The Pirate Bride (15 page)

“Are you smiling, Medana?”

Surely, he could not see in the darkness. She immediately forced her lips into a tight line. “Of course not. What have I to smile about, you big oaf? You are crushing me.”

“Am I?” he asked, but did not move.

It was then that she realized he was nude. Completely. Not that she wore much clothing. Just the thin chemise he’d handed her down at the pond. She wouldn’t move then if he paid her a king’s treasure, not wanting to call attention to any particular body parts, especially the one jabbing at her thigh.

“Just so you know, Medana, no martyrdom will I allow you. You will enjoy the bedsport as much as I will.”

She rolled her eyes. How like a man! “Get on with it then. Much work awaits me in the morn.”

“I have news for you, sweetling. The only thing you will be doing in the morning is what I allow you to do.”

Sweetling? He calls me sweetling? Is this another ploy on his part?
“But I thought . . . you clodpole! We had a bargain.”

“And it is time you fulfill your part of that bargain.”

Must I? Mayhap if I scrunch my eyes closed tight and think of fresh honey on warm oatcakes, or the smell of new-mown hay, or a warm longhouse on a cold winter’s night, it will not be so bad.
“What should I do?”

“Stop talking, for one thing.” When she stiffened with affront, he added, “For now. I have other plans for your mouth.”

She was about to speak, despite his admonition not to, when he laid his lips over her, turning this way and that until they were perfectly aligned. The most disconcerting thing was that his mouth was open. And wet. And he spread that wetness to her lips, especially when he dipped his tongue inside her mouth, then used her moistness combined with his to lick a path over her lips.

Lick, press, thrust, suck, lick, press, thrust, suck . . .

Suck? When did I open her mouth so wide that he could engage my tongue?

She tried to focus on any one enticing thing he did, but he kept changing tactics. Hard to concentrate when so much was happening at once. “Wait, wait, wait,” she tried to say.

But he was thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. Then drawing back. In again. Then back. Over and over. It should have been revolting to her. She should be gagging. Instead, her arms crept about his bare, broad shoulders, attempting to draw him closer. She sensed his muscles flexing at her touch. Was that good or bad? Her breasts felt fuller and needful of touch . . . not an itch exactly, more like a yearning, which she attempted to assuage by arching her body. It was not enough. Nor did it satisfy the private place between her legs that seemed to throb.

But wait. He was doing something else now. The slyboots! His mouth was at her ear, where he was blowing, for Asgard’s sake! Blowing, and sticking the tip of his wet tongue inside. Every fine hair on her body stood up and waved. ’Twas as if there was a direct line between her ear, her nipples, and the nether throbbing.

She moaned, she could not help herself.

He chuckled and said against her sensitized ear, “Like that, do you, Medana?” She would have been irritated at his question, except his voice was huskier than usual, as if he, too, were aroused.

Before she knew what he was about, he rolled over onto his back with her atop him. She struggled to maintain her balance and found herself arched on extended arms with her breasts nestled against his chest and she was half kneeling, half reclining over him, her woman place spread wide against his belly. This position gave him freedom to let his hands roam, and roam they did while he tried to distract her with more deep kisses. Actually, she might have been the one deep kissing him. Hard to tell when she was trying to keep track of where his hands strayed.

His palms caressed her back from shoulders to thighs, long sweeping forays, followed by deep massages of muscles. Despite the darkness, he was learning her body by touch alone. A carnal exploration, that’s what it was.

But then his hands were between them, lifting her breasts from underneath, his thumbs strumming the nipples into hard points. Where they had been aching before, they were now throbbing with the same rhythm going on down below in her woman place. The whole time he was kissing her mindless. And she could swear he was smiling as he kissed her. Smile kisses.

She drew back slightly, and although she could not see his face clearly, she asked, “Are you smiling whilst you stick your tongue down my throat?”

“Yes. Because I am happy? Because I am enjoying myself? You should be smiling, too, or else I am not doing my part well enough.”

“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” But inside she was beginning to wonder. Her women yearned for bedsport, mostly for the getting of children. Leastways, that’s what she’d always thought. Except for the few with wanton tendencies, sex was a duty, not a sport to be enjoyed. But now . . .

“You were smiling before. I know you were.” He was back to the long caresses of her back and shoulders and breasts.

“That’s because I was likening you to a warm blanket when you plopped your body over me like a big horse.”

He chuckled. “Most men would not mind being likened to a horse, especially certain parts.”

“Oh, you! That is not what I meant.” She tugged at his wrists then because his fingers were playing a new game with her breasts. Tugging on the nipples, even pinching them, and twirling them between a thumb and forefinger. “Stop that!”

“Why?” His big palms were squeezing her breasts now, almost like Cook when she kneaded bread.

Do not smile, Medana. Whatever you do, do not smile.
“Because it makes me feel tingly, all over,” she said before she could bite her fool tongue.

“Tingly is good.” He chuckled.

“See. You are laughing again. Laughter and sex do not go together. Must be this is a perversion.”

“If it is, it is a good perversion. You are thinking too much, Medana.”

But then she could not think anymore because he cupped her buttocks with his big hands and moved her body upward so that her breasts dangled above his face. She had not even known her breasts could dangle, small as they were. Before she could question what he was about, he took one breast into his mouth, cloth and all, and began to suckle her. Deep, hard, rhythmic.

To her mortification, if she’d been capable of such coherent thought, her lower body began to buck against his belly, and she let out a long, keening moan. Blood drained from her head and shot to all her extremities and various intriguing spots in between. Was it pleasure or was it pain? She was not sure. Pleasure-pain, she decided.

When it was over, whatever it was, she found herself splatted out over his body—a body whose manpart was still hard and pressed against her . . . whilst dawn light had emerged, giving the room a hazy, gray light. She raised her head to look down at Thork.

The loathsome lout was smiling.

Chapter Fourteen

He’d like to needle her . . . pine needle, that is . . .

I
f Medana could see herself the way he did right now, she would have a screaming fit.

Her blonde hair had come loosened from its braid during the night and was mussed and tossed into wanton waves that would do the king’s harlot proud. Her lips, especially full to begin with, were swollen and rose-tinted from his kisses. Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder, half exposing all of one breast with its small, taut nipple. And her woman’s nest had deposited a swath of wetness on his belly as clear evidence of her peaking.

She was a pleasure to look at and a pleasure he intended to enjoy in every wicked, carnal way imaginable, but not right now. Especially since Brokk had been knocking at the door intermittently for some time now. He figured that if it had been an urgent matter, the boy would have stormed in. The door could not be locked from inside.

“Medana, sweetling,” he said, leaning up to kiss her startled lips, “you will have to wait to have your way with me. Brokk is at the door.”

She blinked several times in confusion and then groaned when she realized her position, straddling his body with her chemise hiked up to her hips, her arse no doubt a sight that would delight Brokk, even if he was just a boyling, especially because he was a boyling.

“My way? My way? If I had my way—” Before she could berate him, as she was sure to do, he rolled her over on her back toward the wall and pulled the linen up over them both. “Come in, Brokk.”

“Sorry I am, Master . . . I mean . . . Jarl . . . I mean . . . oh, bloody hell! Jostein said to ask if he should go deer hunting today or not.”

Jostein was clearly wondering if it would be a wasted effort considering that they would be leaving tonight. Actually, since Thork had had time to ponder things, he realized that even if they got the longboat through the tunnel tonight, they might not be able to leave immediately. Supplies would have to be gathered and a crew, even a reluctant one, would have to be put together.

“Yea, tell him to hunt today, as planned.” Even if they were able to leave right away, the women left behind could use the excess meat.

After Brokk left, Thork turned to Medana, who was backed up against the wall, putting as much distance between them as was possible, which wasn’t much. “Do not say one word,” she ordered. “Do not smile. Do not do one single thing to make me feel worse than I already do.”

He tilted his head to one side. “Why would you feel bad? I would think you would be feeling mighty good about now. Relaxed and all squishy inside. ’Tis the way of love play.”

She put both hands over her ears and squealed. “I told you not to talk about it.”

He laughed and stood, stretching to get the kinks out of his body. It was a small bed, not made for a man his size.

At first, she gaped at his cockstand—impressive, if he did say so himself—but then she squeezed her eyes shut tight. “I wish there was a crack in the floor that I could fall through.”

“Why? I am the one who should be embarrassed. Not you.”

She opened one eye a slit and watched as he drew on a pair of braies, carefully, considering the size of his enthusiasm. “Your mother would be upset that you are wearing braies with no smallclothes,” she observed.

He chuckled that she would bring up his mother at a time like this. “I suggest you do not tell her. If you should ever have the pleasure of meeting her.”

“Gods! I hope not!”

He chuckled and drew a clean tunic over his head and belted it, inserting a knife into a side sheath. “I have work to do for the next few hours. After you are garbed, I trust that you will stay here and not run off.”

He waited for her nod of agreement.

“You will find water for your morning ablutions and cold fare to eat, if you are hungry.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew on one boot, then the other. When he stood again, he told her, “Later this morning, I want you to accompany me to the top of the mountain so that I can get a better look at the sea on the Small Island side.”

“You went through the tunnel last night, didn’t you?”

He nodded. “We can discuss that and other things later. Oh, and Medana, there are two things I would like to say to you.”

“What?” She eyed him suspiciously.

“You were a joy in the bedsport. Your pleasure was my pleasure.”

“For the love of Frigg!” she muttered, her face flaming at his discussing their intimacy.

“Furthermore, what we did last night was just a foretaste of the meal to come. Mayhap whilst we are atop the mountain today. Make sure to bring a blanket. On the other hand, sex on the pine needles has a certain attraction.”

Her beautiful violet eyes went wide. “In the daytime? You would not dare.”

“I would dare, for a certainty.”
And now that you raise the question, I must needs consider it a challenge. Is there a Viking alive who can ignore a challenge?

“Another perversion!”

“I am a man, Medana. A man likes to see what he is doing.”

He thought she called him a loathsome lout as he was leaving. For some reason, that “endearment,” coming from her, gave him pleasure.

Wine: a rogue’s best friend . . .

Medana was panting for breath, lagging far behind Thork, by the time they reached the top of the mountain late that morning.

Could be because he’d forced her to wear a plain russet
gunna
that dragged on the ground—“more womanly,” he claimed—and hauled a blanket over her shoulder like a sack containing various food stuffs—
how long does he expect us to linger?
—or could be because she’d had so little sleep the night before—
and doesn’t that conjure images I do not want to ponder?

He, on the other hand, wore the tunic and braies he’d arrived in, which had been laundered by the women. A leather tunic, the fabric of which had been tanned and dyed to a supple brown smoothness molding his wide shoulders and narrowing to a wide leather belt that emphasized his waist and hips. The same fabric had been used for his slim braies, but dyed black. His boots, cross-tied up his calves, must have cost a fortune. His dark blond hair was clean from the previous night’s bath; its healthy sheen gave off golden hues in the sunlight. And, of course, there were those remarkably green eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief, and other things, when he chanced to look her way.

He was Viking male at his virile prime.

Best she beware lest he lure her in with all his roguish talents.

When they got to a small clearing amid the trees that was used by the Thrudr guardswomen to watch the sea, they saw Effa, an older woman, armed with a short sword, who stood waiting for them, her weapon aready.

“Go back to the village, Effa, and do not return until you get orders to do so,” Thork told the guard.

Effa raised her chin in defiance and looked to Medana for confirmation.

Medana nodded and said in a gentler fashion, “Do as you are told, Effa. We will stand watch for a while. Tell Gudron you have my permission to return.”

“Are you sure, mistress?” Effa asked. “He looks like a scoundrel who might do you harm.”

Thork arched a brow. “Me? A scoundrel?” he asked with a pure scoundrelish purr.

Before he could say, or do, something more, Medana interjected, “I will be fine,” although she was not altogether certain of that fact.

Reluctantly, Effa stomped off.

Medana dropped her bundle close to the fire ring though there would be no need of a fire today. Thork dropped his own bundle as well and told her, “Rest here for a while. I want to explore the area.” The sun was shining brightly overhead and while she would have relished a short respite, Medana was curious to see what he was looking at. So she followed after him.

Some days, when the skies were overcast, a mist hung over the mountaintop and visibility was nonexistent. But today, skies were clear, and Small Island was a big dot down below.

“Hedeby is in that direction, is it not?” he remarked, pointing south. “And my father’s estates in the Norselands are to the north, the other way, correct?”

She nodded both times.

“It must be brutal cold here in the winter.”

“It can be. The first winter, I thought I would die of frostbite. We could never keep a fire going. And the wood we gathered was green, not seasoned enough to burn steadily. We learned, though. And now we start gathering firewood in the spring. By the time of first frost, we have enough stacked up to last two winters.” She knew her voice was prideful, but then she and her women had suffered enough to deserve a little pride.

“And the two old hags down there with their bear protector?”

Medana smiled. “Hags” was probably an accurate description, and their dog Bear did resemble a small bear. “That is Sigrun and her daughter Salvana. They lived on Small Island long before we arrived, subsisting on the barter of fresh water in rain barrels to passing seafarers. They also provided a message service. In return, they were given all the products they needed to survive . . . food, clothing, and whatnot. After we came, they partnered with us, but chose to remain on their own island, except when fierce storms flood their home, which they do on occasion. Then they come through the tunnel to stay with us.”

“Why don’t they just stay here? Less of a chance of passersby discovering your existence.”

“I do not know their history, but I suspect it was horrid. They choose to be by themselves. And believe me, Bear is more of a protection than you might think.”

“I can imagine. I had a dog one time. Foolheart, I called him, because he had no fear at all. Foxes, wild boar, even bears. A beast with more bravery than good sense. When he was a puppy, he nigh knocked himself unconscious trying to butt heads with one of my mother’s favorite rams. As he got older, he had more nicks and bruises, including half an ear and a bent tail.”

Sounds like some Vikings I know.
She heard the affection in his voice, despite his deprecating words. “Where is your dog now?”

“I have no idea. He stayed behind when I left Dragonstead. He would be old now, for a dog. No doubt, dead.”

Her heart ached for Thork. Over a dog? She should guard herself if she was softening toward him so easily.

Luckily, he changed the subject. “You keep guards up here to watch for coming ships, don’t you?”

She nodded. “And on other sides of the mountain, as well. Usually, we have at least a half day’s notice on a clear day, such as today. Or if sea vessels are spotted on the opposite side of Thrudr, it can be almost a full day before they make the bend and approach Small Island.”

They turned back on the path atop the dense woods and made their way back to the clearing.

“I hear you are betrothed,” she remarked.

He was as surprised by her comment as she was that she’d blurted it out. Instead of answering he asked, “Where did you hear that?”

“Here and there.”

“Well, your informant was only half right. I
intended
to become betrothed after visiting my father and gaining his approval. No final betrothal agreements were made.”

“But the woman was picked out and everything.”

“Not everything,” he said with a smile. “There was no consummation of the betrothal.”

Hmm. ’Twas the practice for many a couple especially anxious to be wed, and not frowned upon at all. Merely a sealing of the vows of promise. That was one of the reasons she feared the reaction she would get to claims of being raped by her betrothed. “Were you tempted?”

Thork glanced at her with surprise.

She’d surprised herself by asking such a lackbrained question.

“Why all these question about a betrothal that has naught to do with us?”

“Does it not?” She shrugged. “Just curious.”

He was not convinced of that, she could tell. “But, if you must know, nay, I was not tempted. Berla is comely enough, but very young. I am certain in time I would be tempted, though.”

“Would you have set up a home in Hedeby?”

“Good gods, nay! My father years ago set aside land adjacent to Dragonstead for me. I could settle my bride there.”

“Settle your bride? You mean, settle you
and
your bride, don’t you?”

“Well, I would go a-Viking, or harvesting amber, or become a merchant Viking. Betimes, I would return home to my estate—”

“In other words, you would continue on as you always were. Free to do as you will, whilst your wife keeps the home fires going?”

“And breeds babies,” he said with a twinkle in his rascal eyes. “You make much ado over what is the usual marriage practice.”

“An arrangement, then?”

“I suppose you could say that.”

“Just like mine with Jarl Ulfr.”

He cast her a disapproving scowl. “Not the same at all. It would be a clear choice on both our parts.”

“How do you know it was a choice on her part? How do you know if her father was forcing her to his will, for his own purposes? How do you know—”

“What does any of that matter now? There will be no wedding, thanks to your interference.”

“One more question. Did your mother and father have such an arrangement when they married?”