by Sandra Hill
“Now. You want to talk now?”
“Not now, sweetling. In the morning. I cannot wait to hear where you were all day and why you are associating with witches.”
He yawned loudly, and, like many men after sex, fell into a deep sleep, his warm, even breaths feathering against her hair, one arm on the pillow they shared, the hand of the other arm pressed against her belly.
She kept her eyes open for a long time, too hyped up to sleep. So many questions. So many problems. And the biggest one was plastered against her back, snoring softly in her ear.
How could so much have happened to her in such a short time? Had she really time-traveled? If so, was it a God miracle kind of thing, or some wrinkle in the stratosphere science kind of thing? And what if she couldn’t go back? That would take a huge readjustment for her, and she wasn’t sure she could ever accept such a destiny.
That brought her back to her biggest problem.
She wasn’t sorry she’d made love with Steven. It had been too delicious, and that was an understatement. Despite his chauvinism and primitive thinking, she felt an odd, irresistible connection with him. Not love. Of course, she wasn’t in love with him. She barely knew him. But what if he was “the one”? Presumably there was a soul mate for every person on the planet. And what if she had to leave him? Or worse, what if she was given the choice to either stay with him or go home?
Wiggling her body to get more comfortable, she decided to take one day at a time. If this day had turned out so well for her, she couldn’t wait to see what was in store for her tomorrow. Their lovemaking had to be a turning point in their relationship.
Would he waken her with kisses?
Or would he want to stay in bed all day?
Turns out, neither was on his damned Viking agenda.
Chapter 12
He en-thralled her . . .
Steven was sated and happier than he had been in years. That’s why he hated what he was about to do, but it had to be done.
Besides, it was important for a man to let the woman know what was what, right from the beginning . . . to start as he intended to go on. There were rules of conduct, unwritten but important nonetheless. A woman did not make a man look the fool in front of his comrades without some repercussions.
Rita was a visitor to his land. It would be difficult for her to understand their ways. So he must be gentle in enforcing his will on her.
For about the thousandth time, he wished that Thorfinn were still here, master of the Norstead jarldom. In the old days, as a follower rather than a leader, Steven had been free to do as he wished with no thought to how it would look to others.
Truth to tell, it was lonely at the top.
“Time to get up, sweetling,” he said, nudging Rita’s foot from where he stood near the bottom of the bed.
She opened her eyes slowly, still not fully awake. And what a sight she was! Lying on her back, with her unrestrained arms raised above her head, she had puffy lips, swollen from his numerous kisses . . . very numerous kisses; there were whisker scratches on her face and neck and no doubt other body parts, and her short hair was sleep-mussed . . . or was it sex-mussed? Anyone who saw her would know what she had been doing not once but throughout the night.
Perverted though it might be, he liked putting his mark on her. That puzzled him until he came to a conclusion. ’Tis an outward sign that she is mine.
“You’re up,” she said sleepily, stretching with a yawn that caused the linen sheet to fall and expose her breasts, where there were more signs of his possession.
He had to restrain himself from crawling back into bed with her, but he had much to do today. Duties that could not be postponed.
“And you’re dressed. Not only dressed, but you shaved,” she accused him. “What’s up? Is it late?”
“Nay, but I must needs be below stairs afore my men break fast. With the Althing in only a few days, much needs to be finalized. Then I have to supervise a short jarl court. Horses need to be prepared for my meeting with Brodir on the morrow. And my men must do their daily exercises in war skills. All that afore noon.”
She nodded her understanding. Then, smart woman that she was, asked, “What about me?”
“You will be at my side this entire day.”
“That’s nice,” she said, smiling. Her smile soon faded. “Why? Because you think I’ll run away?”
He shrugged as if that were a possibility, though it was not the main reason.
“Let me assure you, Steven, I will not leave Norstead without informing you first. That is a promise.”
You will not leave Norstead at all. That is my promise. ’Twas not the time to raise that particular issue, he decided.
“What’s that?” she asked, pointing to the garment laid out on the bed.
“A gunna.”
“It looks like burlap. You’re giving me a burlap dress to wear?”
“ ’ Tis homespun.”
“I’ll wear my tunic and tights today.”
“Nay, you will not.”
She tilted her head to the side, studying him. “What are you doing?” She had just noticed the leather necklet in his hand, which he was attaching to a long, thin chain.
His face heated, but he could not be weak. This must be done. “I am fixing a leading string . . . leading chain, actually . . . onto a thrall collar.”
“Thrall? That means . . .” She frowned with confusion. “. . . slave. Doesn’t it?” As understanding seeped in, her face fell, and she gasped as if he had punched her in the stomach.
He could not be moved.
“You intend to put a slave collar on my neck and lead me around like a dog?” Her voice was shrill with hurt and outrage.
“ ’ Tis just for one day.”
“No!”
“’Twill not be so bad. Mostly, you can hold the chain yourself when I am otherwise occupied.” Like when I visit the garderobe. “ ’ Tis symbolic, that is what it is.”
“Symbolic of what? Your domination? You, the big bad Viking? Me, the lowly servant?”
“Nay, ’tis not that at all. You left Norstead yestermorn and did not inform anyone of your whereabouts.”
“I told you. There’s an explanation. Sigge took me to visit her aunts, and it was farther away than I realized.”
He ignored her words. If he started discussing those half-wit witches with her, they would be here all day. “Listen and listen well, m’lady. All of Norstead and surrounding jarldoms watched and speculated. Everyone thinks you deserted me, just like Luta, the traitorous bitch, did Thorfinn. They whisper that I have no control over a mere woman. Therefore, my leadership will be questioned.”
“You have no idea how chauvinistic you just sounded.”
“If I knew what shove-nis-tick meant, I might be offended.” Now he was getting frustrated. Why could the woman not be sensible? Why must she be at cross wills with him at every turn?
“It means unfeeling, woman-hating pig.”
“Dost really think insults are wise, Ree-tah?”
“Steven, don’t do this. Not after . . . not after all that we just did.”
“That would be even worse . . . if I let my cock rule my brain.”
“What else is new? That’s the case with most men.”
“Your sarcasm is ill-timed.”
“Okay, I can see that your pride is in question, and that you need to show you’re the big chest-thumping caveman, but isn’t there some other punishment? Put me back in the cage again.”
“You burned the cage.”
“Build another one.”
“No time.”
“Lock me in this room all day.”
“You would just sleep the day away. What punishment is that?”
“I would be bored to death with nothing to do. Not even a book to read.”
“Nay, it will be as I say.”
“I won’t do it. You’ll have to force me.”
“I could do that, but I would rather not.”
“If you do, I’ll scream insults at you all day. I’ll say you have the sexual prowess of a slug. I’ll tell everyone that you have a needle dick.”
He barely stifled a grin. “Then I will put a gag in your mouth.”
“You wouldn’t!” Her eyes welled, and one fat tear slid down her face, which she swiped with the back of her hand.
“For the love of Thor! Stop with the tears. Weeping will gain you naught.”
“I’m not crying. Don’t you dare think I’d shed a tear over you. I’m just so mad, venom is leaking out of my eyes. It will probably be bubbling out of my ears and nose pretty soon.”
That was the most outlandish thing he had ever heard, and this time he could not help himself. He threw back his head and roared with laughter. “Ah, sweetling, can we not at least compromise?”
“Do not call me sweetling. I am not your sweetling or dearling or any other endearment.”
“Yea, you are.” And heartling, too, come to think on it.
“In your mind, I am a slave.”
You are the damnedest slave I ever met. “Just for today.”
“First bondage. Then slavery. What next?”
How would I know? I am as much a puppet in this time-travel charade as you. “You forgot making love until my eyes rolled back in my head and my cock nigh melted from your heat. You cannot say you did not enjoy our bedsport.”
“You are crude.”
“Good sex can be crude.” In fact, the cruder the better.
She made a growling sound of frustration.
Going to Luta’s chest, he pulled out a gown, one of the ones she had ordered from the Franklands: blue silk edged with gold braid. “Wear this then. No one will think you are a slave in this gunna.”
“Would I still be wearing that dog collar?”
He nodded. Would that you were a dog . . . a docile dog . . . just for the day!
“No.”
If my men heard her refusal to do my bidding, they would be suggesting I lop off a body part. “We are wasting time here. Do as I say.”
“No.”
Enough! He picked her squirming body up off the bed and was about to dress her himself while she screamed and scratched. “You will hurt yourself, Ree-tah. Desist!”
“I would rather die.”
“You are not going to die, and you are not going to leave me again.”
“I did not leave you. I told you—”
“Stop! We will not rehash that tale of your transgression. Have you no room for compromise?”
She stilled. “Let me wear the tunic and pants.”
“And then you will accept the collar?”
“I will never accept the collar, but you can force it on me without my scratching your eyes out.”
“How will this be any different from wearing Luta’s gown?”
“The boy’s outfit is mine. My choice.”
“Ah, an act of defiance.”
“Whatever.”
When she had donned her boyling attire and he had attached the collar, he opened the door and began to lead her by the chain out into the corridor. Her prideful chin was raised so high, she might very well get a nosebleed.
He tried once more to appease her sensibilities. “Ree-tah, you have to understand that it is our way here in the Norselands. If a man does not have his reputation, he has naught.”
“And a woman? What about her reputation?”
In truth, he had never thought on that.
“Just so you know, Steven, I will never forgive you for this.”
“Never is a long time.”
He could only hope he would have a long enough time to seduce her, winning himself back into her good graces.
The man really yanked her chain . . .
Rita was devastated by Steven’s turnabout from lover to master and humiliated beyond belief. So, when the first person they ran into was Oslac, she was not in a good mood.
Oslac looked first at her face and neck exposed by the collarless tunic, where he probably saw whisker burns and a hickey, if the smirk on his face was any indication. If he could have done a high five with Steven, he probably would have. Then he took in the slave collar and chain and broke out in gales of laughter.
“Oslac,” Steven warned.
But Oslac just continued to laugh. “Oh, this is perfect. Your very own pet sea woman on a chain. Will you show her off thus at the Althing?”
“ ’ Tis only for today.” Steven’s face was turning red. Why he should blush was beyond Rita. She was the one who was embarrassed and getting madder by the minute.
“You know, Oslac, I’ve developed some witchy friends,” she said. “I’m thinking I should call your beloved wife back from the dead to get your life back in shape.”
“You would not!” Then, glancing at Steven, he added, “She could not, could she?”
Steven shrugged.
Oslac told Steven then, “I think you should let me take my sword in hand and stab her black heart. Be done with her once and for all.”
“I think you should let me take your sword, Oslac,” she said sweetly, “and stick it where the sun don’t shine.”
At first, he didn’t understand, but Steven did, because he was grinning like she was his very own performing monkey as he did a bit of mock tsking at her.
She didn’t know when her language had deteriorated into the gutter so badly. It wasn’t her norm, and she didn’t like it one bit. She vowed to clean up her act, in that regard anyway.
Oslac walked beside Steven, with her trailing behind the two of them, like a squaw. Or a slave. She gritted her teeth, warning herself to pick her battles, of which there were sure to be plenty this day.
As they moved down the center aisle toward the high table, dozens of men were coming into the great hall, some engaging in jaw-cracking yawns, a few breaking wind, others scratching intimate body parts, as if all were manly morning rituals. Serving women were bustling about putting trays of flat bread, mounds of butter, small pots of honey, slices of leftover meats, hard cheeses, porridge, stewed fruits, and pitchers of milk as well as ale on the long trestle tables. The men carried their own cups or horns for drinking.
Her slave collar and chain caught all their attention. Some of the men nodded their approval to Steven, some chuckled and made lewd remarks amongst themselves, some looked downright angry, considering her punishment too lenient. Not a one was on her side, not even the women who passed by on their daily business.
And especially not Lady Thora, who was swanning into the hall like a queen, followed by two of her minions, women Rita had seen in the sewing solar. Rita just knew the bitch . . . Oops, I vowed to clean up my language . . . the mean-spirited lady would have something to say to her, and it wouldn’t be nice.
When they sat down at the high table, her bracketed by Steven and Oslac, Thora on Oslac’s other side, Steven asked, “What would you like to eat?”
He was being overly polite, but then he ought to be. The brute!
“Orange juice, coffee, a Spanish omelette, buttered toast, and home fries.”
He blinked at her, then slapped a hunk of the flat manchet bread on a wooden platter, a slice of bloody meat, probably lamb, but it could be venison, and a beverage. “Eat,” he ordered, the glare on his face intended to intimidate her.
She took a sip of the beverage, then spat it out. “Beer for breakfast? Warm beer at that.”
Steven just turned away from her and spoke to the man on his other side, Arnstein, the steward, who was discussing work to be done within the keep in preparation for the Althing, the open-air assembly of free men from many districts called to settle disputes. “Hunters will go out today for fresh game. Reindeer were sighted near the north peak yestereve, and there are always wild boars in the forest. Some of the boylings will check traps for rabbits and other small game. Fishermen will surely have good catches at this time of the year . . . turbot, sea trout, bass, lamprey . . . and Cook has asked for a goodly number of eels for her eel pies.”
Steven nodded and patted Arnstein on the shoulder. “Well done, my friend.”
“Bed linens and furs have been prepared for those who will sleep inside, both in the chambers and the bed closets,” Arnstein added. “But . . . um, I was wondering. Will you be staying in Thorfinn’s room? May I offer your bedchamber for King Olaf?”
A king was coming here? Holy cow! Rita was impressed but zipped her lips, not wanting Steven to think that anything he did was impressive to her.
“I will be staying in Thorfinn’s bedchamber with Ree-tah,” Steven replied, which caused those who overheard to stare at her.
There seemed to be some hidden message in his words. Could it be he was warning them to show her some respect? On second thought, she decided he was just staking his claim.
She turned to see Geirfinn walking by. The old man winked at her, showing his support. At least she had one friend here. Well, that wasn’t quite true. She had Sigge and the two witch aunts, which weren’t doing her much good at the moment, being in their mountain home.
Just then she realized that Steven had noticed Geirfinn’s wink, and he was not pleased. To give Geirfinn credit, he did not quake under his master’s glowering stare.
“Geirfinn,” Steven growled in warning.
“Oh, get over yourself, Steven!” Rita said, giving Geirfinn a thankful smile. “Geirfinn was just showing that not all men . . . not all Viking men . . . are vicious brutes.”
“You think I am a brute?”
“If the name sticks.”
“You tread a fine line, m’lady.”
“What? I’m not even allowed to speak my mind now?”
“Not when it shows insolence for your betters.” Lady Thora was leaning forward to speak around Oslac from where she sat on his other side.
Rita was about to tell the bi . . . lady . . . who was better than whom, when Steven yanked on her chain, forcing her to look his way. “You may speak your mind, within reason.”
“Reason being, as long as I bow and scrape to praise you and your mistress at every turn?”
“A little praise would not be unwelcome.” He smiled at her, probably hoping she would melt in return. Not a chance! “And Thora is not my mistress,” he said, for her ears only.
