Hotter Than Hell (46 page)

His impulse was to gather his squad and see what was going on for himself, but he waited for an explanation. Even if the Saxons were attacking the gates it wasn’t his problem unless the team he’d been sent to save was in immediate danger. He was not in charge of the indigenous situation here, and wasn’t going to interfere with the locals despite the chieftain’s plans or Ginger’s visions.

Ched cleared his throat, and Bern realized he was embarrassed. “It’s something to do with your daughter, isn’t it?”

“Morga’s run off,” Ched said. “And the Year King ran with her.” He sighed.

“But she’s the Mother’s priestess!” Ginger gasped. “And he’s—”

“You’ve been spending too much time with the locals,” Bern whispered to her in English. “A pair of runaways is not your problem.”

“But—the ceremony is tonight.” She, too, spoke English.

Ched might not have understood what Ginger said, but he recognized the desperation in her tone. “You see the problem, don’t you, Lady of the Spring? Oh, we could go after those foolish children. But if we drag them back I’ll have to execute my own daughter to appease the crowd gathered for the festival. And you’ll have to kill that stripling she’s bonded with.”

“But what about the ceremony?” a one-eyed man asked. “Tradition—”

“We’ve changed tradition before,” Ched cut him off. He looked at one of the other men, a wizened, white-bearded fellow in rough brown robes. “Haven’t we, Bishop Myrdyn?”

The old man was carrying a gnarled staff, and reminded Bern of Gandalf.

“You’re not thinking of giving up your heathen fertility festival, are you?” the old man asked.

“Of course not!” Ched answered. “The people would riot for sure if we changed custom that far.”

“There you go again—you promise to change your pagan ways, but you always find a way out of your promises.”

“Didn’t I say I’d let you baptize as many folk as you wanted tomorrow morning? And in our own sacred pool?”

“That you did,” the Christian cleric conceded. He tugged thoughtfully on his earlobe. “Once the people are sated and sore from the sex, and their heads are splitting from too much drink, I’ll preach a sermon that will lure them to save their souls from the great sins they’re going to commit this night. It will be a fine harvest of souls. They’ll be crying for forgiveness. You’ll make a fine Year King,” he added, looking Bern over. “I’ll give my blessing to that.”

“But we need a priestess for the king to mate with,” the one-eyed man insisted. “The crops will wither without the spring mating.”

“Well, if I’m going to turn the pool into a baptismal fount, it won’t need a priestess anymore, will it?” the bishop said, eyeing Ginger critically. He pointed at her. “Use this priestess instead of the one that’s run off.”

“That’ll work,” Lord Ched said, clapping Myrdyn on the shoulder. “One priestess is as good as another in the eyes of the goddess.”

“But—I’m not a virgin,” Ginger blurted. “The priestess of the Mother must be a virgin when she lies with her first Year King.”

“Don’t encourage them,” Bern complained. Then he realized where she was going with this and spoke loudly. “We can’t offend the goddess. I’m no virgin, either.”

Ched waved his hand dismissively. “You were both virgins once, after all. It’s virility and fertility that matter most. You’ll both do. I’m glad that’s settled.” He began to turn away.

“But I don’t want to be king,” Bern said.

“What man doesn’t want to be king?” Ched asked, turning back. “Especially when the choice is between becoming Year King or going to the goddess with the priestess and all of your men sacrificed inside the burning belly of the wicker man?” His smile had more than a touch of threat in it.

“Sex or death,” Myrdyn said. “Either way, the crowd will be entertained.”

They weren’t making hollow promises. Bern had seen the piles of kindling and a crudely woven straw statue in a field on his way into the stockade. He knew that criminals were often burned alive inside such structures during the spring festival. Lord Ched could probably get the mob angry enough at missing out on the orgy to attack his team. The ensuing massacre wouldn’t look good on Bern’s record. And there was the chance that some of his people could get hurt. He wasn’t ready to risk any of them, especially Ginger.

All he had to do was be the Year King.

It wasn’t like he minded having sex with Ginger White.

“King it is then,” Bern said.

“Good,” Lord Ched said, and he and his people marched away.

When they were gone, Ginger asked, “Now what are we going to do?”

Bern was still grinning as he took her in his arms. “Why, rehearse for the fertility ceremony, of course.”

“You’ll have to wear a pair of stag horns, you know.”

He grimaced. “And what will you be wearing?”

“Not a damn thing.”

The grimace turned into a grin. “I can live with that.”

“Yes, but—”

“My name’s Andrew.” He picked her up and carried her toward the narrow bed. “Colonel Andrew Bern. Just Bern to almost everybody.” He kissed her before adding. “Under the circumstances, I thought we ought to be formally introduced.”

She twined her arms around his neck. “Nice name. Kiss me again.”

“All over,” he promised.

Night had fallen, sacred fires were lit, and hundreds of pilgrims were waiting within their glow just outside the front of the estate. The ceremony was ready to begin.

“I wasn’t this nervous at my wedding,” Bern confided. “Or my divorce hearing.”

Ginger rounded on him. “You’re married? I do not have sex with married men.”

“Then you’re in luck, because I’m not married.”

“Oh. Right. Divorced. Sorry.” She rested her forehead against his bare chest. “I am
so
nervous that I don’t know what I’m saying or doing. I’ve never done anything like this my whole life.”

“Just enjoy the moment. Don’t think about anything but me. I promise, I won’t be thinking about anything but you. You look beautiful,” he told her. “Like the bride of the summer god ought to look.”

They had braided spring flowers into her thick red curls, and she was wearing Morga’s most diaphanous white silk dress. He was wearing a doe-skin loincloth. He had to claim the Summer King’s sword, then be acclaimed by the people. After that they’d get naked and down to business.

They made their way through the watching crowd to where Lord Ched stood between two widely spaced bonfires. Ginger was deeply aware of the expectant mood of the hundreds of watching people. She told herself that Bern was the only thing that was real here, that everything else was a dream. She concentrated on the feel of him where his skin touched hers. Being near him truly did make her body ripe with need.

When they reached the chieftain, Ched held up a richly decorated sword and shouted, “Behold your priestess and her new Summer King!” While the crowd cheered, Ched plunged the tip of the sword into the soft, spring earth.

“Now what?” Bern whispered to Ginger.

“You say something about accepting the kingship for the love of the Mother and the fertility of the land, and pull the sword from the ground.”

“Okay, then.” He began to step forward, hand out to take the hilt of the sacred blade.

“Wait!” a man shouted from the crowd before Bern could touch the sword.

“Now what?” Bern said, turning toward the man who came rushing forward.

“I challenge!” the man shouted, coming up to glare at Bern.

“Oh, crap,” Ginger muttered. “I forgot about Lanc.”

“Who the hell is Lanc?” Bern demanded.

She pointed at the broad-shoulder, dark-haired man. “He’s this druid from Brittany that’s been trying to get me to run off with him.”

Bern rounded on her. “What? You weren’t going to mention that there’s this other guy who wants to skewer me tonight?”

“You’re jealous.”

“Yes!”

She grinned. “Oh, that’s so cute. Don’t worry. You’re more than a match for him.”

“I challenge!” Lanc shouted again. “Fight me for your kingship!”

Bern gestured at the challenger. “Hold on, I’ll be right with you. What is this guy to you?” he demanded of Ginger.

“Nothing. He’s one of a group of druids going around trying to recruit psychics to come back to Brittany. They’re trying to keep the old religion alive back home.”

“So, he doesn’t want to have sex with you?”

“Not as far as I—”

“Yes, I do!” Lanc cut her off.

“Oh, stop it,” Ginger told him.

“Fight me for her!” Lanc insisted. The crowd was beginning to shout for the battle to begin as well.

“Okay,” Bern said. Without even stopping to take a breath, he turned around and hit the man in the jaw.

Lanc went down, but was up again almost instantly.

Bern took a step back and smiled, glad that the opposition had some fight in him. It was strange, almost as strange as being in another place and time than the one he’d been born to, but he was glad to have some competition. He wanted Ginger, wanted to properly claim the woman as his. Fighting for her hand felt, in some atavistic way, right. Deep in his gut, deep in his heart, he knew Ginger was a woman worth fighting for.

The druid was a big, fit guy with some hand-to-hand skills. They circled, then sparred against each other, flesh and muscle straining, moving through firelight and shadow while the crowd cheered and shouted. Sweat stung Bern’s eyes, and he tasted blood when Lanc got past his guard once to strike him in the face. Excitement built deep in Bern’s gut and the clarity that only came with combat focused his whole attention on the struggle.

For a while he almost forgot the purpose of the challenge while he concentrated on the fight. Then he caught sight of Ginger. She was flushed and her eyes were bright with excitement that sent a zing of lust straight to Bern’s groin. But her arms were tensely crossed, and she also looked annoyed.

“Enjoying yourself?” she called sarcastically when she had his attention.

The momentary distraction almost cost him, but he caught Lanc’s sudden kick out of the corner of his eye and quickly countered. He ended up with a hard foot grazing his thigh as he turned. He returned the favor with a hard kick to Lanc’s solar plexus that brought the man down.

Enough of this toying with his prey.

When Lanc tried to struggle up again, Bern knocked him unconscious.

Ginger rushed up to him “Are you all right?”

“Oh, yeah.” He grinned, and kissed her, pulling her tightly against him. “Never better.” The loincloth left nothing to her imagination about how he was feeling. The cheering crowd faded away from his attention as he concentrated only on the woman in his arms.

Her hand brushed against the erection straining against the soft leather. Then she pried herself out of his tight embrace. “Not yet.”

“Oh, come on!” he complained. But he understood when she pointed toward the sword buried in the ground. He laughed. “Right. Well, at least I don’t have to pull it out of a stone.”

“Uh…”

“What?”

She looked at him strangely, and asked, “Doesn’t Bern mean ‘bear’?”

“Yeah…” He crossed to the sword. Bits of earth clung to the blade as he pulled it out and held it up for all to see. He waited for the cheering to die down, then shouted, “For Britain and the White Lady!”

The roar this time was deafening.

“Must have sounded good,” he murmured.

Ched came up to him, taking both him and Ginger by the hand. A trio of young women accompanied him. One of the girls held a stag-horn headdress. The other girls made quick work of stripping off his and Ginger’s clothes.

After fastening the headdress on Bern, Ched turned to the crowd and proclaimed, “Behold the queen and king of summer. This mating will bring fertility to the land! Let the festival begin!”

“You know, I’m beginning to think—” Ginger started.

“Don’t.” Bern grabbed her and kissed her.

He swung his naked lover up into his arms and covered her mouth with his. While his tongue probed inside that sweet, responsive warmth he carried her to the cloth-covered mound of grass and flowers that was to serve as both bed and altar for them to mate upon.

“Put me down!” she demanded.

“Don’t chicken out on me now,” he pleaded.

Ginger laughed wickedly. “Not a chance.” She remembered his directions to just look at him, but the crowd was the last thing on her mind at the moment. She wanted to taste him, and that was what she did.

The crowd cheered. A wave of raw sexual energy washed over her. The lust channeled by the masses shot through her, and she projected it back to the people around them. In that moment the goddess filled her, and she worshipped the god of summer and king of the land with all the fervor and passion due him.

Bern pushed her gently onto her back on the soft, fragrant altar. He knelt over her, poised at the moist opening of her vagina. He waited while her hips rose pleadingly.

“Now!” she demanded.

But he didn’t move until her gaze finally met his. “The night is just beginning,” he told her.

Then he entered her, and his worship of the goddess began in earnest.

“Ahem.”

The embarrassed throat-clearing, followed by a second voice demanding, “Cover your shame, woman!” was the last thing Ginger expected to hear after the night she’d enjoyed.

Besides, she wasn’t sure how shame was supposed to be covered, especially when what she felt was marvelous. All right, she was sore and tender in places, and rather hung over, though not in the having-drunk-too-much-alcohol way. Who knew too much great sex could make you groggy?

Could you have too much great sex?

If it could be done, she’d done it tonight.

“Colonel, sir,” the embarrassed voice whispered. “Excuse me for waking you up, but—”