The Viking's Captive (14 page)

“Adorable? You think my scratching my private parts is adorable? I need to rethink my actions. I really do. Adorable is not the image I am trying to convey.”

He threw his head back and laughed. What a wonderful sound his laughter was! Warm and spontaneous and very, very sensual.

When he was done laughing at her, he pulled a mock-somber face and asked her the most unexpected thing: “Well, isn’t there some important question you have been yearning to ask me?”

She couldn’t imagine what he was referring to.

He stood and pulled her to her feet with him. An amazing feat in itself. She did not realize he had the strength.

“Don’t you want to ask me what I am wearing under my robe?”

When his mischievous comment finally penetrated the daze she was in, she blushed again, because, of course, she
had
wondered idly about that very subject. But a woman, and her pride, could stand only so much teasing. She pulled hard, and he released her hand. As she stomped down the rampart path, she heard the oaf laughing.

But she did not stop stomping, and he did not stop laughing … until he called out, “Nothing.”

And then he reminded her, “You owe me, sweet lady-warrior. Do not forget the kiss.”

As if I could!

A
nd so the new phase of his life began …

A “Psssssttt!”

Adam was about to step down the steep wooden stairs leading from the ramparts when he heard the hissing sound. Was it Tyra, having second thoughts about the kiss? Had she decided to give it to him now, rather than later? He smiled to himself, liking the idea of all this privacy for a kiss that he guaranteed would melt her bones.

His smile immediately faded when he saw that it was Rashid, not Tyra, who stood waiting around the bend.

“What are you doing, skulking about?” he snapped.

“Master!” Rashid exclaimed, clearly offended by his charge. “I have come to warn you—”

“Warn me? Of what? Has the king worsened?”

“Nay, nay, nay!” Rashid denied. “‘Tis another, uh, event I come to … hmmm, uh … warn you of.”

“Well?” he said testily. ‘Twas hard to go from thoughts of hot kisses, to a possible medical disaster, to whatever it was Rashid was hmmming and uhing about.

“Look over here,” Rashid said, leading him to a rampart wall that overlooked one of the courtyards below.

Rashid looked and saw a large group of people lined up outside the great hall doors. They were simple folk—cotters, soldiers, their families. He frowned his confusion
at Rashid, who was grinning brightly at him. That bright grin caused Adam’s frown to deepen.

“What do those people have to do with your
warning
me?”

“ ‘Tis a miracle, my lord.”

Oh, God! We are back to the lord nonsense. And I am sick to the soul of the miracle nonsense, too.
“Speak plainly, man.”

“News has spread already of your great medical talents, Master Adam. These people suffer various ailments that they want you to treat.”

Adam bowed his head. He had made much progress today, but he was not ready for this.

“Do not be afeared. I will tell them that you are overtired today from your work with the king, whom you must still watch closely. But may I be so bold as to suggest that in the morn you might begin seeing the sick?”

Adam raised his head, his nostrils flaring with anger. Rashid was pushing him.

“Just a few,” Rashid was quick to insert.

Sometimes Adam had to remind himself that Rashid, overbearing and annoying as he could be, was his friend. Rashid had his best interests at heart.

“A few,” he agreed.

And so, the next stage of his life began.

There are kisses and then there are KISSES!…

Adam trapped Tyra that evening.

She had been avoiding him all day, the threat of a kiss hovering in her mind. In fact, she had not even gone to the great hall for the nightly meal, no doubt an extraspecial production on Ingrith’s part to mark their father’s operation, even though they did not yet know what the outcome would be. He had not died; to the Viking mind, that was cause to celebrate.

Adam had spent much of the day in her father’s chamber, watching over him. Still, she had managed to avoid meeting up with him, there or elsewhere. Till now.

She’d been ambling from the scullery through the kitchen gardens to the outer back steps leading to the second floor and her bedchamber. On the way, she’d grabbed a hunk of flatbread and a stuffed pigeon. Then she’d stopped at the well for a ladle of water. She’d been sitting on the wide well bench, eating her tasty fare, interspersed with sips of the frigid water.

That was when the rogue had sprung his trap, coming up on her unexpectedly.

He dusted off the bench with a hand, then sat down beside her. An understandable action, considering the fine Saxon apparel he wore tonight. A tunic of wool in a shade of midnight blue … which matched his eyes, she could not fail to note. The tunic, embroidered at the edges with silver thread, was belted at the waist over black
braies
that hugged his form. His half-boots were of butter-soft calfskin.

She felt like a cow herself next to the resplendent creature that he was.

“Were you waiting here for me?”

“I was not.”

“You did not join us for dinner.”

“I was not hungry,” she said, then immediately realized her mistake, for she had a pigeon in one hand and a hunk of bread lying in her lap.

He laughed.

“It wasn’t because of you.” Another mistake.

He laughed some more.

“You have grease on your lips,” he remarked in a tone that was oddly husky.

She licked her lips.

He exhaled with a whoosh.

“What does that mean?”

“What?”

“The whoosh?”

“It means that you affect me greatly, my lady warrior.”

“Oh,” she said, but what she thought was,
Ooooh!

He reached out with a thumb. “You missed a spot.” He used his thumb to wipe a wide swath under her bottom lip, then put the thumb to his mouth and sucked. The whole time, he watched her, and she watched him.

For the love of a Valkyrie!
Tyra had never seen a man do such an erotic thing in all her life. She felt the effects of the gesture right down to the tips of her tingling fingers and curling toes, and some unmentionable places in between.

“Do not play with me, Saxon.”

“I like playing with you, Viking.”

“Stop now, or—”

“Or what?”

She had no idea what … because the impertinent, arrogant born-to-be-a-libertine was lowering his mouth toward hers. And she was frozen in place. Mayhap it was because she had a pigeon in one hand and a ladle in the other, but more likely it was because her lips had somehow parted of their own volition. She wanted his kiss. She wanted it badly.

“Tyra,” he whispered against her mouth just before his lips claimed hers. The man was proving to be a master at a number of things. Medicine, for a certainty. And now, kissing. She did not allow herself to ponder what other areas of expertise he might have.

He pulled back slightly to look at her. His eyes devoured her, searching for what, she did not know.

“Well, that was … nice,” she choked out.

“Nice?” he sputtered.

“So, now you have your thank-you kiss-token.”

“Hardly,” he said, even as he bracketed her face with his hands and drew her down to the wide bench with him.

The water ladle dropped to the ground with a thud and the pigeon flew in another direction … she hoped not into the well.

He shaped her mouth, he nipped her, he laved her with his tongue, then sucked at her. His lips were hard, demanding something of her. Finally he gritted out against her mouth, “Open.”

She did.

“Wider.”

She did.

Then, by all the gods and goddesses, he showed her what a man could do with his tongue in a woman’s mouth. The wetness … she should have been revolted; instead, she sighed inwardly at the delicious taste of him. The aggression … she should have shoved him off the bench; instead, she allowed him to take charge. The sinfulness of the thrusting action … she should have felt guilty; instead, she reveled in her first experience with a man’s lust for her.

Somehow, in the midst of this brain-muddling kiss, he moved himself atop her.

“Why do you whimper, sweetling?” he whispered against her ear.

Sweetling? He called me sweetling.
She could not keep herself from smiling against his neck. “I thought it was you that whimpered,” she whispered back.

He was leaving a trail of kisses along her jawline when she spoke. He laughed against her mouth and admitted, “Mayhap it was.” Then he resumed kissing her, and his hands … his wicked hands … moved everywhere on her. Everywhere.

Tyra loved the way he kissed. She loved the way he touched her, ravenously, as if he could not get enough of her. She loved the way he made her feel … feminine and desirable.

“Dost know what the best thing is about these insufferable
braies
you wear?” he asked her.

“What?” she asked, though she recognized the teasing mirth in his voice.

“This,” he answered, putting his hands under each of her buttocks, then twisting his ankles about her ankles and spreading both their legs wide. The result: his manhood was nestled firmly against her womanhood.

He gasped.

She gasped.

“Oh … my … God!” he said.

“Oh … my … God!” she said, too. Sometimes only a good Christian expletive would do.

Now when he resumed kissing her, she had the double pleasure of feeling him move against her
there.
Tyra thought she had died and gone to Valhalla, so intense was the pleasure.

The one time when she experimented and dipped the tip of her tongue into his mouth, he jerked against her. What a wonderful gift! To know that she … Tyra the Big … Tyra the Man-Woman … could have that kind of effect on a man like Adam … well, ‘twas nothing less than a gift from the gods.

“Why are they groanin’ so much?” a little boy’s voice asked.

“Are they makin’ a baby?” a little girl’s voice asked.

“Nay. You have to be naked to make babies,” a voice that could only be Alrek responded. “Leastways, I think that is the way it works.”

Tyra and Adam did indeed groan then. They turned as one, with him still lying flat atop her on the well bench.

It was Alrek, all right, with the baby Besji in his arms, sleeping apparently, her little head cradled against his shoulder. On either side of him were Tunni and Kristin.

Adam pressed his forehead against Tyra’s and seemed to be counting to ten. When he was done, he sat up gingerly. And she did the same.

“What do you want?” Adam demanded testily. Tyra could sympathize with his frustration.

“Rashid sent us to find you,” Alrek said in a shaky voice.

“He did? Are you sure?”

Tyra understood Adam’s confusion. Rashid knew what a nuisance these children were to his master.

“Tell me exactly what were Rashid’s words.”

“Well, he was in your bedchamber. Conductin’ inter … inter … interviews, I think he called ‘em.”

“Interviews?” she and Adam both said at the same time.

“Yea, and what a mess it was, too! Had a dozen women lined up outside in the corridor, he did.”

“Interviews for what?” Adam asked through gritted teeth, though he and Tyra both knew the answer.

“Yer harem. We wuz helpin’ him with the interviews. Openin’ and closin’ the door, holdin’ back the pushy ones. When we kept askin’ him questions, that’s when he said, ‘Why do you not go hunt for Master Adam?’ What does buxom mean, anyhow? And belly dancin’? I have heard of dancin’ round the Friggsday bonfire, but belly dancin’ … I jist can’t picture it.”

Adam stood abruptly and began to stalk away. “I am going to kill the man, I truly am.”

The children were staring after him, worried, no doubt, that they had said the wrong thing. Tyra, on the
other hand, had her palm pressed over her mouth, stifling a laugh.

Just before he reached the outside staircase, Adam halted and turned. Pointing a finger at her, he asserted, “You and I have unfinished business.”

Tyra didn’t even bother to disagree.

In truth, she couldn’t wait.

Harems, anyone? …

Adam had to shove his way through two dozen milling women—the number appeared to be growing by the minute—to get to his bedchamber.

I am going to kill him. Forget about my newfound dedication to healing. I am going to kill him.

As he opened the door a crack, he heard Vana the White—
Tyra’s very own sister, for the love of God!—
asking, “Does it matter if a new harem houri is a … a … virgin?” The last word came out on a mortified whisper.

I am going to kill him.

“Nay, it matters not.” Rashid was waving a hand airily. The other hand held a parchment on which he’d presumably been taking notes on the harem candidates. “There is an ancient Arab proverb regarding this very thing. ‘Virginity is like a blister. Once pricked, ‘tis gone forever.’” Then he smiled widely, enjoying his own wisdom, no doubt.