by Sandra Hill
"Lots of men name their manparts," Maire said defensively, repeating Rurik's lackwit words to her. She could feel her cheeks flame with embarrassment at her runaway blathering.
Rurik groaned and rolled his eyes with disgust, apparently knowing what was to come.
" 'Tis true. 'Tis true," Toste agreed. "I call mine Bliss… as in 'Here comes Bliss.' "
Several of the younger maids puts palms to their lips to stifle giggles. Several of the men who'd just come up, including Bolthor and Stigand, snorted with disbelief.
"I favor simplicity," Vagn stated with a wide grin. "I just call mine Big."
"You are such a liar," Rurik declared.
"I call mine Big, too," Stigand declared.
No one snorted at him… or called him a liar. And Nessa, bless her heart, was nodding her concurrence.
For the love of Mary! These Vikings certainly are earthy people…to speak of such matters so openly.
"Mjollnir," Bolthor announced of a sudden. Everyone turned to him. He raised his chin and explained, as if daring anyone to laugh, "I named mine after Thor's hammer. Betimes, I refer to it as Hammer."
No one laughed.
"This is the saga of Rurik the Greater," Bolthor began, "And the Great Norse Practice of Cock-Naming."
"Hey," Rurik protested, amidst the barely suppressed snickers around him. "I'm not the one who brought up this subject. So, don't be associating me with that."
"What's this about a Norse practice?" Old John asked. Maire hadn't even noticed that he'd approached with some of her clansmen. "Scotsmen name their parts, too."
All the women gaped at Old John, then exclaimed as one, "They do?"
Old John nodded vigorously. "In my day, I called mine the Tickler." Every female jaw dropped even lower. "And I knew a man from Glenmoor, Angus the Bull, who named his The One-Eyed Dragon. Well, he did." The last was added on seeing the looks of incredulity around him.
Bolthor launched into his skaldic verse then:
Man is a peculiar lot,
Believe me, like it or not,
When it comes to his manpart,
He cannot be brain-smart,
Instead he gains fame
By giving it a name,
Be it Sword or Lance,
Even Last-Chance,
Or Pleasure-giver,
Not to mention Sex-Burr.
How about Log-of-Life,
or Gift-to-Wife,
Dancing Hog, Prancing Dog,
Third Leg, Make-Her-Beg,
Big John, Small Tom,
Bad Bart, Good George,
Pleasure Flute, Manroot,
Woman-Luck, Son-of-a-Duck,
Fancy Swiver, Nest Diver?
Ah, yes, man is a peculiar lot.
There was a stunned silence in their section of the hall before Maire regained the use of her tongue. "For shame, you men!" she choked out, mustering as much consternation as she could. "Not just you, Bolthor, but all you men. Speaking of such crude things amidst ladies!"
All the men glanced about self-consciously, as if they'd just noticed they were in mixed company. The groups began to disband and move about the hall to resume their tasks amidst much sniggering and outright laughter.
That was when Maire realized that while all this lewd conversation was going on, Rurik had somehow managed to snake his hand under the table, where his fingers had linked with hers and his thumb was drawing seductive circles on her palm. The message that his clear blue eyes transmitted to her was, "I want you." She would guarantee that her traitorous eyes sent the same message back to him.
She averted her face, not wanting him to know how easily stimulated she was by him. She could not believe that she had allowed the man to take her against a wall this morning, in full daylight, on an open parapet. And she could not believe she had enjoyed it so much. Rurik had been forced to muffle her cries with his mouth.
"I know what you're thinking," Rurik whispered against her ear.
How had he gotten so close to her? She swung her face around so quickly that she almost met him, lip to lip. He chuckled and drew away slightly.
"You… do… not!" she stated firmly. "Know what I am thinking, I mean."
"Yea, I do, Maire." He was back to circling her palm with his thumb, and she felt the caress all the way to the tips of her breasts and in her woman's center.
She groaned softly.
He smiled softly.
"Dost think yourself a mind reader now, as well as a warrior?"
He shook his head, and licked his lips.
Belatedly, she realized that he was copying her very own gestures. Instinctively, her mouth had gone dry, just staring at the luscious lout, and she had darted a wet tongue over her lips. She hated that her emotions were so close to the surface and so easily read by him. Therefore, she could not explain why she knowingly stepped into his trap by asking, "What exactly do you think I am thinking?"
He gave her a smoldering look that translated to, Ah, Maire! I thought you'd never ask. But what he said was, "Your body carries my 'mark' in all the ways I promised that it would. When your gaze snags on my mouth, you recall the pleasure of my kisses. When I take my cup in hand, you see fingers that have played erotic songs on every part of your body. When I stand and my lower half becomes visible to you, you remember in vivid detail how it feels when I fill you." He took a deep breath, then continued, "That, m'lady, is what you were thinking."
"Your conceit knows no bounds, Viking," she sputtered out. "And as to your 'mark' on me, is that what all of yesterday and last night was about… revenge? I know 'twas what you promised, but somehow I thought… I thought…" Maire couldn't believe how hurt she was that she had been the only one so affected by their lovemaking. She averted her face so he could not witness her humiliation.
Rurik put a forefinger to her chin and turned her back to him. "Nay, that is not the way of it, witch. It may have started out thus, but somewhere betwixt the kissing and the tupping, other forces took over." He put up a halting hand. "Do not think to ask me what those forces are because I truly do not know. Perchance, sorcery?"
Maire wanted to believe him, but…
"Sweetling, can you not comprehend that everything I said of you is true of me, as well, in reverse?"
She frowned in confusion.
He leaned forward and brushed his lips against hers… a feathery light kiss that felt like heaven.
Her eyes darted right to left to see if anyone had noticed the kiss; she was still uncomfortable allowing her people to observe the Viking's familiarity with her. But those few people who had noticed apparently approved, for they were grinning.
"Do you want me to explain?" he asked in a low, masculine voice that was as potent as a long swig of uisge-beatha.
Oh, God, yes! "Nay!" she said quickly.
But not quickly enough. He was already revealing his very own secrets. "When you lick your lips, as you are right now, I remember the wanton things I taught you to do with your mouth… or mayhap you are Eve to my Adam, and that type of sensuality comes instinctively to you."
Maire's lips tingled just hearing Rurik's praise, even though she could hardly credit its truth. She was not a sensual woman… leastways, she never had been before.
"And when you twist your body away from me, trying to avoid eye contact, all you do is call attention to the outline of your breasts and your nipples, which I fantasize are turgid with desire for me…"
Turgid? Oh, my! If they had not been before, they were now.
"… and I recall the taste of suckling them. Surely nectar of the gods!"
Maire could swear she actually felt the rhythm of his lips pulling at her.
"And when you walk away from me, buttocks moving ever so slightly, I remember how well they fit into my hands when I lift you for my entry. And then… for the love of Freyja… how that woman part of you clasps my manpart in joyous welcome."
"God's Teeth!" Maire exclaimed then. "Ne'er have I heard of lovemaking without one speck of
bare flesh touching another."
"Word sex. 'Tis one of my many talents." He chuckled, and squeezed her hand.
"I never know when you are teasing me, or telling the truth."
"Do you like word sex, Maire?"
"Are my eyes rolling back in my head?" she said with a snort of disgust at herself.
"You are priceless," he hooted. "Nay, your eyes… your beautiful, emerald eyes… are straight. But how about mine? Are they staring at the back of my skull yet?"
She had to smile at that, even as she shook her head. There was satisfaction in knowing Rurik shared her bodily distress.
"I do feel a bit of a tremor coming on, though," she told him in a saucy tone, her eyelids half-lowered. Heavenly hosts! Where and when had she developed a talent for flirting?
"Me, too," he said, but his voice and expression were stone-cold serious.
"Oh, Rurik," she breathed, unable to say more.
"Precisely," he breathed back, understanding perfectly… so sensitive was this thread that was developing between them, fiber by emotional fiber.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, their attention was diverted then. At the far end of the hall, a group of her clansmen were laughing at the antics of her son and a few of his friends.
Callum had just passed through the hall, ahead of them, his head twitching to the right as was its wont ever since he'd suffered a head blow at the Battle of Dunellen. He was the same age as her brother Donald, who'd been his boon companion, and was once a fine soldier—in fact, an expert archer—but his marksmanship was no longer dependable because of the incessant jerking of his head. Bolthor had been working with him on methods to regain his center of balance and compensate for the twitch; to Maire's amazement, it worked sometimes. Eventually he might regain many of his old abilities.
Now, Jamie was leading his pack of rascals, imitating Callum—strutting and jerking their heads at the same time. Really, she was going to have to sit her son down and have a long talk with him. His wild behavior had grown out of control these past weeks since he'd been living in the forest cave with the men.
But Maire had no more time to dwell on improving her son's manners, for Rurik had dropped her hand and risen in his seat with a loud roar of outrage. His face grew red and his fists were clenched as he stared wide-eyed at something. At first, she couldn't fathom what had evoked such fury in him. Her eyes scanned the hall, but she could see naught but her son and…
Oh, my God! It was Jamie that had flamed his anger. And Rurik was already strides ahead of her before she'd risen from the bench and hurried after him. "Rurik, wait…"
Rurik had already reached the laughing boys and grabbed Jamie by the scruff of his neck, mid-twitch. His legs dangled far off the rush-covered floor. Before the startled child could blink up at him, Rurik delivered a smart slap to his buttocks and growled, "That will be enough of that, boy."
Now, Maire was outraged. How dare he take a hand to her son! How dare he!
By the time she reached the chaotic scene, clansmen were lined up as spectators, little boys were scrambling to run away before Rurik inflicted a similar punishment on them, and Jamie was rubbing his bottom with one hand and using the other to wipe tear-filled eyes as he howled loud enough to raise the rafters. You'd think he'd had a broadax laid against his backside, instead of a callused hand.
Jamie was standing now and Rurik was hunkered down in front of him, one hand on each shoulder. "I thought we'd come to an understanding, Jamie. You are to be laird here one day. Is this any kind of example for you to set—making mockery of another?"
Jamie shook his head, but said nothing, probably too frightened of another blow to his bottom.
"A real man does not need to make himself bigger by reducing the value of another… especially one who is smaller, or suffers some bodily disadvantage."
"But I was only playin'," Jamie blubbered defensively.
" 'Tis no excuse. Know this, a bully as a boy grows up to be a bully as a man, and that is not a noble goal to set for yourself. Do you understand what I'm saying?"
The boy nodded and, seeing an opportunity for escape, ducked under Rurik's arm and bolted for the courtyard door. A small smile curving his lips, Rurik let him go, motioning to Stigand to follow him and keep guard over the wayward child.
Rurik turned then and noticed Maire standing behind him. He smiled, as if expecting her to congratulate him on the way he'd handled her son.
Ha! Fuming, Maire tried to speak in an undertone, but her words came out harsh and loud. "You had no right, Viking. Who gave you permission to reprimand my child?"
Rurik's body stiffened, and he inclined his head in surprise. "I thought to do you a favor. You have no husband. The boy needed to be shown now, whilst the misdeed was fresh, that derision is a bad trait for a boy to develop. Dost disagree with that sentiment?"
"You abused my son!"
"I never did!"
"You struck him in anger."
"I gave him a light tap on the arse with the palm of my hand. He barely felt it."
"Well… well… who gave you permission to lay a hand on him?"
"I need no permission to do what is right."
"Begone, Viking! He's not your son." The minute the words left her mouth Maire knew she'd made a mistake. Rurik's head jerked back as if she'd slapped him, and his nostrils flared with barely controlled anger.
Even worse, her clansmen inhaled in one communal gasp. It was one thing to neglect telling a man he had a son, horrible as that might be. It was quite another to actually lie about the fact. How would she ever be able to backtrack from that blatant misstatement?
"I mean… he's my son. You should have let me manage my own son."
Rurik's gaze connected with hers, and she saw both disappointment and fury there. "You're doing a poor job of it, Maire, if his foul tongue, ofttimes filthy appearance, and now meanness are any indication."
Oh, Rurik's words were cruel, cruel daggers to Maire's soul. And unfair… well, partially unfair. But she could see by the proud jut of his jaw that he would take them back no more than she would hers.
"And I'll 'begone' soon enough, m'lady. That, you can be sure of."
Maire put her face in her hands and tried to think how best to retract her harsh words. When she glanced up, though, Rurik was gone. And all of her people were looking at her with disapproval. One by one they turned away. Except for Bolthor.
Chortling at some inner mirth, the skald began, "This is the saga of Maire of the Moors."
Once there was a maiden
Who told a great lie.
Thought she that the truth
No one would e'er buy.
But, alas and alack,
The worst thing about lies,
Is the weaver is oft
Caught in her own alibis.
Then, as an afterthought, Bolthor added some more to his saga:
… And good thing she is not
A Viking man caught in a falsehood,
Because then there would be
Even bigger trouble…
Well, actually, smaller.
Bolthor's poem was so awful that she should have been laughing out loud. Instead, she was crying inside.
For the rest of the afternoon, Rurik avoided Maire. He was so angry—and, yea, hurt—that he feared what he might do or say in her presence.
Her protectiveness regarding her son was excessive. If Old John had taken the same action as Rurik had done, he doubted Maire would have been so furious. There was a puzzle here… why she feared his contact with the boy… that he could not solve. Apparently, she had come to the conclusion that he was a fit bed partner, but unfit company for her son. Why?
"Yer frownin' agin. Am I the winner?" Jamie asked him.
They were playing the Viking board game, hnefatafl, which Rurik had just taught the boy. Before that, following a short man-to-man—or rather, man-to-not-quite-man—talk about the spanking incident, Jamie had taught Rurik how to use a slingshot. Rurik, in turn,
had agreed to show him the Norse game, at which the youthling was already gaining proficiency. He was a very bright lad, Rurik thought with uncalled-for pride on his part.
"Nay, you are not the winner," he snapped.
"Then ye mus' be frownin' 'cause yer still mad at me mother. Doona be. She likes you."
"And how would you be knowing that?"
"Sheesh! Everyone kens that." Jamie gave him an incredulous stare, as if his head must be very thick. "Every time she looks at you, her eyes go all big and cowlike." He demonstrated in a way Maire would find quite unflattering. "I 'spect any time now she'll start mooin'."
Rurik choked on the cup of uisge-beatha he'd just put to his mouth. "I hardly think your mother would like you speaking of her in such a manner."
"Why? Is there aught wrong with being smitten?"
Smitten? She didn't act smitten when she berated me in front of one and all. Rurik shook his head at the child's ridiculous question. He never knew what the rascal was going to say next and tried to remember whether he had been the same at that age. But of course he had not; he'd been too busy trying to find his next meal.
"Can I have a drink of that?" Jamie asked, reaching for the cup of powerful Scottish brew.
"Nay, you cannot!" he exclaimed and pulled his cup out of the way.
"Why?"
"Because I said so."
"That's no answer. It's what me mother allus says."
"It's a good answer," Rurik declared. Holy Thor! I sound like a bloody damn father.
"Ha! Will you teach me to use a broadax?"
"You couldn't even lift a broadax."
"Well, a lance then?"
"Nay!"
"Why?"
"You know why."
" 'Because I said so,' " he mimicked.
"Precisely."
The whole time they were talking, the game continued, and the boy talked, and talked, and talked… when he was not petting his cat.
"I like cats."
"That's obvious." The feline was sitting at Jamie's feet licking its mangy fur… well, not quite so mangy now since Rurik had given it a good scrubbing in the loch. And, hell and Valhalla, hadn't that been a sight… him with gauntlets on his hands and a frontispieced helmet to protect his face, handling the screeching, scratching, misnamed Rose. "I much prefer dogs," he pronounced, "like my wolfhound, Beast. Now there is an animal! Man's best friend, that's what a dog is."
