Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (11 page)

When his lips met hers again, it was, indeed, sweet, sweet agony, for them both. And he was not surprised at the hissing noise he heard. He felt like hissing himself, and purring, and shouting with sheer joy.

But then, he realized that the hissing noise did not come from Maire.
Oh, Holy Thor! Could it be more snakes? Is this the location of the den where the men relocated the snakes from the pit?
His slumberous eyes flew open, and he leaped back off her body and the stone, at once in a crouched battle stance, ready to fight off this new, unknown threat. But, no, it was not snakes in the vicinity. It was a frenzied animal
that now hurled itself at his back and began clawing his shoulders. And it was another wild animal, above Maire’s head on the rock, that was hissing.

“Don’ ye be hurtin’ me mother, ye bloody, cod-sucking Viking,” a child’s voice shrieked into his ear as small fists pummeled his shoulders and clawed at his neck. At the same time that Rurik recognized it was Maire’s son hanging on his back like a miniature berserker, he took in the large black cat perched on the boulder, still hissing, with its back bowed. It was about to launch itself at Rurik’s face, he could tell.

“Now, Rose, settle down,” Maire said, grabbing for the feline just as it was poised to attack.

“Rose? You named that monster
Rose?
A witch’s familiar named Rose?” By now, Rurik had disengaged the foul-mouthed urchin from his back and had him cradled firmly at his side with an arm wrapped around his waist, like a sack of barley. Who knew such a young person could spout so many coarse words? Or could stink so bad?

“Rose is no monster,” Wee-Jamie yelled.

“And she’s not a familiar, either,” Maire declared, shimmying off the boulder to stand facing him with the still hissing cat in her arms. “She’s just a sweet pet, given to Wee-Jamie by a passing tinker last year.”

Rurik had seen pet harem cats with sleek, silky fur. This cat’s mangy hair stood on end, and it was bald in spots. Not a pretty sight. Right now it was staring up at Maire with adoration and docile innocence. But Rose wasn’t fooling Rurik one bit. He knew that, given the chance, the cat would put stripes on his balls.

Rurik wished his Beast were here now. The wolfhound
would make a tasty meal of yon cat.

“You odious wretch! There you are, you rascal,” another voice exclaimed. It was the rotund monk, who came rushing out of the trees, his cassock lifted to his hairy calves; Rurik had seen him the first day he’d met the Campbell clan. The panting man almost tripped over a root and had to grab for the boulder to keep from falling over… which caused the rock to start rocking again … which caused Rurik to recall what he’d been about to do on said rocking rock.

“Father Baldwin!” Maire squealed with embarrassment.

“Were you not told to stay in camp?” Father Baldwin scolded the boy, calling Rurik’s lustful thoughts back to the present. “Everyone has been looking for you hither and yon. Dost know the trouble you have caused? Dost know the danger you could be in if one of the MacNabs grabbed you?”

“No one’s gonna grab me,” the boy boasted, which was ridiculous, considering his position in Rurik’s imprisoning embrace.

In a rush of words, Father Baldwin explained how the boy had slipped away from his guardianship and promised that it would not happen again, even if they had to tie the boy and his cat to a tree. At that the child issued an expletive so obscene that everyone gaped at him, and the cat pissed on Rurik’s boot. His very expensive skin boots made of cured reindeer hide.

Rurik was too stunned at the cat’s audacity to do more than gape … and plan his revenge.

“Listen to me, son or no son, you are due for a good mouth-soaping,” Maire warned, wagging a forefinger
at her whelp, “and do not think I won’t do it, either.” God, he loved it when Maire was fierce and ill-tempered. She reminded him of a Norse Valkyrie about to go into battle.

“Why do you not bring the boy back to the castle now that the MacNabs have been banished from the grounds? Will he not be safer there under my guardianship?”

The monk’s face, right up to his half-bald, tonsured head, turned nigh purple and Maire looked as if Rurik had suggested that they toss her son into a fiery pit.

“What? What’s wrong with my suggestion?” he asked, thoroughly confused.

“Attend me well, Viking. Do not attempt to tell me what is best for my bairn. He is mine, and mine alone.”

“Huh? As if I would want him!”

Maire gave him an odd look, then signaled to Father Baldwin, who picked up the cat, which Rurik would swear was smirking, and held out his free hand for the boy. Rurik released him, but not before swatting the youthling on the arse. Wee-Jamie gave him a look over his shoulder so malevolent it would have done Stigand proud. Rurik would be sure to watch his back in the future, though. An attempt at retribution was sure to come from this grimy gremlin.

’Twas odd the way Maire acted concerning her son, as if she feared for his safety in his presence or that of the Vikings who served under him. Rurik shrugged. It was her decision. Besides, he had no particular inclination to have an unpleasant child underfoot.

But then Maire made a soft sound—half plea, half sob. “Jamie,” was all she said.

The boy heard, though. Turning, he pulled his hand from the monk’s grasp and rushed back into her open arms. Hugging fiercely, the two were giving each other small kisses and speaking of how much they missed each other.

Rurik had never had a mother, and his heart about broke to see these two together. With such a strong bond between them, their willingness to be parted for even a day puzzled him mightily.

In a moment, the boy and the monk were gone.

Suddenly, Rurik and Maire were alone once again, and everything was quiet in the clearing.

He looked at Maire.

Maire looked at him.

He put his hands on his hips.

She did the same.

You’d never know they had been moaning in each other’s mouths a short time ago by the expression of contempt on Maire’s face… a face that was, incidentally, rose-colored from the abrasion of his late-day whiskers. Her lips were still kiss-swollen, and there was a blood mark on the side of her neck from his sucking on her skin like a sex-starved youthling. But her eyes—
for the love of Freyja!
—her eyes were throwing green sparks of fire at him.

If Rurik were a betting man, he would wager now that Maire was not in the mood for resuming their love games.

He understood perfectly. He was having a few reservations himself about what had almost happened betwixt them. Oh, he was not averse to making love
with the witch, but he intended to do so on his own terms, not whilst careening dizzily from lack of control. Best he set the record straight, though, afore she launched into him with her usual shrew words.

“I do not much appreciate your ensorcelling me, witch,” he informed her haughtily. “Do not do it again.”

“Me? Me?” she sputtered. “ ’Twas you who put a spell on me. Just like that other time. Do not do it again.”

“I know naught of spells. That is your line of work. I am just a simple soldier.”

“Hah! There is naught simple about you, Viking.”

He chose to take that as a compliment. But before he could reply, Maire was stomping off, back toward her castle.

“Hey! Where are you off to in such a rush?” he asked, hurrying to catch up. “Did I not tell you that you are to go nowhere without me, or one of my guards?”

She said something under her breath that sounded as foul as the offal that spewed from her son’s mouth, and kept walking. But then she told him, “I’m going to the kitchens.”

“Since when do you work as a scullery maid, or cook’s helper? Would you stand still? I can’t keep up with you on these sharp rocks. I hope they’re not stones from burial cairns. I would hate to think I’m stepping on so many dead people.”

Maire ignored his complaints and answered his question. “I work everywhere in my keep. With the shortage of menfolk, I even mucked the stables last month.” She held up her work-roughened hand as illustration.
“In any case, it’s a special meal we are preparing for this evening.” Her eyes danced with mischief.

“Why?” he asked suspiciously, then swore as he stubbed his big toe.

“To celebrate the liberation of the snakes, I suppose. Or our liberation from the MacNabs. Or the beauty of a summer day.”

“Or mayhap to show hospitality to your Viking saviors?” he offered, just to tweak her. He had discovered early on that she was easily tweaked. And Viking men were ever so good at tweaking their women. “Or to thank one particular Viking for teaching you so much about love play?” He waggled his eyebrows at her.

Her only answer was a grunt. Really, the wench had no sense of humor at all.

He knew their situation was dire. The MacNabs could attack at any moment. Maire had done naught to remove his blue mark. If the situation did not alter soon, he might very well have to allow Stigand to lop off her head. And, meanwhile, the wench was turning
his
head and other body parts, with the mere twitch of her hips, or lips.

Still, there was no harm in trying to be a pleasant fellow. So, when he finally matched his pace to hers, he inquired, “And what might this special meal be?”

He should have known better. He really should have.

“Haggis.”

Hours later, Rurik walked into the great hall of Maire’s keep and surveyed the bustling activity that continued to transform the castle.

While he and all the men and boys had worked on the stone-and-timber walls, many of which were now back to their former condition, Maire had gone indoors to complete some much-needed cleaning. Apparently, recent months had afforded no time to keep up the interior of the castle. More urgent demands… like how to withstand the MacNabs … had taken precedence. But, no, the condition of the keep bespoke long-standing neglect, not just the past few months since Maire’s husband’s death.
Hmmm
.

Now old rushes had been raked out, dirt floors swept, and new fragrant rushes laid down. Rusted-out weaponry and shields had been taken down from the walls, and were out in the courtyard, where youthlings were honing and polishing them with sandstone and soft cloths to a glossy shine. Housemaids were scouring the wood trestle tables that had been folded up against the walls during the cleaning operation. And finely woven tapestries were being laundered in a side yard off the kitchen. He wondered who had done the tapestry in Maire’s bedchamber and reminded himself to ask her later. Even as he watched, an old woman carried a yoke with two buckets of clean water from the kitchen garden well.

He saw Maire giving orders like a Norse chieftain. She looked as exhausted as he felt. Pressing the heels of his palms to the small of his back, Rurik arched his shoulders back to remove the kinks of hard labor. There was a strange, immediate sort of satisfaction in working with one’s hands, and Rurik suspected that Maire was feeling the same way about the work she’d accomplished this day. He knew he was correct in his assumption when she glanced up and smiled at
him … before she remembered that he was her enemy, and turned her smile to a frown.

But he’d seen the smile. That was enough. He winked to let her know that he knew.

To his amazement… and delight… the wench made an obscene gesture at him.

Odin’s Blood! He was going to enjoy taming her… though not too much. A little taming, that’s all he wanted.

“What are you grinning about?” Bolthor asked, coming up to his side.

“A little taming,” Rurik disclosed.

Bolthor glanced from him to Maire, then back to him again. “Who will be taming whom?” Bolthor asked.

Rurik glared at his skald. “Did you come here for a reason, or just to provoke me?”

Bolthor smiled lopsidedly at him and scratched his head as if he was not sure. The dolt! But then he revealed, “Yea, I had a reason. The MacNab is waiting in the bailey to speak with you. He is unarmed and alone.”

“Well, why did you not say so?” Rurik scolded and rushed outdoors, but not before he heard Bolthor practicing a new saga, which started out with the usual “This is the saga of Rurik the Greater,” an introduction that made him cringe every time he heard it.

Rurik scowled at his skald. Bolthor merely shrugged and said, “It needs some work.”

“It needs scrapping,” Rurik muttered and stepped outside into the lowering sunshine. Evening would be approaching soon, and he and his men had not yet bathed or supped.

And there stood Duncan MacNab, cocky as a Sunday rooster, examining the work they’d done to reinforce the collapsing walls of the Campbell castle. If he bent over much farther, and his
pladd
rose much higher on his legs, Rurik was going to get more of a view of the Scotsman’s backside than he ever wanted.

Maybe Maire had been correct in keeping her son hidden if her enemy could enter her keep with such ease.

“Does it meet with your approval?” Rurik asked coolly as he stepped up to the man.

Duncan straightened, and being of roughly the same height as Rurik, met his gaze, eye to eye. Rurik made a concerted effort to look away from the single brow that stretched across the other man’s forehead and took in, instead, the clean, though unruly, mane of gray-flecked red hair that covered the MacNab’s head. He would not have been an unattractive man in his youth, but at fifty and more years, he was way too long in the tooth for Maire, in Rurik’s opinion. Not that Maire was actually considering the suit of the MacNab. Far from it.