The Pirate Bride (26 page)

Well, that is not fair, but why should I be surprised?

Into the silence could be heard a clearing of the throat. An exaggerated clearing of the throat. Everyone turned to see the king’s third wife, a woman one third the king’s age, with bosoms that drew every male eye in the vicinity. She said nothing, but she had her ring-covered fingers gripping her hips and an eyebrow arched in disbelief. Clearly, she was not happy with her husband’s remark about women.

“Mayhap we could make an exception and let Lady Geira speak,” the king conceded.

There was some grumbling in the crowd while Sigurd and Leistr protested vehemently. But Thork was smiling. Little did he know that there would be little to smile over shortly.

The king propped an elbow on the table and braced his chin on the open palm. “So, Lady Geira, or should I call you the Sea Scourge?”

Uh-oh. Not a good start.
“Um. Lady Geira will do.”

“You do know that the only reason you are not being called before this court for crimes of piracy is that no men will admit to being bested by females?”

“We stole from women, too,” she said before she could bite her fool tongue.

The crowd loved her response, and they cheered and whooped with laughter.

“Good to know,” the king said drolly.

She felt herself blushing.

“My king, I protest this farce. Letting a woman speak . . .” Sigurd blustered.

“Shut up!” the king said bluntly. Then, turning to Medana, “You were saying?”

“I appreciate the Althing court’s decision regarding my . . . uh, crime. And I appreciate all the Tykirsson family did to gain the
wergild
. However, I must accede to my brother’s wishes now.”

“Which means?” The king was clearly ready for her case to be ended.

“I will marry Jarl Leister if the court approves.”

“Vote called?” the law speaker called out.

“Wait!” Thork yelled. “I would beg the court to dismiss the Torsson men’s guardianship of Lady Geira and transfer it to . . . to . . . my father.”

Tykir looked surprised at this turn of events but immediately spoke up. “Yea, I would be a better guardian.”

“And why is that?” the king wanted to know.

“Because I would not beat her bloody.”

The crowd roared and Sigurd looked as if he would explode from all the blood rushing to his face. “I protest. I did only what any man would do to discipline his charge. We all know how willful women can be.”

Everyone turned to the king’s young wife to see her reaction. She was not happy.

“Be that as it may, and, yea, a husband, or a father, or a guardian has the clear right to use the rod when necessary, but what has that to do with the message Lady Geira just imparted to this court?” the king asked.

“She is being coerced,” Thork charged.

Medana could not look at him when she declared, loud enough for all to hear, “I am not being coerced. I go to Lord Leistr willingly.” She put a hand through Leistr’s arm for emphasis.

“For approval of the marriage of Lady Geira to Lord Leistr, do we hear aye or nay?” The weapon clatter clearly favored the marriage.

The king said, “Now, how about that case where the man claims to have two cocks, which he was exposing in the marketplace? I can’t wait to hear that one.”

She glanced over to see Thork being held back by his brothers. Quickly Sigurd and Leistr whisked Medana out of the tent and toward the wharf, where Sigurd’s ship was ready to set sail. She had no chance to talk with anyone, and what could she say, anyhow? The die was cast. In order to save Agnis and Egil, she would wed a man old enough to be her grandfather. But then, other women faced such a fate all the time. She would have to learn, after ten years of independence, how to be a submissive wife.

By nightfall, she was halfway to Stormgard. Sigurd had anchored his longship near the shoreline, giving the rowers a chance to rest. She was in the tiny quarters in the center of the vessel, waiting with dread for Leistr to come insist on his preconjugal rights. In the meantime, he and Sigurd were on deck celebrating their victory with a tun of ale.

She’d cried ’til there were no more tears and had fallen into a half sleep when she was awakened by a loud noise. It sounded like the longship had hit something hard, but how could that be? It was anchored some distance from land.
Bang! Thud!
Then sounds of shouting.

Peeking out through the sailcloth curtain, Medana was amazed to see huge iron hooks being tossed over their ship’s rails by another ship that had come up beside it. The men on the other longship were tugging on the ropes until the two longships were rail to rail and men could jump from one boat to the other.

“Pirates! Pirates! We’re being attacked by pirates!” she heard one of Sigurd’s men shout.

Oh my gods! Please do not let it be the women of Thrudr. They will get themselves killed in an out-and-out battle.

“Ahoy there! Prepare to be boarded,” a loud male voice hollered. She’d recognize that voice anywhere. Thork! Peering out, she saw dozens of men clamoring over the rails, swords and lances raised high. And not just Thork, who was barefooted and dressed in pirate attire, right down to knee-length, cut-off breeches and a red kerchief wrapped around his head in a rascally fashion. His father and brothers Guthrom and Starri were similarly attired. While Thork’s thunderbolt earring in one ear glittered in the moonlight, Tykir and his other two sons wore gold hoops.

She ducked back inside when she saw there was actual fighting taking place. In fact, Thork’s sword cut a bloody swath across Sigurd’s chest, causing her brother to drop to his knees with a shriek of pain. All around was the clamor of metal hitting metal, bodies falling, battle cries, and screams of pain.

When the noise died down somewhat, she peeked outside again, and saw Sigurd, Leistr, and the crew gathered together near a plank that had been erected on one rail, extending out over the water. Tykir came up and stood directly in front of her, arms folded over his chest, barring her from coming out on deck.

“What are they doing?” she asked.

“The scurvy bastards are being given a choice, the blade or the plank.”

“ ’Tis death either way,” she decided. “You have to stop Thork.”

Tykir shook his head. “The men can swim to shore and eventually find a way home.”

“But some of them . . . Sigurd . . . are wounded.”

Tykir shrugged.

“I have to stop him.” Medana tried to step around Tykir’s big body.

“Nay, wench, you are Thork’s pirate booty. He wants you to stay here until he can deal with you.”

“Pirate booty? Me? Deal?” she sputtered.

“Here, have a drink,” Tykir offered, handing her a wooden cup, filled with what turned out to be wine. She didn’t want wine, but before she could tell Tykir, the drape had been dropped with a warning that she would be tied to the mast pole if she came out again. In fact, a huge crate was pushed in front of where the opening would be so that she couldn’t get out even if the big man was no longer guarding her.

All she knew of what was going on was shouting, laughter, screams, splashing, splashing, splashing, cursing aplenty, and threats. Then she felt the movement of the ship. She could hear male voices, occasionally Thork’s, and it appeared they were drinking to celebrate their pirate venture. At one point, Tykir exclaimed to someone, “If I’d known pirating was so much fun, I would have done it long ago.”

Finally, the longship dropped anchor. She heard the same loud sound again of wood against wood. The two longships bumping each other. Much talking and laughing. And movement. Then silence.

Were they leaving her here alone on a ship to die of thirst or starvation? Nay, that was too ludicrous to imagine. But what were they about? What was Thork about?

Eventually, she drank the wine and lay down on a rough pallet, never intending to sleep. Just rest. But sleep she did, and soundly.

It was mid-morning by the time she awakened with a dry mouth that tasted like—she licked her lips—oh nay! The sleeping draught!

But that wasn’t all. She felt a warmth on her skin. Her bare skin. Slowly, she opened her eyes to find the sun beating down on her. And she was tied to the mast pole. Naked.

Blinking, she was finally able to focus. Thork stood a short distance away, sipping at a drink. Not a sleeping draught, she would wager. There appeared to be no one else on deck, and no other longship nearby. And thank the gods for that because the scoundrel was naked, too.

“Well, well, well, wench,” Thork drawled out. “Finally, you awaken.”

“Have you lost your mind?”

He shrugged. “Probably.”

“Where is everyone?”

“Gone?”

“And the men you forced overboard. Are they dead?”

He shrugged. “Are you worried about your betrothed?”

“Nay, I am worried about you, and about . . .” She could not mention Agnis and Egil. There might still be a way to save them. “Go back. Get Sigurd and Leistr. Mayhap it is not too late.”

“It is too late,” he said, and picked up a leather case, carrying it over to set on the deck near her feet.

What was it? Ah! She soon found out.

He undid the ties and opened it to reveal a specially designed velvet lining to showcase dozens of different kinds of feathers.

“What are you going to do?” she squeaked out.

“ ’Tis not what I am going to do. ’Tis what
we
are going to do.”

He picked up one long-quilled feather with hundreds of silky tendrils, which he ran sensuously through his fingers. “You have heard of going a-Viking and a-pirating,” he drawled out in a sex-husky voice. “But we, my fine wench, are going a-feathering.”

Feathering his nest, Viking style . . .

Thork was relieved to have Medana back with him, but he was also blistering mad that she’d chosen Leistr as a husband. In front of the entire Althing. A clear rejection of him. Humiliating.

She would pay, but in his own particular way.

He walked around, studying her nude body from all angles. “Well, well, well, who is a captive now, wench?”

She groaned inwardly, realizing his intent. He was reversing the tables on her.

“I cannot decide which side and which part of your body I like best.”

“Hmpfh! I can guess. You are a man. Men home in on one thing only.”

He flicked the silky feather over her mouth in reprimand. “I am not every man. I do have favorites, though. Those full, kiss-some lips of yours, for example.”

She licked her lips, probably trying to make them less kiss-some. He had news for her. She had done just the opposite.

“Your violet eyes are unusual and attractive.”

She lowered her lashes in an attempt to hide their beauty. He fluttered the feathers over her breasts, causing her lids to shoot open. And she gasped. A good sign, he believed.

“I like your breasts, but then you already know that from past experience.” Her breasts were arched out nicely with her arms tied at the wrists behind the pole, but he fancied that she arched even more.

He walked behind her. “And, praise the gods for your lovely arse.” The twin globes with their matching dimples could be seen from behind on either side of the pole. With mischievous intent, he ran the quill end of the feather along her crack, and she led out a yelp of protest. “Stop that!”

He knelt down in front of her. “Truth to tell, I even like your feet.”

Her toes curled in reaction, especially when he fluttered them with the feather.

She whimpered.

“Ticklish, are you, sweetling?”

He glanced up and realized he was facing her nether hair. His cock, which had been standing out for what seemed like hours, jerked in appreciation of her beauty there. He brushed the feathery fan back and forth over the blond curls, noticing how she stiffened in a futile attempt to halt what he was hoping was her rising arousal.

“I do not suppose you would spread your legs so I can feather your female folds.”

She made a choking sound that he took to mean,
Not bloody likely!
before she pressed her legs tightly together.

“Ah, well. Later.” For now, he decided to move on to a different feather. As he surveyed the collection, he remarked, “So you wanted to marry the old man?”

“Wanted? Nay? Decided to, yea.”

He practiced painting her lips with a stiffer-bristled feather. Back and forth until she parted her lips and stared up at him helplessly. He leaned in and kissed her briefly. That was all the bodily contact he could allow himself lest this game of torture be over before he had gained what he wanted.

“Why?” he asked. “Why did you do it, Medana?”

“Betimes a woman has no choice. Betimes she makes adult decisions to protect . . . well, just suffice it to say, it was time for me to grow up and accept what women throughout time have done. Accept the marriage that is best for their family.”

He was “painting” a thick line up the inside of one leg, from ankle to groin, then down the other leg from groin to ankle. He performed this exercise several times, and was rewarded with a soft groan. “Are you saying that you needed to protect your brothers?”

“Huh?” She stared at him through passion-glazed eyes.

“You mentioned protecting your family. Your brothers are your family.”

“You are confusing me. Oh, please do not do that.”

“What? This?” He was “painting” increasingly smaller circles around her breast until he got to the nipple, which he gave an extra splash of “paint,” back and forth, back and forth. Mayhap later he would try the same with wine, or honey. Then he did the same thing to the other breast.

She was keening now. Her violet eyes had dilated and turned almost purple. She was panting. And her chest was heaving.

Bloody hell, he was probably panting, too.

He picked up an even stiffer feather now, almost like a turkey feather. But before he used it on her, he undid the ties that restrained her to the pole. To his immense satisfaction, she did not move.

“The worst thing about what you did at the Althing,” he told her then as he used the stiff bristles over all the most erotic parts of her body—breasts, neck, shoulders, backs of knees, arches of feet, her buttocks, and, yea, her nether folds, “is that you showed so little trust in me.”