“What?” She eyed him suspiciously.
“You were a joy in the bedsport. Your pleasure was my pleasure.”
“For the love of Frigg!” she muttered, her face flaming at his discussing their intimacy.
“Furthermore, what we did last night was just a foretaste of the meal to come. Mayhap whilst we are atop the mountain today. Make sure to bring a blanket. On the other hand, sex on the pine needles has a certain attraction.”
Her beautiful violet eyes went wide. “In the daytime? You would not dare.”
“I would dare, for a certainty.” And now that you raise the question, I must needs consider it a challenge. Is there a Viking alive who can ignore a challenge?
“Another perversion!”
“I am a man, Medana. A man likes to see what he is doing.”
He thought she called him a loathsome lout as he was leaving. For some reason, that “endearment,” coming from her, gave him pleasure.
Wine: a rogue’s best friend . . .
Medana was panting for breath, lagging far behind Thork, by the time they reached the top of the mountain late that morning.
Could be because he’d forced her to wear a plain russet gunna that dragged on the ground—“more womanly,” he claimed—and hauled a blanket over her shoulder like a sack containing various food stuffs—how long does he expect us to linger?—or could be because she’d had so little sleep the night before—and doesn’t that conjure images I do not want to ponder?
He, on the other hand, wore the tunic and braies he’d arrived in, which had been laundered by the women. A leather tunic, the fabric of which had been tanned and dyed to a supple brown smoothness molding his wide shoulders and narrowing to a wide leather belt that emphasized his waist and hips. The same fabric had been used for his slim braies, but dyed black. His boots, cross-tied up his calves, must have cost a fortune. His dark blond hair was clean from the previous night’s bath; its healthy sheen gave off golden hues in the sunlight. And, of course, there were those remarkably green eyes that seemed to sparkle with mischief, and other things, when he chanced to look her way.
He was Viking male at his virile prime.
Best she beware lest he lure her in with all his roguish talents.
When they got to a small clearing amid the trees that was used by the Thrudr guardswomen to watch the sea, they saw Effa, an older woman, armed with a short sword, who stood waiting for them, her weapon aready.
“Go back to the village, Effa, and do not return until you get orders to do so,” Thork told the guard.
Effa raised her chin in defiance and looked to Medana for confirmation.
Medana nodded and said in a gentler fashion, “Do as you are told, Effa. We will stand watch for a while. Tell Gudron you have my permission to return.”
“Are you sure, mistress?” Effa asked. “He looks like a scoundrel who might do you harm.”
Thork arched a brow. “Me? A scoundrel?” he asked with a pure scoundrelish purr.
Before he could say, or do, something more, Medana interjected, “I will be fine,” although she was not altogether certain of that fact.
Reluctantly, Effa stomped off.
Medana dropped her bundle close to the fire ring though there would be no need of a fire today. Thork dropped his own bundle as well and told her, “Rest here for a while. I want to explore the area.” The sun was shining brightly overhead and while she would have relished a short respite, Medana was curious to see what he was looking at. So she followed after him.
Some days, when the skies were overcast, a mist hung over the mountaintop and visibility was nonexistent. But today, skies were clear, and Small Island was a big dot down below.
“Hedeby is in that direction, is it not?” he remarked, pointing south. “And my father’s estates in the Norselands are to the north, the other way, correct?”
She nodded both times.
“It must be brutal cold here in the winter.”
“It can be. The first winter, I thought I would die of frostbite. We could never keep a fire going. And the wood we gathered was green, not seasoned enough to burn steadily. We learned, though. And now we start gathering firewood in the spring. By the time of first frost, we have enough stacked up to last two winters.” She knew her voice was prideful, but then she and her women had suffered enough to deserve a little pride.
“And the two old hags down there with their bear protector?”
Medana smiled. “Hags” was probably an accurate description, and their dog Bear did resemble a small bear. “That is Sigrun and her daughter Salvana. They lived on Small Island long before we arrived, subsisting on the barter of fresh water in rain barrels to passing seafarers. They also provided a message service. In return, they were given all the products they needed to survive . . . food, clothing, and whatnot. After we came, they partnered with us, but chose to remain on their own island, except when fierce storms flood their home, which they do on occasion. Then they come through the tunnel to stay with us.”
“Why don’t they just stay here? Less of a chance of passersby discovering your existence.”
“I do not know their history, but I suspect it was horrid. They choose to be by themselves. And believe me, Bear is more of a protection than you might think.”
“I can imagine. I had a dog one time. Foolheart, I called him, because he had no fear at all. Foxes, wild boar, even bears. A beast with more bravery than good sense. When he was a puppy, he nigh knocked himself unconscious trying to butt heads with one of my mother’s favorite rams. As he got older, he had more nicks and bruises, including half an ear and a bent tail.”
Sounds like some Vikings I know. She heard the affection in his voice, despite his deprecating words. “Where is your dog now?”
“I have no idea. He stayed behind when I left Dragonstead. He would be old now, for a dog. No doubt, dead.”
Her heart ached for Thork. Over a dog? She should guard herself if she was softening toward him so easily.
Luckily, he changed the subject. “You keep guards up here to watch for coming ships, don’t you?”
She nodded. “And on other sides of the mountain, as well. Usually, we have at least a half day’s notice on a clear day, such as today. Or if sea vessels are spotted on the opposite side of Thrudr, it can be almost a full day before they make the bend and approach Small Island.”
They turned back on the path atop the dense woods and made their way back to the clearing.
“I hear you are betrothed,” she remarked.
He was as surprised by her comment as she was that she’d blurted it out. Instead of answering he asked, “Where did you hear that?”
“Here and there.”
“Well, your informant was only half right. I intended to become betrothed after visiting my father and gaining his approval. No final betrothal agreements were made.”
“But the woman was picked out and everything.”
“Not everything,” he said with a smile. “There was no consummation of the betrothal.”
Hmm. ’Twas the practice for many a couple especially anxious to be wed, and not frowned upon at all. Merely a sealing of the vows of promise. That was one of the reasons she feared the reaction she would get to claims of being raped by her betrothed. “Were you tempted?”
Thork glanced at her with surprise.
She’d surprised herself by asking such a lackbrained question.
“Why all these question about a betrothal that has naught to do with us?”
“Does it not?” She shrugged. “Just curious.”
He was not convinced of that, she could tell. “But, if you must know, nay, I was not tempted. Berla is comely enough, but very young. I am certain in time I would be tempted, though.”
“Would you have set up a home in Hedeby?”
“Good gods, nay! My father years ago set aside land adjacent to Dragonstead for me. I could settle my bride there.”
“Settle your bride? You mean, settle you and your brid
e, don’t you?”
“Well, I would go a-Viking, or harvesting amber, or become a merchant Viking. Betimes, I would return home to my estate—”
“In other words, you would continue on as you always were. Free to do as you will, whilst your wife keeps the home fires going?”
“And breeds babies,” he said with a twinkle in his rascal eyes. “You make much ado over what is the usual marriage practice.”
“An arrangement, then?”
“I suppose you could say that.”
“Just like mine with Jarl Ulfr.”
He cast her a disapproving scowl. “Not the same at all. It would be a clear choice on both our parts.”
“How do you know it was a choice on her part? How do you know if her father was forcing her to his will, for his own purposes? How do you know—”
“What does any of that matter now? There will be no wedding, thanks to your interference.”
“One more question. Did your mother and father have such an arrangement when they married?”
“Nay, they did not. Crazy in love, they claimed to be, and still are. Really, you would be embarrassed to be around them, Medana. Even at their advanced ages, they are always touching and kissing and saying the most outrageous intimate things to each other, in front of one and all.”
“I think that’s rather nice.”
“Pfff!”
They had arrived back at the small clearing and she stood staring at him. She’d lost him his bride. She did not like feeling guilty over yet another thing because of her actions, or those of her women. “Mayhap I could go to her father in Hedeby and explain the circumstances, or I could write another letter to your father, this time explaining that none of this was your fault.”
“Don’t you dare!” He swatted her on her bottom with an open palm. “Enough of your meddling, wench! Help me stretch out this blanket so that we can break our fast. I have not eaten at all since last night, and I am very hungry.” The look he gave her then was one of hunger, all right, but not necessarily for food.
After they spread out the blanket, having to kick aside some stones that would be lumpy or even sharp underneath, she unloaded the vast amount of food he’d brought . . . slices of ham and bread; some hard-cooked eggs; skyrr, the soft cheese favored by Vikings; a bunch of grapes; and two peaches.
Thork undid the bung on a large skin of some beverage that he held to his mouth and drank deeply. Surely not “Adam’s ale” or water. More likely real ale or mead. “Mmmm. Good!” He handed it to her then and said, “Drink. You may need this.”
She didn’t like the gleam in his eyes as he extended the bag to her. Still, she was thirsty after that long trek up the mountain. She took a drink, then exclaimed, “Wine! This is the prized Frisian wine I was saving for a special occasion, and you were chugging it down like water. ’Tis meant to be sipped.”
“I consider this a special occasion.” He motioned with his hand for her to drink more as he folded himself down onto the blanket and began to open the packets of cheese and bread.
She took another sip. It was delicious, of course, but it should be, considering its cost. Actually, it hadn’t cost them anything, other than the effort in pirating a wealthy merchant’s estate in the Irish lands last year.
“More,” he insisted, taking a big bite out of a slice of ham. “I mean it, Medana, drink or I will pour it down your throat.”
Swearing silently, she took several big swallows before wiping her mouth with the back of her hand, then setting the leather bag carefully onto the edge of the blanket. After sitting down herself and tucking her legs sideways with the gunna covering her completely, she nibbled on a piece of manchet smeared with skyrr. “Why is it so important to you that I get drukkinn?”
“Not drukkinn. Nay, that would not be good. But relaxed, that is what you need.”
She declined to ask him why, fearing what he would answer.
But he told her, anyway. “Wine is a thigh spreader for many women.”
She gasped. “What an obnoxious thing to say!”
He shrugged. “A man uses all the tools at his disposal. If I had the case of feathers my father gifted me, I would employ those.”
She definitely was not going to ask about that.
But all this nonsense was beside the point. Medana was never one to avoid unpleasantness, and it was past time she got the rogue to discuss his plans for Thrudr. “We should probably settle several matters afore we do this . . . uh, thing.”
He extended the wine bag. She drank again and handed it back to him. She noticed he was taking only one drink for every two of hers. And while he’d initially taken a long draw on the bag, he was only sipping now.
“This . . . uh, thing . . . will happen regardless. Why spoil the day with useless chatter?”
Rude oaf! “I do not consider the fate of our longship useless chatter.”
“Are you done eating?” he asked.
Definitely rude! “I suppose.”
He yanked the remaining bread and ham from her hand and began to tuck everything away in the cloth bag. Gulping, she took a long swig from the wine bag, without being ordered to do so. Best she be careful or she would be too weak to even stand, let alone do whatever he intended for her.
He did not even glance her way when he said, “Stand and take off your gunna.”
“What?” Her eyes darted here and there. The sun was so bright. He could not really expect . . .
“Or mayhap you need more wine,” he suggested.
“I have had more than enough wine. My brain feels fuzzy as it is.”
“Fuzzy is good.” He leaned back on his elbows. “Come now, Medana. Show me what I have bartered for in this negotiation.”
“Can’t we wait until it’s dark?” Or never?
“Would you rather I undress you?”
“Nay!” He would probably touch her in inappropriate places in the process. She stood, shakily at first, and fiddled with the twisted rope belt at her waist. “Shouldn’t you undress, too?”
“You first.”
“I do not see why we have to undress at all,” she grumbled.
“Oh, Medana, you have so much to learn. And here is some good news. I am an excellent teacher.”
Dropping the belt to the ground, she toed off each of her leather slip shoes and with a sigh of resignation, lifted the gunna by the hem up and over her head. She would not look at him as she stood in her chemise, nigh transparent from so many washings.
When he was silent for too long, she glanced his way and saw that he was sitting now, alert as a dog on scent. His eyelids were half mast, his cheeks flushed, and his lips parted. She might not be experienced in the sex arts, but she recognized the expression on his face. It was pure lust. “Undo your braid and finger comb your hair out, over your shoulders,” he said in a voice raw with male lust.
She did as he’d asked and noted the way his nostrils flared and his hands fisted as he tried to contain his passions. But the one-sidedness of her standing almost nude with him lying there totally clothed struck her as an act of humiliation, and, although she did naught to shield her intimate body parts, tears welled in her eyes.
He was on his feet immediately. Standing before her, he tipped her chin up and asked, “What is amiss?”
Is he dense? “Everything, you big nasty troll! You seek to prolong my agony by mortifying me.”
“I do not!”
“Why am I naked and you are not? To take away all my pride, that is why. There is inequality in our positions.”
“If that is the problem, I can resolve it faster than you can blink.” He unclothed himself with such speed she knew he’d done it many times before. But now, because of her complaint, she was faced with a nude—and very aroused—Thork. “Now we are unequal but in the opposite way. You are clothed and I am not.”
“Hah! I do not call this being clothed.” She glanced at him and saw that he’d been teasing.
“Another problem easily solved,” he said, an
d drew the chemise up and over her head.
Medana looked at his face. She dared not look lower, not at his body or her own.
“Why did you feel humiliated to stand before me almost nude? Did you not know that I was admiring your body? Sex engages all the senses: touch, taste, smell, hearing, and sight.”
Medana couldn’t begin to imagine what he meant by that. Really, from her own limited experience, and from what she’d heard her women say, sex was not a long, drawn-out affair. Yea, some men bothered with a little kissing or fondling, and some women did appear to enjoy the coupling, but in the end it was just a bodily function.
She drew herself up straight on a deep inhale and asked him, “What do you want from me, Thork?”
He gazed at her, let his eyes drift over her body, from her mouth to her curling toes, then held eye contact with her before saying, “Everything.”
And, gods help her, in that moment, Medana wanted that, too.
Chapter Fifteen
She was a scream . . .
Medana, the female pirate, was, in fact, a goddess.
To Thork, leastways.
Tall, slim, with a narrow waist flaring out to womanly hips. Above and below, light blonde curls sparkled in the sun. Her breasts were perfect half globes of polished ivory with pale rose centers. Her incredible violet eyes fringed with thick, darker blonde lashes only added to her allure. And, damn his twisted soul, but he admired her stubborn hands-on-hips, legs-spread battle stance, too.
“Can I look at you?” he asked.
“You are already looking.”
“More. I want to examine all of you.”
“And if I say you nay?”
“I will just sneak peeks when you are not looking.”
“Odious oaf!”
“Willful wench!”
“Randy rogue!”
“Delicious delight!”
Her eyes shot up to catch his gaze, and her lips trembled slightly with uncertainty. She had no conception of her own comeliness, he knew that. By the time he was done with her, though, she would know. That, he promised himself.
“Cunning charmer!” she tossed out belatedly.