of the pork sausages and soft cheeses favored by the Vikings…a necessary fare at any feast. But not a speck of
gammelost
was in sight, he noted with a smile. His Alinor would not permit that.

Tykir stopped his mind-meanderings on that unsettling thought.
When did I start thinking of Alinor as mine?

As much joy as there was in his heart these days, there was also turmoil. He felt as if he were caught in a whirlpool and could not escape his swirling emotions. The only remedy was to wait out the storm and see what happened once the waters settled.

Not that he was planning to drop anchor with any woman. Not even Alinor. Besides, she’d probably heave the anchor onto her shoulder and stomp off into her own destiny in Northumbria.

It was just an interlude they were sharing. A pleasant one. But that was all it was, or could ever be.

He knew Eirik and Eadyth failed to understand his resistance to love and marriage, even to a mistress of any long-standing. But the soul-deep hurts he’d sustained as a child and the defenses he’d erected as a result were part of his very nature now.

Imbedded in his brain were unsavory images of himself: as a needy, pathetic boy searching every passerby’s face for his long-gone mother; as a youthling standing at one roadway or dock after another waving farewell to his Jomsviking father, and later standing at his bedside when he died far too young from battle wounds; as a tearful eight-year-old shattered by his brother Eirik going off a-fostering to King Athelstan’s court; not to mention the disappearance of his stepmother Ruby; then, finally, the loss of his grandparents, Dar and Aud, at Ravenshire.

Oh, he knew there were many who had suffered as much or more. His own brother Eirik, for one, who’d had a finger chopped off as a boy by Ivar the Terrible, the same villain who had killed their father. But Eirik was half-Saxon, a different bird all together. Plus, he’d been a few years older than Tykir and certainly more mature when all these events had taken place.

Being a scrappy young Viking through and through, Tykir had learned to survive his hurts by building an invisible wall around himself. A man—or boy—couldn’t be hurt if he didn’t care.

Except…

Tykir glanced to his side and watched Alinor, whose rapt attention was caught by the saga Bolthor was telling. He’d already advised the giant skald, on threat of a detongueing, that there were to be no “Tykir the Great” sagas or poems at this feast. So, Bolthor was now relating for those assembled the tale of Tykir’s paternal grandsire, Harald Fairhair.

Alinor looked at him and smiled. “Your grandsire was quite a man. All those wives and mistresses. And, blessed heaven, twenty-two sons and a comparable number of daughters.”

“Your sarcasm ill-suits you, wench,” he growled.

She laughed gaily, something she did far too rarely.

“You share his blood, Viking. Do you share his nature?”

“Nay. As you well know, I have not even one wife and only one mistress at the moment.” He immediately regretted his hasty words when he saw the quick flash of pain on her open face. He knew she did not like her designation as mere mistress. Would she be any more pleased to be called wife of a heathen Viking?

Aaarrgh! Where did that traitorous thought come from?

“Some say King Harald was inspired to greatness by the taunts of Gyda, daughter of the king of Hordaland,” Bolthor was relating. “Gyda was an ambitious wench, and she declined to wed with Harald till he ruled all Norway. So, Harald made a solemn vow: He would not comb or cut his hair till he had won all Norway and the fair Gyda. Ten years it took Harald to achieve his goals. Thereafter, the man known as Harald
lúfa,
or mop-hair, became known as Harald
hárfagri,
or fairhair. And a finer set of tresses were never seen in all the Norse lands. Further, some say that a great swiving took place that day in the chamber of Gyda, once she yielded to Harald’s great feats. This is the saga of Harald Fairhair.”

“Did you ever meet your grandsire?” Alinor asked, reaching to take a drink of wine from Tykir’s cup. The wine was from the private stock he’d traded for in Rhineland last year and was reserved for special occasions. Tonight felt special.

He liked the way she put her lips to his cup on the very
spot where he had been drinking. It was probably a coincidence, but he preferred to think otherwise.

“Did you?”

“What?”

“Meet your grandfather?”

“Yea, I did. He came to King Sigtrygg’s Norse castle in Jorvik when my father lay dying.”

She tilted her head, waiting for him to disclose more.

“He was a majestic old man, massive in size, not shriveled and bent over like some graybeards. His long hair had gone completely white by then, but was luxurious just the same, and held in place by a gold circlet around his forehead. He was wearing a black velvet cloak embroidered with gold thread and studded with precious jewels. Odd that I should recall those details.” Sighing deeply, he added, “I saw him a few times before he died about ten years ago. He was a hard master, to his underlings as well as his family. I cannot say he ever loved any of us. Though, I must admit, the old man deeded me Dragonstead on his death, much to my surprise. It was one of his lesser garths, ’tis true. Still…”

“Mayhap he was like many men, unable to show his affection.”

“Mayhap.” He turned to address Alinor directly. “These are not pleasant memories you prod in me, Alinor. Why so curious?”

“I just want to know more about you.”

He felt a tightness in his throat at her words. She was starting to care, just as he was. Best he put a stop to that nonsense right away.

“The only thing you need to know of me is betwixt my legs,” he said crudely.

She jerked her head back as if he’d slapped her.

Guilt tugged at his conscience, but he shoved it aside.
At least she was not looking at him with caring now.

He could not hold himself apart from her for long, though. When she attempted to get up off the bench beside him and stomp away, he put an arm around her shoulder and pulled her close. “What think you of the marriage plans that abound at Dragonstead? Bodhil the Ripe and Jostein the Smith?” The couple had announced earlier that evening that they would be wed afore spring.

Her stiff demeanor relaxed. “Well, ’tis about time Jostein declared his intentions. He almost lost Bodhil, you know.”

“Yea, and Rapp of the Big Wind is none too happy about it, I understand. Overcome with melancholy, he is. See him over there in the corner even now, alone, working on a mead-head.”

“He is alone because he smells,” Alinor noted wryly.

Tykir laughed. “That, too. Tell me, Alinor, did you have aught to do with the marriage plans?”

Her cheeks bloomed with an attractive blush. “I merely told Bodhil that she did not need to settle. She should be strong, and—why are you smirking?”

“Not smirking. Smiling,” he corrected, chucking her under the chin. “You are so vehement in your feelings. And perchance ’tis time for you to be strong with your brothers, too.”

“There’s naught wrong with a woman seeking what she wants.”

“And what do you want, Alinor?”

“Certainly not you, troll.”

He tweaked her hair in punishment. “Not even if I have a special gift for you?”

“I’ve been presented with that gift a hundred times.”

“Not
that
gift,” he chided her with a tapping forefinger against her pursed lips.

“And I want nothing more in the vein of feathers, oils, ropes or dancing costumes. My reputation is ruined as it is by those scandalous presents. I wouldn’t be surprised if news of them has already reached King Edred’s court in Wessex.”

He smiled at her. “Not those kinds of gifts, either.”

Later that night, Alinor lay beneath him, sated, after the most tender loving he’d ever given a woman. The tenderness of his bedsport with her came not from caring, he told himself. It was just that the mood had struck him for a more gentle wooing.

He thought he heard laughter in his head. Probably the mischievous Loki poking mirth at his delusions.

It was then that he presented her with his Christ-gift. “You said one time that you had never been given a present. Here, then.” He put his hand under the pillow where he had hidden the flat, blue velvet case, then shoved it into her hands.

“Tykir, I have no need of gifts. And certainly not a pity gift. Besides, I have no gift for you.” She tried to return the box to him, unopened.

He insisted that she take it in hand. “There is naught of pity in this gift. Vikings love to give gifts. Accept it for what it is, and no more. A man’s pleasure.”

She nodded and began to undo the latch. She was sitting in his bed now, propped against the backboard, a bed fur pulled up to her waist, leaving her breasts bare to his pleasure. He loved her breasts—small, raspberry-tipped, swollen from his recent attentions.