by Sandra Hill
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 levitation—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 nicker 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.
Aha! Maire must have been engaged in some ritual or other. Could she have been trying once again to remove his mark? Could it perchance already be gone?
Rushing to the side chest, Rurik picked up her polished brass mirror and checked his face. Immediately, his shoulders slumped with disappointment. The mark remained. Well, either she'd failed once again, or it was another spell she was working on. Hah! If that were the case, no doubt it was a spell to make him disappear.
As he walked about the chamber, blowing out candles to lessen the heat, he glanced toward the bed where Maire slept soundly. Although she wore only a thin shift, he could tell that she must have fallen asleep practically on her feet because she still wore her hose and shoes. In fact, one leg dangled over the edge of the mattress, and there was a brush in her hand. She was snoring softly. Grinning, he made a mental note to remind her of that less-than-feminine habit. He was sure she would appreciate knowing she made sleep sounds not unlike a snuffling piglet.
She'd better not think she was going to escape him by falling asleep. He fully intended to exact his pound of flesh from her this night. He put a hand to his groin as a reminder of what was to come. He continued to be half hard for the wench, despite having been gone from her presence an hour or more. Perchance it was a lingering effect from Maire's levitating demonstration.
After he'd finished with the candles, he sat on the edge of the bed on the same side as Maire, and began to remove her shoes and thin hose. It was not that he was being especially considerate of her comfort, he told himself. Nay, 'twas just that he wanted naked flesh next to his when he brought her to orgasm… as he most certainly would, or forever give up his word-fame as a lover. As he began peeling her hose down her legs, which were very long and very well shaped, he imagined where those legs might be when she screamed out her first ecstasy. Wrapped around his waist? Or over his shoulders? Better yet, she could be kneeling on said legs, on all fours, and he could be taking her from behind like a stallion with a mare. That ought to shock the secret of the blue mark from her.
He smiled wickedly to himself at all the possibilities as he resumed undressing her.
He was not touched he told himself, by the numerous darn
marks in her stockings, or the blisters at the back of her heels from the heavy, utilitarian brogues that she wore. Leastways, not very much.
With a jaw-cracking yawn, he removed his own boots, then stood to unbuckle his sword belt. As he yawned again, Rurik walked to the other side of the chamber—it was still sweltering—and dropped one item of apparel after another till he was naked as the day he was born. But not as weak and puny as he was as a babe, Rurik reminded himself, gazing down at the work-honed muscles that defined his abdomen and stomach and arms and thighs. He was in perfect physical condition, and he knew it.
Except for the blue mark.
Troubling thoughts swirled within Rurik as he eased down onto the mattress. Was there a sickness inside of him that made physical appearance so important? He didn't judge his friends on how they looked. Far from it. And, although he admired a beautiful woman, he did not consider a flawless form or face to be necessary in a mate. Consider Tykir's wife, Alinor. She was covered with freckles from head to toe, but in Tykir's eyes, she was a goddess. And Rurik barely noticed her plainness anymore, either. Nay, it was only himself he was so harsh with. And he knew why. It all stemmed back to his childhood and the mockery and brutality inflicted on him because he was not superior in physical attributes. Rurik recognized it was unreasonable to carry over all these old insecurities, but in some ways he had good reason. He was a man with no family name… no home… though that latter should change soon with his marriage. He had wealth enough, but treasures could be as easily lost as won. Nay, his self-identity was wrapped up in his strength as a warrior and his bodily appeal. In essence, all he had was who he was, physically.
Ah, such deep thoughts when I am so weary. He shifted restlessly on the bed, trying to ease his aching bones. It had been a long, long day, and this was not an overlarge bed. He had to nestle up against Maire, who faced away from him. A real hardship, that. He smiled with pleasure at the way they fitted together. His still painful left arm rested on the pillow, his right hand cupping a deliciously full breast, his erection cradled dead center in the crease of her buttocks. He tried but was unable to stifle another yawn. He was going to awaken Maire in a moment and show her just how well they fitted together… in all ways. For now, he was gaining immense satisfaction just holding her and anticipating what was to come. Here in the dark, in this moment frozen in time, it mattered not how he looked, or what he had to prove. He was merely a man… with his woman. And it felt so very right.
Just before he floated off to sleep, he heard the oddest sound.
Cackling.
"Oh, Maaiirre."
Maire came instantly awake at the sound of the male voice crooning hot, breathy words against her ear. In the semidarkness, she sensed it was probably close to dawn, but she knew exactly where she was and who was plastered against her back. With the fingers of one hand playing with her nipple and his "Lance" poking her behind, the toad from Norway was clearly identifiable.
"Oh, Maaiirre."
Perhaps she could pretend to be asleep.
"I know you're not asleep, witchling. When you sleep, you snore, and you're not snoring now."
I do not snore, she wanted to tell the brute, but she was still faking slumber, lying motionless, which was a really hard thing to do when he was rolling her nipple between a thumb and forefinger, causing the most peculiar sensations to ripple through her body. And it hardly seemed possible, but his thick male member was growing thicker. She'd like to whack his wicked fingers and his member. Pretending to be asleep was getting harder and harder.
"Guess what, Maire?"
Guessing games now? She could only imagine what silly amusement he was planning, especially with the deviltry that rang in his voice.
"It's raining," he announced.
It was not at all what Maire had expected him to say. She hoped someone belowstairs had exercised the foresight to place a few strategic buckets about the great hall where the roof leaked.
"In fact, this storm should prove to be a real fjord-filler… the kind of incessant, hard-driving summer rain that could go on for… oh, let's say, all day, and perhaps even tonight."
Maire's eyelids flew open.
He chuckled. "You do remember, don't you?"
He couldn't possibly mean…
"I promised that every day I continued to bear your mark, you would bear mine… except mine would be the mark a man makes on a woman in the bed furs. Dost recall my words now, sweetling?"
He did.
"Methinks you do. I can tell by the stiffness of your spine. Here is a reminder anyway, just in case you are a mite dull in the head as most women are wont to be in the face of the superior male intellect."
The man is a dunderhead, pure and simple.
"I told you that on rainy days, there would be more time to devote to your marking, and we might just spent day and night in bed because I have so much to teach you… so many ways to mark you."
She shoved aside the hand caressing her breast, sat up, then jumped off the bed. With hands on hips, she glared at him in the dreary half-light. "I have had more than enough of your talk of sex markings and punishments and or-gaz-hims and bed fits and whatnot. If you intend to force me to couple with you, just do the deed and be done. Do not honey-coat it with all these other descriptions."
He just stared at her, with eyes that she could now see were smoldering, like blue fire. He had changed his position on the bed and lay with his arms folded behind his neck on the pillow, his ankles crossed.
"Well, answer me," she demanded, stamping her foot.
"Your nipples are hard," he observed irrelevantly.
She gasped. "They are not."
He arched a brow. "One of them is. Come here, and let me work the other one to equal arousal."
"A-rous-al," she sputtered out and spun on her feet so he could not see her breasts through the thin shift she wore.
"I can see your buttocks, Maire," he informed her with a laugh. "Very nice, indeed."
She spun back around, about to tell him what she thought of his perverted observations, but a flash of lightning cracked, fully illuminating the chamber, and Maire got her first good look at the Viking reclining in all his naked splendor. The man truly was the embodiment of male masculinity, with perfectly proportioned muscles in all the right places… right down to that… that… thing standing at attention betwixt his legs. He certainly had been telling no lies lately, as far as she could see.
She caught herself gaping and snapped her mouth shut. "Have you no shame?"
"Nay."
"Cover yourself."
"Why?"
"Because you look ridiculous, that's why."
"I do not," he said, but there was a twinge of hurt in his voice. The foolish lout was ever sensitive about his appearance, Maire knew that, but this was carrying vanity too far. She noticed that he turned onto his side, as if to hide himself, because of her criticism. He didn't droop, though, as some men might.
She turned away from him and tried to get her emotions under control. Maire couldn't abide the overbearing rogue, but there was a part of him that touched her, too. That was the part she had to protect herself from. She had to.
"Maire," Rurik said, "come here."
"Why?" What a half-brained question that was! Really, it was debatable who was the idiot in this room… she or Rurik.
She thought then that he would tell her to come to him so that he could initiate her punishment, or put his male mark on her, or make her have bed fits. She thought he might smirk, or even laugh out loud at her. But when Maire turned back to the man in her bed, his gaze was stone-cold serious. And he said the worst possible thing to her, considering her vulnerable mood.
"Because," he told her huskily, beckoning with the long fingers of one hand, "I want, with all my heart, to make love with you."
Chapter Nine
Maire moaned.
It was the softest of sounds, accompanied by a whispery exhalation, but Rurik heard it, and he recognized it for what i
t was… the reluctant arousal of a woman on the edge of surrender. Inwardly, he smiled with satisfaction. He was a master of seduction. The signs were clear. Just the tiniest push and she would be his.
He beckoned her forward with his fingertips in the way of man with woman through the ages. And he gave her his most sultry look as an added incentive… the one involving hooded eyes and flared nostrils. 'Twas a favorite ploy that never failed to tempt even the most proper maids.
Unfortunately, Maire was apparently neither proper nor a maid. Instead of doing his bidding, the stubborn wench took a step backward—backward!—away from the bed where he still reclined, and said, "Rurik, I do not want to make love with you."
Huh? Had he read the body signals wrong? Was she not interested in sharing the bed furs with him? Impossible! He jumped from the bed and stood directly in front of her before she had a chance to blink… or run for the door.
He saw a single nervous twitch of her lips, though she immediately masked it by pressing her lips together and raising her chin bravely. She was obviously agitated by his closeness, which had to be a good omen. He would wager great odds that she was, indeed, interested in love play, despite her words to the contrary.
They were so close he could swear he smelled the feminine musk of her excitement. In truth, she was as skittish as a mare in heat… though he did not think she would relish that comparison… leastways, not at this stage of their relationship.
He put a hand to her chin and stroked his thumb across her closed lips. The twitch did not recur, but he could sense her tension at his mere touch.
"Explain yourself, m'lady." His voice came out husky and low, betraying his own masculine need. His thumb was continuing its caress of her exceedingly luscious mouth.
"I do not want to make love with you," she repeated.
"Liar!"
She appeared shocked by his accusation, at first. But Maire was at heart an honest woman, and so she amended her statement, "Making love with you is a bad idea."
