Viking (7 page)
“Nay, I am not ready. There is no priest.”
“Come with me. Both of you.”
“Where are we going?” Fiona wanted to know.
“To the village. ’Tis not far. My horse is waiting. I’ve brought a mule for Brann to ride.”
Fiona followed him outside, her curiosity conquering her fear. “Here,” he said, handing her a bundle he’d been carrying. “Hang on to this, you will need it later.”
Thorne lifted Fiona onto the horse’s back and mounted behind her. Brann got himself onto the mule and followed at a slower pace. Though it was well past the supper hour, there was still sufficient light to guide them. Daylight lingered long in the summertime in northern climes.
They reached the village without mishap. Thorne rode directly to the harbor, where several dragon ships were tied to stone piers jutting out into the fjord.
“Wait here,” Thorne said, dismounting.
Fiona watched in puzzlement as Thorne approached a dragon ship and hailed its captain. Moments later a ferocious giant appeared on the deck. He was huge, bigger than Thorne even. Rust-colored hair streaked with gray hung down to his shoulders in wild disarray, and his beard all but hid his fierce features. He joined Thorne on the pier, where they spoke earnestly for several minutes. Then Thorne placed something shiny in the captain’s palm and waited as the man strode back aboard his ship.
The wait was short. A man wearing the ragged remnants of a monk’s habit and hobbled by leg irons stumbled down the gangplank to join Thorne. They conversed heatedly. Fiona saw the man shake his head several times before he was led under protest to where she stood. The sound of his voice sparked recognition, and she let out a gasp of dismay.
The ragged monk was Father Damien, a priest from the monastery on Man. He had offered Mass many times in their little village chapel. She had given him her confession shortly before the Vikings sacked the island. She was aware that the savage Vikings had pillaged the monastery and taken prisoners, but she’d never expected to see any of them again.
“Father Damien!”
“Are you all right, child?”
“Aye, I am fine.”
She rounded on Thorne, her eyes shooting violet
fire. “Is this how your kind treat holy men? How dare you!”
“Ulm sacked the monastery,” Thorne revealed. “When I came ashore on Man I sought but one person … the woman who had bewitched me. The priests were sold to the slave trader when we reached port. They are going to the Byzantine, where slaves are in great demand.”
“But they are Christian priests. You cannot send them to a heathen country.”
“ ’Tis all right, child,” Father Damien said. “I am resigned to my fate. God in his mercy will protect me. Perhaps He has a plan for me and the others from the monastery. We will go forth and convert the heathens. Do not lament my fate; ’tis you I’m worried about. The Viking told me he wishes to take you as his mate and wants me to perform a Christian ceremony. Is that your wish, child?”
Fiona shook her head in vigorous denial even as Thorne said, “Aye, priest, ’tis Fiona’s wish for us to be wed according to Christian rites.”
“Is that true, Fiona?”
Fiona could not lie to the priest. She had indeed told Thorne that she would marry him if he could produce a Christian priest. “Aye, Father, ’tis what I said but—”
“Hurry, priest,” Thorne demanded. “If you refuse, I will take Fiona to my bed whether or not we are wed.”
Father Damien decided it would be in Fiona’s best interest to wed the Viking. “Have you a witness?”
Thorne glanced down the road and saw Brann approaching on the mule. “He comes now. Brann will stand witness.”
Brann slid off the mule and limped over to where Fiona stood beside the priest. He peered closely at the monk and recognized him instantly. “Why, ’tis Father Damien.”
“You’re just in time, wizard,” Thorne said. “We have need of a witness. I am taking Fiona to wife.”
“Wait, please! I need a moment alone with Brann,” Fiona cried.
“The slavemaster’s ship leaves with the tide. There is scant time for conversation,” Thorne said.
Then he surprised Fiona by taking the bundle from her hands, unwrapping it and removing from it a beautiful blue woolen cloak lined in scarlet silk. He shook it out, threw it around her shoulders and fastened it with his own gold brooch.
“Now we are ready, priest.”
“No!” Fiona’s courage reinforced itself. “We hardly know one another. The Viking wants to marry me for the wrong reason.”
“Fiona,” Father Damien said gently. “The Viking has already made known his intentions where you’re concerned. In God’s eyes, ’tis better to be a wife than a mistress. Be content that the heathen is honoring your wish to be married by a Christian priest.”
“ ’Tis meant to be,” Brann intoned sagely.
“Is my future not my own to decide?” Fiona cried, confused by the swift turn of events.
“Your future is in God’s hands,” the priest reminded her.
“ ’Tis a prophesy written by ancient Druids who walked the earth before Christianity existed,” Brann chanted.
“Enough of this nonsense,” Thorne roared. “Wed us, priest. Do it now else I take the woman right here on the beach.”
Thorne knew it was a false threat but he wanted this over and done with. He wanted Fiona’s soft body beneath his. He wanted to be inside her. The spell she had cast upon him was growing stronger instead of weakening. He would have had her a long time ago had he not feared her dark magic and what it would do to his family if he took her against her will. He had found a priest to marry them and was even flouting his father’s wishes to have her. Everyone would think him mad, but nothing was going to stop him now.
Fiona the Learned had burrowed under his skin and festered like a sore that refused to heal. Odin help him.
They were married. Fiona was still numb. She had refused to answer when asked whether she took Thorne to be her husband, and Thorne had answered for her. It must have been good enough for Father Damien, because shortly thereafter he had pronounced them man and wife in accordance with God’s law. What God hath joined together, he had quoted, let no man put asunder. Father Damien
returned to the slave ship and Brann to the homestead.
“Say nothing about this, wizard,” Thorne warned as Brann left for the homestead.
“Where are we going?” Fiona asked when she realized that Thorne was taking a different direction.
“Where we won’t be disturbed. I’ve waited a long time for this, lady. I’ve lived it in my dreams so often during the past year I can almost taste your silken flesh. The vital element missing in my dreams was the pleasure of piercing your sweet flesh with my mighty sword. But soon I will know that pleasure, with the blessing of your God, of course,” he mocked.
“I had always hoped to marry for love,” Fiona said. “I had hoped that my husband and I would care for one another.”
Thorne gave a snort of laughter. “ ’Tis not the way of things.”
The road they traveled ended abruptly at a fjord. Darkness blanketed the land. The mist was heavy, so heavy Fiona couldn’t see the high cliffs rising above the fjord. The vaporous mass clung to the water’s surface, swirling and shifting, changing from one shape to another. Fiona couldn’t turn her gaze away from the enchantment of mist and water and the moon-drenched night.
“What is this place? Why have you brought me here?”
Summoning his patience, Thorne said, “ ’Tis private. There’s an unoccupied cottage nearby, abandoned when a widow remarried and moved into her
new husband’s home. I thought you would prefer to be bedded for the first time without others listening to the sounds lovers make. Maidens are shy creatures by nature.” He sent her a heated look. “You were a maiden when I first brought you to my home. Are you still?”
Fiona’s gaze flew upward to meet Thorne’s. Was it possible that this fierce, violent man harbored tender emotions? Was he actually considering her feelings? More likely he was thinking of his own gratification and comfort.
“I asked you a question, Fiona.”
Recalling Thorne’s question, Fiona nodded. “Aye, I’m a maiden still.”
“I thought so. You have naught to fear; I will treat you gently.”
He turned down a well-worn path. The cottage was set back from the fjord, but still close enough to afford a spectacular view on a bright day. Thorne opened the door and guided her inside. A shaft of moonlight pierced through the mist and entered through the open door, revealing a single windowless room devoid of furnishings. The tiny hearth held naught but cold ashes.
“I’ll start a fire,” Thorne said when he saw Fiona shiver.
He disappeared outside and returned a few minutes later with an armload of dried grass and kindling. Then he knelt before the hearth, struck a flint and fed grass and sticks to the spark until a thin stream of smoke rose into the air. He nursed
it until the kindling ignited, then he turned his attention to Fiona.
“It will be warm soon. Relax while I find us something comfortable to lie upon.”
Fiona stared at his departing back. She couldn’t imagine why Thorne was being so thoughtful. Had she misjudged the Viking? She thought not. Too many acts of violence and mayhem had been attributed to Vikings for her to be wrong. Thorne must truly fear her nonexistent magical powers to go to such lengths to make her comfortable.
Thorne returned shortly, his arms filled with pine boughs and soft moss. He spread the boughs on the ground and covered them with moss. Then he pulled off his cloak and spread it over the makeshift bed. Everything was moving so fast, Fiona’s head was spinning. The Viking wanted her, he’d made that clear from the beginning. That he would wed her in order to have her in his bed both confused and shocked her. Then Thorne spoke, and she knew the Viking hadn’t changed. He was the same arrogant raider she’d always known him to be.
“Remove your clothing, wife, and lie down on our bed. Spread your legs and welcome your husband inside you with a sweet smile of surrender.”
His words produced the fury he’d expected. He’d deliberately used those words to kindle fire within her, fire that he could turn to sweet passion.
“Nay!”
He reached for her and she spun away from him. “Where is the docile wife I was promised?”
“I promised you nothing.”
She darted toward the door.
“You’ll have to do better than that.” He caught her easily. She tried to pull away but he held her fast. “Do you seek to deny your husband? You swore before your God to honor and obey me.”
“Don’t touch me!”
“You act as though I’m going to eat you alive. Do you fear me, Fiona?”
“You are a Viking! Long before I met you I heard tales of Viking raids and vile attacks upon defenseless women.”
He gave her a mocking grin. “Use your magic if you fear me. Turn me into a toad.”
She buried her face in her hands, unable to answer such an absurd challenge.
He pulled her hands away. “Nay, look at me. I’m not going to hurt you. I will take you as gently as I know how. It matters not that we were wed in a weak moment of madness. You are my wife now. Vikings honor their wives. I want to love your body, Fiona. I want to be inside you so desperately I ache. Witch or no, spell or not, I
must
have you. I
will
have you!”
His voice was rough with passion yet his hands were surprisingly gentle as he removed the brooch holding her cloak together and lifted it from her shoulders. His gaze never left hers. Fire and ice, Fiona thought. She was awash in the sensations summoned by his words. Then she was lost in the heat of his smoldering gaze as he unfastened her tunic and it dropped to the floor.
Thorne thought she looked like a goddess. Licked
by firelight, she was all gold and silver and shimmering, sent to earth expressly to torment him. Thorne’s breath caught on a gasp as a great shudder shook him. This moment was the culmination of an eternity of yearning, a year of obsessing over the glorious woman who had bewitched him. He had returned to Man to kill her, only to find himself trapped in her web of seduction, unable to hurt her.
Odin save him, for he knew the moment he entered her body, nothing in his life would ever be the same.
Thorne’s patience came as a surprise to Fiona. She had expected him to fling her upon their bed of boughs and fall upon her like a savage. Instead, he held her and spent a long time kissing her and nibbling at her tightly closed lips. Hands that were powerful and callused caressed her neck and spine with exquisite tenderness. Fiona could feel her tension give way beneath his seductive stroking, could feel herself leaning into him, her lips half clinging to his.
His hands traveled over her burning flesh, and when he cupped her breasts, she gave a muffled groan. Apparently the sound released something primitive in him, for he bore her down onto the bed of boughs and kissed her violently. His lips were hard, urgent, demanding, his tongue hot and bold
as he sought entrance to her mouth. It was the kiss of an aroused male, of a warrior who took what he wanted and allowed no quarter. When he lifted his head they were both breathing hard.
“I’ve thought of naught but lying between your sweet thighs since I first saw you. I imagined myself thrusting into you and sinking deep. In my dreams I heard your cries of joy ringing in my ears.”
“Those are poetic words for a fierce Viking warrior,” Fiona said, panting from the effort of making a coherent sentence.
He eyed her with fierce regard. “Have you not heard our Viking poems of love and war? They are passionate tales of our exploits. Vikings are warriors, aye, but we are other things as well; farmers, fishermen, traders, storytellers; lovers of sagas, poetry … and women. We work hard, fight even harder, and make love with a vigor and zest lesser men envy. You will soon learn this for yourself.”
When she made no reply, he stretched out beside her and stared at her breasts. His eyes were dark and enigmatic and she shuddered, touched by an emotion she’d never experienced before.
“Your breasts are beautiful,” he said as he rubbed his knuckles against her jutting nipples. He kneaded her breasts almost roughly, then lifted them to his hungry mouth and suckled her like a babe.
Fiona whimpered as he took a nipple between his teeth, bit it, then laved it with his tongue. The sudden burst of pleasure was almost unbearable; she wanted him to stop because she enjoyed it too
much. He released that nipple and went to the other, drawing it deep into his mouth and sucking strongly as his hands began to stroke the length of her, over ribs and belly, hips and thighs. Then his mouth fastened on hers, his tongue delving deeply, tasting of her. His hands were everywhere at once as he sucked and nibbled on her lips, stroking, caressing, making her burn. What manner of man was he to make her feel such sinful things?
She pushed on his chest, fighting to maintain some semblance of composure. It was a losing battle, and she knew it. There was something intoxicating about this man. Something magnetic. A primitive, moving force that made him as compelling as he was irresistible. She had tried to deny her overwhelming attraction to the Viking, to disregard Brann’s prophesy, but her efforts had been futile. Thorne had inexplicably touched something within her she never knew existed.
Her half-hearted protest seemed to strengthen Thorne’s determination to make her want him. He tormented her flesh with his hands and mouth. One hand drifted down over her stomach, becoming entwined in the dark, curling hairs between her legs, and she shuddered uncontrollably. He traced the outer edges of the dark triangle, delving into the moist folds of her skin. Her legs tightened against his invasion, but he would not allow it. Deftly he moved between her thighs, spreading them with his own.
She wasn’t expecting it when he thrust his fingers into her inner wetness, and her hips rose off the
bed, shocked by the stabbing pleasure. He slid his fingers in and out of her repeatedly, until she felt possessed by madness, eagerly wanting something that had no name.
“What are you doing to me?” she cried out in agony and dismay. “I cannot bear it. Please …” Her whole being became one hard, pulsing point where he rubbed and teased with his callused thumb.
“Take your release, Fiona. Take it now before I bring you pain.”
She felt his hardness nudging against her hip, heard the note of tormented impatience in his voice, and a frisson of fear sped down her spine. Then her fear receded as his fingers and thumb caused incredible sensations to lash through her. She shoved upward against his hand and drew her legs tightly together as pleasure rocketed through her, pulling a hoarse cry from deep within her. She shuddered violently, confused and frightened. What kind of demon could do this to her? Make her feel as if her soul were leaving her body?
Rolling over on top of her, Thorne flexed his hips and pressed down, grinding the hard ridge of his shaft against her pelvis. Grabbing a handful of her hair, he directed her to look at him. She did, and was sorry. His sex was huge, rising up thick, long and hard from the golden nest of hair below his belly. Her eyes flew to his.
“You’ll kill me with that.”
“Nay. You’ll stretch to fit me. Touch me,” he said.
She hesitated, staring at his sex with growing panic.
He grabbed her hand and wrapped it around his thick shaft. He was hard and painfully full. If he didn’t have her soon he would burst. When her hand squeezed him, the violence in him erupted. He grasped her hips and thrust into her, impaling her with a single swift stroke. His powerful entry broke through her maidenhead cleanly, somewhat diminishing the agony he might have caused had he done it clumsily. She cried out in surprise and pain, then lay still. She felt as if she’d been ripped apart. Then little by little the pain of his entry eased, and she felt his incredible strength stretch and fill her.
“I told you we’d fit,” he said, giving her a smug smile.
“You hurt me.”
He moved slowly, creating a gentle friction. “Does it still hurt?”
“Aye. You’re a beast.”
His body was pulsing against hers with lust. His heart was pounding in his chest, and he was panting like the beast she had accused him of being. “I’m not going to stop. I’ve waited too long for this. You fit me like a tight glove. Your insides are hot and wet and I’m trying to control the violence building inside me. You are my wife; I don’t want to harm you.”
She felt as if he were touching her womb, and for all of the strangeness and shocking moment of pain, it was no longer unpleasant.
He began to move faster now, thrusting and withdrawing, pleased when she began lifting her hips to
meet his thrusts. When her hands slowly rose to cling to his shoulders, he gave a shout of joy.
It didn’t take him long to rekindle her desire. He heard her moan as she shifted positions so she could take more of him. He managed to retain a thread of control by sheer dint of will. When he felt himself begin to shatter, his hand moved between their bodies to stroke the very heat of her. Then passion took control of his mind and body. His loins pumped and his thrusts deepened. He felt her nails dig into his shoulder and knew her own passion was rising swiftly.
Fiona had no idea what was happening to her. The pressure building inside her was becoming unbearable. Just when she was certain she would die from the sheer intensity of her feelings, his thrusting became wild, uncontrollable, more demanding. The feeling terrified her. It felt as though her soul were being torn from her body.
“Thorne! I’m frightened!”
“Nay,” he gasped through clenched teeth. “Just hold on and come with me. Trust me.”
It was difficult to trust a man who had taken her captive. A man who had proclaimed his ownership by placing a chain around her neck. But in this she had no choice. Fiona surrendered to the magical moment that had no name. Bliss filled her. She arched against her husband and let ecstasy consume her.
Thorne felt her release and allowed his own. With a long, low groan he shuddered and surrendered his seed to her. Moments later he collapsed against
her with a grunt of male satisfaction. He wanted to stay inside her forever. His heart hammered like a drumbeat, and the scent of their lovemaking filled the air around them. He could think of no experience that had been as sweetly rewarding as taking his virgin bride. And he wanted to do it again.
“Get off me,” Fiona gasped, poking him in the ribs. “You’re heavy, Viking.”
Thorne frowned. Somehow he’d expected her first words to be ones of praise for his prowess, or at the very least awe at the passion he had unleashed in her. Her passionate nature had exceeded his wildest dreams. Had she nothing to say about it? His male ego had been wounded.
“I know I pleased you,” he bragged as he shifted his body off of her.
Fiona blushed and pulled the cloak over her flushed body. “You hurt me.”
“It was unavoidable. There was no pretense in your sighs and moans of pleasure. I know when a woman enjoys what I do to her. Your arms held me and your nails scored my shoulders.”
Fiona ground her teeth in frustration. Such arrogance didn’t deserve to be rewarded with an answer. Truth to tell, Thorne had taken her to a magical place where naught but bliss dwelled, and she couldn’t bear to talk about it. She needed time to consider what it meant it terms of their relationship. She didn’t dare label what they had just done. Making love wasn’t the right word, for love held no meaning for Thorne. To him their coupling was a simple matter of lust. She sighed. It was going to
be exceedingly difficult teaching the Viking to love her, and even harder for her to love a man who considered her a possession … when he considered her at all.
A worried frown marred Thorne’s brow when Fiona remained silent. Had he mistaken her response? He thought not, but he usually wasn’t all that concerned about the women he’d bedded. But Fiona was different. He’d
wanted
to bring her pleasure. And not because he feared her black magic. Nay, something he couldn’t name compelled him to be as gentle as he knew how.
“Fiona, have you naught to say? Did I hurt you so much? I know I am big, but no bigger than many of my countrymen. As your husband, ’tis my duty to take care of you. Lie still, I’ll be right back.”
Fiona watched curiously as Thorne tore off the hem of his tunic and strode naked from the cottage. He returned a few minutes later with the scrap of wet cloth in his hand and knelt beside her.
“Let me see,” he said, drawing the cloak away from her body. When he pulled her thighs apart, Fiona gasped out a protest.
“What are you doing?”
“I want to see if I tore your flesh.”
“Nay, you didn’t! You didn’t hurt me all that much.” She tried to clamp her legs together but he wouldn’t allow it.
“Stop fighting. I’m just going to cleanse blood and seed from between your thighs. Relax, the cool water will soothe you.”
A streak of red crawled up Fiona’s neck. “You
shouldn’t. It isn’t right. ’Tis immodest.”
His expression hardened. “Never say me nay, Fiona. I will judge what is right and what is not between us.”
Fiona’s hips jerked as the wet cloth stroked between her legs.
“You’re not torn,” Thorne said with satisfaction as he tossed aside the soiled cloth.
“I said I wasn’t,” Fiona said through clenched teeth.
He stroked her with his fingertips, staring at her with burning eyes. “I want you again, Fiona. What manner of witchcraft have you used on me? If you do not free me soon, I will go mad with this aching need I have for you.”
“You accuse me falsely.”
“Deny it if you will, but I’m not the same man I was before encountering you. Odin’s beard! I’m a Viking! Vikings thrive on raiding and raping and pillaging. ’Tis in our blood.”
“I have not changed you, lord Viking,” Fiona retorted. “I have not that kind of power. I can heal your wounds but naught else.”
His eyes gleamed. “Heal me, witch. Appease this insatiable lust that festers within me. Take me inside you again. Drain my body of your spell. I long to become myself again.”
He slid upward, bracing his weight on his elbows as he came fully over her. His mouth clamped down over hers as he separated her thighs with one of his own. He kissed her long and hard, then dragged his mouth from hers to taste the fragrant valley between
her breasts. His mouth moved eagerly from breast to breast, causing her to move restlessly beneath him.
“Thorne…”
“Open for me.”
His manhood prodded the moist portal of her sex, and Fiona’s legs fell apart. His hands and mouth were wreaking sweet torture upon her flesh. She couldn’t think, could only feel. When he entered her this time she felt no pain, only incredible stretching as he filled her with himself. Then his leashed passion exploded as he began to thrust violently, taking her with him to sweet splendor.
Fiona didn’t get much rest that night. Thorne’s thrashing about on their bed of boughs kept her awake. She was so small, and he was so large, that each time he turned he dragged her with him, rousing her from a sound sleep. And just before dawn she awakened to the velvet touch of his lips and hands upon her body. By the time she came fully awake, she was wet enough to take him again without causing her pain. She was shocked speechless when he clasped her waist, stretched out on his back and pulled her on top of him.
Fiona slept until Thorne prodded her awake late the following morning.
“ ’Tis time to leave.”
She stared up at him. Somehow he looked different this morning. There was no sign of the tender lover he had been during the night. He was a Viking
warrior. Hard, implacable, fierce. She sat up, holding the cloak to her breasts.
“I want to bathe.” The tangy scent of their joining clung to her body and offended her nostrils.
“I already bathed in the fjord. ’Tis cold but you’ll find it refreshing.”
Wrapping herself in the cloak, Fiona hurried to the fjord and tested the water. Thorne was right. The water was indeed cold, but it felt wonderfully refreshing on her skin as she waded in. Skin that now had intimate knowledge of a man’s hands and mouth. Despite the cold water, she felt herself grow hot with the memory.
“Come out now, Fiona. The water is too cold to linger.”
Thorne stood on the bank of the fjord, holding the cloak out to receive her. Fiona waded out of the water and stepped into his arms. He wrapped the cloak around her, bringing her against him. She felt the hardness of his loins pressing against her backside and let out a small cry of protest.
