Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (16 page)

“I’m sorry to be tellin’ ye this, sweetheart, but yer buttocks
are
too big.”

“When ye eat haggis, yer breath stinks to high heaven.”

“Actually, I
don’t
like ta do it upside down.”

“The hair on yer legs is loathsome.”

“I didn’t muck out the stables when I said I did.”

“Truth be told, that rash on me male parts wasn’t really caused by a fall into a prickly bush.”

“To be honest, when ye sit on me in the bedsport, I canna breathe.”

“Yer nipples are too big.”

“Yer nipples are too small.”

“Ye have no nipples to speak of.”

Rurik put his face in his hands, trying to hide his laughter. This was the most outrageous thing he’d ever experienced in all his life. Maire might not be much of a witch, but when it came to getting even, she was the best. Finally, he swiped the tears of mirth from his eyes, and took her by the hand, pulling her away from the chaos she’d created.

She tilted her head in question.

“We are going to your bedchamber now, dearling,” he informed her. “If you are lucky, I might let you check whether I have been telling any lies lately.”

Rurik took Maire by the hand and tugged, hard. He wanted to leave her great hall…
now!

Truth be told, he was randier than a bearded billy goat in a herd of nannies. So strong was the instinct to rut that he feared he might just make a flying leap at Maire—
his very own nanny, for the love of Frey!—
except that he had no cloven hooves to break his fall if he missed his target. And the way his life had been going of late, missing his “target” was a very real possibility.

Maire would no doubt disagree on the cloven hoof part, though, since she was always likening him to a devil’s spawn.

Aaarrgh! Who cares if I am a goat or a devil? I must needs plant this rock hardness sprouting from my groin in a place that is hot and moist and welcoming, or die of wanting
.

But will Maire be welcoming?

Or hot?

Or moist?

He waggled a hand dismissively at his own internal questions.

I cannot attest to her outward reception, but she will be hot and wet
, he promised himself.
After that public challenge to my masculinity regarding orgasms, I will damn well make sure she is burning this time… and so sex-slippery we may very well slide off the bed furs. This I do swear… a blood oath to myself. My manhood is at stake here. Actually, you could say the reputation of all Viking men is being threatened
.

A niggling thought in his head suggested he might be overreacting. But another niggling thought said there was no such thing as overreacting when it came to a man and his most precious body part.

Rurik attempted to drag Maire from the great hall—and, yes, she was digging in her heels, finding one excuse after another to stop and talk to her people … discussing such important things as what time to start the bread dough in the morn, or how much cleaning up from the feast needed to be done yet tonight, or who should shovel out the middens come Monday morn.

“Stop pulling on me. I’m not a child,” Maire complained. They were halfway up the stairs that led to the upper floor and her bedchamber.

He stopped abruptly, and she slammed into his back. They both almost toppled over, but he stabilized them by releasing her hand and turning her so that
her back was braced against the wall… and he was braced against
her
.

A mistake, that.

A pleasure, that.

Too soon, that.

Belatedly recalling her last words, he rubbed himself against her with an agonizing sigh and breathed against her lips, “A child is the last thing I would call you, Maire.” Even that slight friction of his arousal against her belly, separated by layers of cloth, provided the most delicious pain … so intense he had to close his eyes and catch his breath, lest he embarrass himself… and her, too.

“Don’t do this, Rurik,” she pleaded on a moan, turning her head to the side.

“Do what?” he murmured against the soft curve of her neck, the exact spot where a pulse beat with sensual rhythm.

“Your punishment business.”

“Huh?” he said. Then he remembered. “Ah, Maire, I promise you will enjoy my punishment business.”

“Oh, what a lot of foolery you men do spout! As if I could enjoy—”

Rurik used a forefinger to tip her face forward and stopped her words with his mouth. From side to side, he moved his lips over hers till they parted. Then he groaned his raging need into her open mouth and deepened the kiss. Like a madman he was then, devouring her with his insatiable hunger. “You… taste … so … damned … good.”

At first, she tried to push him away with palms pressed against his chest. And then, midway between gentle, whispery kisses and thrusting tongue kisses,
she succumbed to the same passion that assailed him. Her arms wrapped about his shoulders and her mons pressed against the cradle of his hips.

“Rurik.”

He licked her lips and encouraged her to do the same to him.

“Rurik.”

She widened her mouth and allowed him deeper access.

“Rurik.”

He nipped her bottom lip in chastisement for her calling his name. Now was not the time for talking, whether it be protests or encouragement.

“It’s not me,” Maire gasped out.

“Rurik.”

Only then did Rurik realize that someone else was saying his name, and it was a male voice.

Inhaling and exhaling deeply to regulate his panting breaths, he pressed his forehead against Maire’s.

“Rurik.”

Turning to the right, with Maire still in his arms, Rurik noticed Bolthor standing at the bottom of the steps, shifting from foot to foot, as he beckoned.

“This better be urgent,” Rurik growled.

“It is,” Bolthor said, nodding his head vigorously. Then he tilted his head to the side and inquired, “Didst you or-gaz the lady yet? I hear tell there is a surefire way to spark a woman’s ecstasy involving feathers and—”

Rurik growled again.

Discerning that he treaded precarious waters by mentioning Rurik’s love skills, or lack thereof, Bolthor rushed quickly to the point. “Fergus, the sheep herder,
is beating Vagn to a pulp out in the courtyard. He thinks Vagn is Toste, who was actually the one what poked his daughter, Inghinn. Stigand keeps tryin’ to tell Fergus he got the wrong twin, but Fergus is a stubborn Scotsman, and you know how they are… thickheaded, when they’ve made up their minds, unlike us Vikings, what are open-minded and such. I had to hit Stigand over the head with a wooden shovel to keep him from beheadin’ Fergus. Broke the shovel, it did. And Nessa is threatenin’ to disembowel me whilst I sleep for hurtin’ ‘her poor wee Stigand.’ Can you imagine that?
Poor, wee Stigand!
Meanwhile, Toste is layin’ as if dead out in the stables—
drukkinn
, if you ask me—alongside Ian’s wife, Coira—she be
drukkinn
, too. If Ian finds out his wife’s been opening her thighs to Toste, there’s gonna be a war, I tell you. And Coira thinks she’s lyin’ with Vagn, or so I been told.”

Bolthor took a deep breath before adding one last statement, “And every man in the keep is lookin’ fer thread to measure his cock.”

Rurik stepped away from Maire. “How could so much have happened in the short time since I left the hall?”

“Well, ’tis not that short a while,” Bolthor answered. “Mayhap you’ve been diddling here on the steps longer than you think.”

“Diddling?” Maire choked out.

“Diddling?” Rurik choked out, too. Then, “Take Maire up to her bedchamber,” he ordered Bolthor, “and make sure you stand guard outside till I return. I’ll take care of Toste and Vagn. Stigand, too.”

“I need no guard,” Maire protested.

“You need a guard,” he assured her, leaning forward to give her one last, brusque kiss. “This night, above all others, I will not allow you to escape.”

Maire raised her chin defiantly. “You’re trying to scare me with all these ‘punishment’ threats, but I’m not afraid of you.”

“More the fool you,” he declared, already heading down the steps.

“You’re not as scary as you think you are. There is an old Gaelic proverb you would do well to memorize: ‘Great barkers are not biters.’ ”

God, the woman is daft to push me so. And believe me, I intend to bite her fair body
.

Over his shoulder, he heard Bolthor explain, as if an explanation was, necessary, “Methinks he intends to or-gaz you tonight. Since he hasn’t succeeded in the past—with you, that is—well, that
could
be scary.”

Rurik wasn’t sure if the gurgling sound came from himself or Maire.

Maire was desperate.

Hurriedly, she lit candles all about her bedchamber, preparing to perform a witchly ritual. This afternoon, when Rurik had returned to the keep after talking with Duncan MacNab, Maire had learned for the first time that her old mentor, Cailleach, might still be in Scotland. And tonight, when she’d been attempting a lévitation—
Blessed Mary! Have I ever been so humiliated in all my life?
—Maire had recollected some hazy words to a charm for calling forth a witch. So now she wanted to beckon Cailleach, if that was possible. Cailleach would know how to remove Rurik’s
blue mark, if anyone could. And if that could be done, Rurik would concentrate all his efforts on ridding the Campbell clan of the MacNab threat. Then he would be off to do whatever it was Vikings did … raping, pillaging, a-Viking, terrorizing innocent women with “punishments,” grooming themselves to be even more handsome than they already were. She would not care if she never saw the plaguish man again.

At least, that’s what Maire told herself… though, to be honest, he did give good kisses. Incredibly good kisses. Kisses so good, in fact, that some weaker-willed lasses might be tempted to sample the “punishments” he doled out… or the or-gaz-hims.

“Trobad, trobad
, Cailleach,” she chanted in Gaelic. “Come here, come here.” She tossed some herbs onto the dozens of candles burning about the room, causing them to flame higher and brighter. Over and over, she recited various Gaelic words and phrases, hoping that one would be the correct combination. The candle flames began to flicker and dance in an unnatural pattern. Was Cailleach’s spirit in the room already?

Going to a small pottery jar, she took a pinch of a powdery substance and placed a portion in each of the four corners of the room. “Eye of a twig, toe of a snake, I summon you, witch, a miracle do make.”

There
was
a presence in the room. Maire could feel it.

“A bheil sibh gam chluinntinn?”
Maire asked softly. “Do you hear me?” She was a little frightened because one never knew what dark force could be roused when dabbling in the dark arts.

A clap of thunder in the distance was Maire’s only
answer. Now, it could be an approaching storm, for the air was thick and humid. Or it could be Cailleach’s promise to come. Maire chose to believe the latter.

With a smile, she danced about her bedchamber, always on the alert for Rurik’s approaching footsteps, reciting all the old charms to cajole a witch to do one’s bidding. As she danced, scattering herbs as she twirled and skipped here and there, she began to remove her clothing, down to her linen shift, though she still wore her hose and heavy leather shoes. The room was becoming ungodly hot, and she was so tired.

She had every intention of blowing out all the candles and hiding evidence of her witchly practice before Rurik returned. She also had every intention of putting a lust-killing spell on the room. But first she needed to comb her hair.
Just for a moment
. Or sit down on the edge of the bed.
Just for a moment
. Or lay her head upon the pillow.
Just for a moment
. Or close her eyes.
Just for a moment
.

Unfortunately, all of Maire’s best intentions disappeared with the onslaught of an overwhelming weariness.

As she was drifting off to sleep, she heard a voice in her head say, “I’m coming, I’m coming, I’m coming …” She thought it might be Cailleach, except that there seemed to be many voices speaking to her. Was Cailleach changing her voice, deliberately, to fool some lurking fairies or trolls?

“Is that you, Cailleach?” she asked with a wide yawn.

The only response was a cackle.

A lot of cackling.

Surely, that was a good sign.

“Best you be careful, Rurik,” Bolthor told him. “There be a hell of a lot of cackling goin’ on in there.”

Cackling?
“Huh?” It had taken Rurik nigh on an hour to break up the fight in the courtyard, to placate Fergus, and to drag Toste out of the stables … not to mention waking Stigand and eliciting his promise that he would not lop off any heads during the night. Now, Bolthor spoke to him of…
cackling?
“Like chickens?”

“Nay, like witches.”

Rurik put his face in one hand and counted to ten for patience. Then he asked, “Did you go in and check?”

Bolthor stepped back and straightened his shoulders indignantly at the question. “Me? Get involved with witches and such? I… don’t… think … so! I’ve already got a shrinking manpart to worry about, and I only have one working eye as it is. I am not daft enough to chance some further spell that might imperil other body parts. Nay, I have performed my duties. I reported to you on the cackling, and that’s the end of my involvement.
You
investigate the cackling.”

With a grunt of disgust, Rurik waved Bolthor off to his sleeping pallet in the great hall and waited till he was sure the foolish man was gone. A few moments later, from the short distance down the stairway to the hall, he heard the skald say in an overloud whisper, “Stigand, wake up. I need a word that rhymes with
cackling.”

Stigand sleepily muttered a crude Anglo-Saxon word for fornication.

Even from up the stairs, Rurik could hear the affront in Bolthor’s voice as he replied, “That doesn’t rhyme, Stigand. Tsk-tsk! Good thing I am the skald, and not you.”

Rurik shook his head and smiled as he opened the heavy oaken door to Maire’s bedchamber. Instantly, he staggered backward at the intense heat that hit him. There were three dozen candles burning about the room. And the odor! Thor’s Toenails, the cloying scent in the air reminded him of a church in Jorvik where they burned incense as part of the services.