Storm Maiden (22 page)

Dag’s muscles went rigid. What would he do
if the jarl asked him to share the Irishwoman?
“Ja,”
he
answered gruffly.

“And her hips and thighs—are they as rounded
and full as a man might desire?” Knorri probed.

“
Nei,
she still has a maiden’s
hips—slim and narrow.” Actually, Dag thought her hips perfect, but
he knew Knorri favored full-figured women.
Thank the
gods.

Knorri sighed softly at Dag’s response.
“Mayhap after she has borne you a few babes, her hips will spread
enough to accommodate my thick shaft.”

Dag saw Sigurd stifle a smile. They both
knew that by the time the Irishwoman bore a couple of babes, Knorri
would be dead, or fully impotent. The jarl had not taken a woman to
bed in two years. He said they were too much trouble; his warriors
suspected the old man didn’t want to risk failure.

Knorri beckoned to the Irishwoman. Dag
stiffened as she approached. Would she insult the jarl? He couldn’t
save her if she roused the old man’s wrath.

The woman stood next to Knorri. He smiled at
her, showing his brownish but still healthy teeth. His gnarled hand
reached out for her. Dag held his breath.

The jarl touched Fiona’s face, his weathered
fingers tracing the pure lines of her queenly features.
“Exquisite,” he murmured. His hand moved down, smoothing the column
of the Irishwoman’s neck, then lower. His fingers splayed across
her chest, groping for her breasts. He grimaced and jerked his hand
away. “Damned scratchy wool! It’s like sticking your hand into a
bramble bush.” He turned to Dag. “You fondle her breasts and tell
me if they are as soft as an old warrior’s dreams.”

Dag’s eyes widened. Did the jarl mean for
him to handle the woman before everyone? He hesitated, his gaze
focused on Fiona. She stood very still, as if waiting for Knorri to
grab her again. When she glanced at Dag, he saw the fear in her
eyes. Why was she afraid? Did she fear his touch? Or Knorri’s?

The jarl sat back in his chair and groaned.
“Cursed old bones. I can’t sit up swilling ale as I used to.”

“Tyrker promised to tell a fine story
later,” Sigurd reminded him.

Knorri shook his head and rose stiffly from
his chair. “I’ve heard them all before. I’d best seek my
bedcloset—before I have to be carried there.”

The old warrior tottered a distance, then
turned and winked. “Dag, don’t forget to ride the Irish wench one
time for me, and tell me about it on the morrow.”

Dag nodded stiffly, greatly relieved that
the jarl was leaving.

In the future he must contrive to keep Fiona
away from the old lecher.

But was
she
relieved? He looked back
at her. She had not moved, except to step back so the jarl could
get by. Now she stared after Knorri, watching him wend his way
toward the bedcloset where he slept alone. What was she thinking?
Did she regret missing her chance to entice the old man?

A muscle twitched in Dag’s jaw as he looked
out at the rest of the room. Brodir and Kalf both watched the
jarl’s table, their gaze clearly centered on the Irishwoman. A
possessive fury swept over him. The woman was his! Let every man in
the room know it!

He leaned over and grabbed Fiona by the arm
and wrenched her onto his lap. She squirmed. He hissed a warning
and tightened his grip around her ribs. How dare she struggle! She
had endured the jarl’s handling; now she would tolerate his. And by
Thor’s hammer, she would act like she enjoyed it!

Fiona went still in the Viking’s arms, her
heart hammering. What had come over Dag? She’d thought he meant to
protect her, but it seemed he had other plans tonight. First, he
let that repulsive old man grope her, now he seized her as crudely
as Brodir had.

Tears sprang to Fiona’s eyes. She could feel
his hand around her waist, as hard and unyielding as iron, and
sensed the terrible tension in his body. His sudden anger baffled
her. She thought she had done the right thing by suffering the
jarl’s ineffectual caress, but obviously she hadn’t pleased Dag.
She twisted to look at him and was stunned by the cold savagery in
his eyes. A shudder went down her spine. What did he mean to do
with her?

The longhouse quieted, and Fiona’s heartbeat
slowed to normal. A thin, fair-haired man made his way to the front
of the room. He bowed before Sigurd and Dag, then took a seat
before the high table in a carved chair one of the Vikings had
brought for him. The room went utterly still, and the man began to
speak.

So this was the
skald,
Fiona thought.
A sense of reprieve filled her. Mayhap Dag only wanted her to sit
and be quiet while the man performed. That she could manage.

The
skald
told his story in a low and
melodious voice, although in Fiona’s mind, the coarseness of the
Norse language spoiled the rhythm of his phrasing. Unable to
understand a word, Fiona occupied herself with examining the man’s
appearance. He appeared much smaller than most of his countrymen,
and his hair was so light a shade as to be almost white. His
features were graceful, although fine lines etched patterns around
his eyes and mouth. Occasionally, he gestured with his
long-fingered, elegant hands. Fiona guessed that he described a
battle or other violent scene.

Faint boredom crept over her, although the
rest of the hall listened as if mesmerized. Dag shifted her on his
lap, and she wondered if he, too, felt restive. His grip around her
waist had relaxed. Fiona settled against him, beginning to grow
comfortable. The warmth of the longhouse, the
skald’s
lulling voice—Fiona wondered if she would be considered rude if she
fell asleep.

Her lassitude vanished instantly as she felt
Dag’s hand move upwards to caress one of her breasts. The thick
wool did not thwart him as it had Knorri. His palm firmly cupped
her breast, then his fingers searched until they found her nipple.
Fiona’s muscles went taut, and she tried to wriggle from his grasp.
Dag’s other hand came up to hold her still. Even through the cloth,
she could feel the heat and pressure of his hand. He toyed slowly
with her nipple until warm arousal spread through her.

She felt her other nipple harden as her body
reacted to his teasing touch. For a moment, she knew the urge to
lean back and enjoy the provocative sensation. Nay, what if someone
were to see him fondling her? She glanced at Sigurd, dreading that
he might be aware of Dag’s movements. Like the rest of the room,
his attention appeared focused on the
skald.

Dag’s rhythm was soothing and inflaming all
at once. He traced languid circles around her areola till Fiona
felt aroused to the point of pain. The unrelieved tension made her
fidget, and she squirmed on his lap. She heard him suck in his
breath, and she was suddenly aware of something rigid pressing
against her buttocks. She felt a blush fire her cheeks and tried to
remain still so as not to arouse him further.

Dag had other intentions. He pushed her
forward on one of his thighs, then took her left hand and brought
it around to touch his groin. Even through his trews, she could
feel the hard bulge of his shaft as he held her wrist and made her
stroke him. Fiona felt her face flame even brighter, but a part of
her enjoyed what her hand was doing. She couldn’t help but remember
touching his naked shaft, silky and hot in her hand.

As she caressed him with more enthusiasm,
she sensed Dag’s growing discomfort. His breathing grew harsh and
quick in her ear; his arm tightened around her ribs again. With a
low curse, he removed her hand from his member and pulled her body
hard against his chest. A slight smile curved Fiona’s lips. Two
could play this tantalizing game.

Her body felt wonderful, light and hot at
the same time, and she wondered if Dag meant to take her to his
bedcloset soon. Instead, he resumed touching her breast—the other
one this time. In retaliation, Fiona used her hips to rub against
his obvious erection, deliberately increasing his torment.

It was a mistake. Dag’s right hand slid down
to tighten around her waist, while his other hand began to pull up
her skirt. Fiona’s smugness faded. Handling her through her clothes
was one thing, seeking out bare skin quite another. If Sigurd
should look over, he would see her kirtle hiked to her knee. Fiona
tried frantically to decide what to do. It didn’t seem possible Dag
meant to hold her here and fondle her for all to see. Mayhap he was
testing her, making certain she would not struggle if he took her
to bed.

Would she struggle? Fiona wasn’t certain
herself. The Viking had made her hunger for him, and Breaca had
assured her that it was wisest to yield to her master. But it was
such a momentous decision. Once she yielded, she would truly be his
slave.

He pulled her skirt higher, until her thigh
was half bare.

Fiona glanced nervously at Sigurd. He
briefly looked her way, then returned his attention to the
skald.
Fiona took a shaky breath. The table blocked the view
of most of those in the hall. If Sigurd did not notice, no one else
would guess what Dag was doing.

Dag’s hand slid under her skirt. Fiona
gasped as his warm, callused fingers touched her skin and continued
their upward path. She closed her eyes as she felt him caress her
inner thigh.
Saint Bridget, please! Let him stop!

To her relief, Dag twisted around on his
chair so Sigurd couldn’t see what he did. But he didn’t stop. Fiona
began to tremble as she felt him caress her between her legs. She
knew she was wet, appallingly so. He pressed his palm against her,
as if calming her throbbing flesh, then he ran his finger between
the outer lips of her womanhood. Fiona thought she would swoon; she
leaned back against Dag, fearful that she might collapse into a
quivering mass on the floor. He released her waist and adjusted her
hips on his lap.

His whole hand cupped her now, his hot flesh
against her wetness. She took a deep breath, then another.
When
would he stop this torture?
His fingers parted her again. He
slipped one inside her. Fiona went absolutely still. She was
melting, her whole lower body turning liquid. Strange vibrations
echoed through her, as though she was a harp he played. She wanted
to cry out, to thrash wildly. She could do nothing or a whole
feasthall of men would learn of her rapture.

He whispered something soft and tender in
her ear, and his hand moved in a way that seemed to quiet the
raging hunger growing within her. She suppressed a moan as he
murmured her name, low and intimate. He stroked her slowly,
deliberately, gliding his fingers gently across the inflamed,
slippery place between her legs. Now and then, he would slide one
finger into her feminine passageway. The pressure seemed to soothe
her, and she couldn’t help thinking of how his shaft would feel
inside her, so hot and solid. The image made her grow even
wetter.

He shifted his fingers, moving them upwards
toward her pelvis. They found a place at the top of her cleft and
began to move in slow circles. The resulting jolt of fire almost
made her leap from his lap. As she heard his low chuckle behind
her, she wondered—was he pleased to have found some magic place
that, when he touched it, lightning streaked through her? She
turned to look at him and saw no hint of confrontation in his eyes
now, only the warmth of passion. His sensual mouth curved into a
smile of pleasure.

Dag gazed at the woman on his lap,
mesmerized. He had forgotten the
skald
and his sword
brothers gathered around this hall. Nothing existed but this woman
who tilled his senses and made his body act of its own accord. He
couldn’t get enough of her warmth, her softness. She meant to yield
to him, yield as he had imagined in his dreams.

He smoothed her skirt over her thighs and
looked around the hall, wondering if any would notice if they left.
Of course they would. Brodir and Kalf never took their eyes from
the woman for long. But what did it matter? She was his thrall—why
should he not claim her for his bed?

He eased her off his lap and stood. This was
the test. If she followed him willingly to the bedcloset, he would
know she had made her decision. What did he care that she might
once have considered bedding Sigurd or Knorri? In the end, she
would have chosen him.

She stumbled slightly as he guided her away
from the jarl’s table; he steadied her with his arm around her
waist. The hall behind them was still, eerily so. Only the
skald’s
spirited voice broke the silence. She took a step
and then another until they stood before the door of his
bedcloset.

He helped her into the room and closed the
door behind them. For a long time he simply stared at her—her
lustrous skin, dewy and pink with arousal, her startling eyes,
darkened now to a mysterious moss-green, her perfect mouth, stained
the shade of lingonberry juice. She was spectacular, but her
expression was vulnerable, shy. He felt uncertain how to begin.

He approached her and leaned over her. His
hands glided over her shoulders and down her arms. Then he drew her
arms up around his neck and kissed her.

He had wanted to do this forever, since that
first time on the ship. To feel her soft mouth open under his, to
tease her lips with his tongue, to explore the silky, honey-sweet
warmth within.

Their tongues touched and mated. Dag smiled
inwardly at her boldness. She was a greedy thing, eager for all the
delights he could teach her. And there were more, so many more.

The kiss deepened. Dag felt her body meld to
his; her pliant softness joined with his strength. He moved one
hand down to cradle her bottom and lifted her up so her pelvis met
his. Obligingly, she moved against him, her slim hips rotating over
his swollen shaft. He groaned and groaned again. The woman was
simply too arousing. He released her hips and, gripping her rough
gown, began to jerk it up. When his fingers found bare, soft skin,
he lifted her and pressed her hard against him. This time,
she
groaned.