The Viking's Captive (24 page)

O
h, the games lovers play!…

“Go right ahead, Tyra. Quaff down another horn of ale. But do not come to me later for an ale-head remedy.”

She made the most ridiculous yet enchanting face at him, which involved deep inhaling and exhaling and puffing out her cheeks … and drank some more.

“And whilst you are at it, take another deep breath like that, and you will be giving me and the rest of the world a full-blown view of your bare breasts.”

For some reason, Adam had taken a proprietary interest in Tyra’s breasts. He knew he was being unreasonable, but he did not like other men gazing upon what he considered his. In truth, jealousy was the least confusing of the emotions assailing Adam at the moment. Inner conflicts battered him at every turn.

He was repulsed by the idea of a woman who spilled blood for her life’s work. But he was attracted beyond all reason to Tyra, despite her being a warrior … or mayhap even because she was a warrior. Who could explain his splintering mind?

He wanted no lasting relationship with any woman. That would mean staying in one place, having children, responsibilities, a firm idea of where his future lay. Whereas he could scarce take care of himself these
days, let alone a bothersome female and even more bothersome children, like Alrek and his siblings.

He wasn’t sure he wanted to engage in the healing arts anymore, and yet here he was, seeing patients left and right. The decision seemed to have been taken out of his hands.

And that was the whole problem. He had lost control of his life. An untenable situation! A man should steer his own destiny … not a dying king, an interfering uncle, an outrageous warrior princess, an Arab insistent on giving him a harem, or a brood of bothersome bratlings.

“You certainly are in a grumbly mood,” Tyra responded to his tirade.

By now he’d forgotten what he’d said to make her think he was in a bad mood. Or was he just frowning overmuch?

“I thought you liked this gown.”

Oh,
that
bad mood. “I adore your gown. I especially adore what is nigh hanging out of it. Must you show it to one and all?”

She narrowed her eyes at him. Then she did what he should have expected … the exact opposite of what he’d suggested. She put both hands on the fabric at her waist and tugged downward.

“Bloody … damn … hell!”

Now the neckline of her crimson, wanton gown barely—just barely—covered the nipples and areolas of her breasts. He could not bring himself to glance out at the hall, but it was his guess that wagers were being placed all over the place: Would she or wouldn’t she? Pop out of the gown, that is.

“So, have you taken Drifa out to the stables yet to practice your wicked wiles?”

“What?” he practically squawked.
Where did that question come from? I did not even know I had wicked wiles in my repertoire. Well, mayhap I did know, but I hardly expected others to notice.

“You heard me, Saxon. I saw the two of you with your heads together, exchanging simpering smiles.”

Simpering? I do not simper when I smile. I definitely do not simper. Except mayhap when I look at you. Oh, I hope I do not simper when I look at you.
He set a very serious expression on his face and looked at Tyra.

“What were you and Drifa talking about? Kisses? Bed furs? Her beauty?”

“Herbs.” He grinned at her, finally understanding Tyra’s seemingly irrelevant questions. The warrior princess was jealous of his conversation with Drifa.

“Herbs?”

“Yea, she wants me to read my herb journals to her so that she can try transplanting some wild plants into her gardens for medicinal purposes. We arranged to meet tomorrow morn for just that purpose. You could join us, but I expect you will be off doing warlike things. Lopping off heads and such.” He flashed another grin her way, just to irritate her. A grin, not a simper.

“Adam, would you care to try a new delicacy I have invented … pig’s gizzards in dill sauce?” Ingrith had just come up and was holding out a small tray toward him, which held a hollow manchet loaf containing the concoction.

Tyra took the small knife from the shield at her waist and was about to spear one for herself when Ingrith smacked her hand. “They are not for you, sister. They are for Adam to try.” She smiled coyly at him. “I made some honey and walnut cakes for you, too, which are still cooling. They are a favorite of yours, are they not?”

“Huh?” he and Tyra said at the same time.

If he didn’t know better, he would think Ingrith was flirting with him.

“Why are you flirting with him?” Tyra asked.

No one could accuse Tyra of beating around the bush.

“Well, why not? You do not seem particularly interested. I assumed he was fair game. And Drifa said he is ever so nice.”

Fair game? Me? Nice?
He wasn’t so sure about being considered nice, but he rather liked the concept of being fair game. So he puffed out his chest and smiled warmly at Ingrith. He made sure it was a smile, not a simper.

Tyra used one of her big feet to stomp on his toes and murmured something about, “Lecherous, loathsome lout.”

“Ouch!” he said, pulling his booted foot up to rest on his knee and rubbing it with great exaggeration.

Just then Breanne walked up and sat down in the empty chair on his other side.

“Adam, I need your advice.”

Tyra made a most unflattering, masculine-sounding snort on his other side. She’d better not scratch her groin. He could not bear to picture her in the gown, which was temptation itself, performing lewd manly gestures.

He cocked his head, indicating Breanne should elaborate.

“I have been thinking about building a hospitium here at Stoneheim. What think you of the idea?”

“Do you have someone to man it for you?”

She batted her eyelashes at him.

Good Lord, another of Tyra’s sisters flirting with me! What is going on here?
“If Father Efrid and the midwife are willing to work in it, then I think it is a wonderful idea. I will not be here much longer, though.” He
wanted to make it absolutely clear to one and all that his stay at Stoneheim had not been his idea to begin with, and it would end as soon as King Thorvald recovered … or died.

“Planning on going somewhere, Saxon?” Tyra asked, slurring her words.

“Exactly how many horns of ale have you drunk?”

“Not enough, apparently. I can still see your leering face.”

Leering? First she says I simper, now I leer. The ale must be affecting her perceptions. ‘Tis past time for me to take the offensive here.
“Nay, I am not going anywhere soon … leastways, not till a certain pact is fulfilled.” He watched with great satisfaction as her face bloomed with color.

Then he turned his back on Tyra and began to discuss the potential hospitium project with Breanne in earnest. They ate and talked at the same time … about the size of the building, examining tables, chests, windows, its location … over dozens of dishes, each more elaborate or tasty than the previous ones. Ingrith truly was an artisan in the kitchen. Breanne was an artisan in her own way, and brilliant of mind. Not to mention being beautiful, both of them … Ingrith with her Norse blondness and Breanne with her redheaded Irish good looks.

It was some time before Adam turned back to Tyra, only to realize that the meal was over and the entertainment about to begin … and that Tyra had collected her own set of admirers. She was flirting, like her sisters, except not with him.
Dammit!

A Viking soldier by the name of Gunter, reputed to be the best swordsman in all Norway, was tugging on one of her war braids, teasing her about some saucy remark
she’d made earlier. The maids all swooned when Gunter walked by, but he was too pretty by half for a man, if you asked Adam … which nobody did of course.

Egil Iversson, another noted warrior, was asking her if she’d like to take a stroll with him about the ramparts. Egil’s
braies
were so tight you could see his prodigious maleparts. He was wearing an enlarged codpiece, no doubt. Beware of men in tight
braies,
that was Adam’s philosophy, which he would pass on to his daughters someday, if he ever had any daughters. Or mayhap he would pass it on to Tyra … once he was within ducking distance. Adam decided to follow Tyra’s suit and downed a horn of ale in one long swallow. He felt it all the way to his toes.

“Really, Tyra, you should come for a stroll with me,” Egil was saying. “There is something interesting I would like to show you.”

I’ll bet there is. What kind of stroll does the filthy fornicator have in mind? ‘Tis dark outside. And cold. I hope he freezes off his… codpiece.

“Nay, Tyra cannot go strolling with you. She promised to dance with me later.” ‘Twas Gunter the Peacock speaking now.

“I did?” Tyra appeared a bit disoriented, whether from the ale or the male attentions he could not tell.

Both men’s eyes kept straying to Tyra’s exposed bosom.

Adam tightened his fingers on the wooden arms of his chair to prevent himself from drawing his sword, which he’d unfortunately left back in his bedchamber … or perhaps fortunately.

“What kind of saucy remark did you make, Tyra?” he asked casually.

“She asked if I wanted to couple with her,” Gunter revealed in a gloating fashion.

“Also, she made an astute observation about the size of a woman’s breasts compared to the size of her brain,” Egil added.

Both men were still staring at her chest.

I have heard enough!

Apparently, not enough, for Bolthor came up just then and gave Tyra an adoring look from his one good eye. The giant skald looking adoring was a sight to behold … rather like a one-eyed randy bear. “I have a gift for you, my lady.” “For me?” Even Tyra appeared startled by Bolthor’s interest.

The poet nodded his head vigorously. “A praise-poem, written just for you. Wouldst like to hear it?”

Nay, nay, nay!

“Well, of course, Bolthor.” He would have liked to shake Tyra thoroughly, but her breasts would undoubtedly pop out.

“This saga is called ‘Lady in the Red Gown.’”
Uh-oh!

“That was truly awful,” Tyra murmured under her breath. But to Bolthor she said, “That was wonderful.”

“Would you like another?” He was gazing at her like a moonstruck calf.

“Perhaps later,” she said graciously. “Right now, me-thinks Ingrith is in need of a good saga. She is in the scullery, I believe, overtired from preparing this fine meal. Dost think you could cheer her up?”

Bolthor’s one eye lit up as if he’d just been handed a great treasure. “I know just the one. ‘Praise Be to Pork.’”

Well, Bolthor’s saga-saying had accomplished one thing, to Adam’s mind. Gunter and Egil were nowhere to be seen … for now, leastways. Adam had feared having to challenge them to a duel, or some such gruesome feat of challenge.

“You certainly handled Bolthor well,” Adam congratulated Tyra, trying for a pleasant tone.

“Go away,” she replied.

That rules out pleasantries.
Apparently, she was still upset with him, and he couldn’t even remember why. Oh, now he recalled. She thought he was flirting with her sisters.

“Tyra, dearling, I have no interest in your sisters.”

“Do I look as if I care? And do not call me dearling.”

“Yea, you do … dearling.”

“Well, I don’t. And stop, stop, stop with the endearments. It makes me feel as if I am just one of your women.”

“Women! For pity’s sake, Tyra, you already know, thanks to Rashid’s flapping tongue, that I have been chaste for two years. So, no women!”

“You can still
have
women without tupping them,” she persisted.

“I would like to bloody well know how,” he muttered. Best to change the subject. “It would be nice if you would reciprocate now, and say that you have no real interest in Gunter or Egil … or Bolthor.”

“I do have an interest in them. A huge interest.”

His shoulders sagged. “Why must you always be at cross-wills with me, wench? Can’t you be biddable just this once?”

“In fact, I have decided to share my bed furs with them.”

“All at one time?” he asked, barely stifling a laugh at her ludicrous lies.

Her eyes went wide. Obviously, she had no idea what she might do with three men in her bed furs at one time.

So, of course, he told her.

Her jaw dropped.

“Can we start over? Why don’t you say something saucy to me like you did to Gunter and Egil? ‘Tis unfair for you to say saucy things to other men and not me.”

She said something so vulgar and outrageous that he was speechless for a moment. It took saucy to a new level. He was spared having to react because of the shuffle of chairs and tables. Thank God! An entertainment had been planned for that evening. An open space was being created in front of the dais by moving the trestle tables and benches to the outer edges of the hall.

A number of people moved up to the dais—all the sisters, Rafn, Bolthor, Tykir, Alinor, and their oldest son, Thork. It was a better vantage point for watching, but there were not enough chairs. Tykir lifted Alinor onto his lap, resulting in a little shriek from her before she nestled sweetly into his embrace, and he motioned for Thork to sit at their feet, thus emptying a chair. Thork
was being punished for his wild shenanigans that day. Rafn sank into the empty chair and pulled Vana onto his lap. Vana just sighed, not even bothering to protest.

Do I dare?
Adam wondered, casting a sideways glance at Tyra.

Bloody hell, do I dare not?
he countered to himself, even as he stood, picked up Tyra by the waist, then sat back down with her straddling his lap, her back to his chest. Breanne immediately took the vacated seat, with Drifa and Ingrith sitting on either arm. The three of them smiled their thanks at him.