by Sandra Hill
"Rose is my best friend," Jamie said in a wounded voice.
"Humpfh!" was Rurik's doubtful rejoinder.
"She likes you," Jamie told him accusingly.
Uh-oh! Here comes the guilt maneuver. Women and children… that's the route they always follow with men. Try to make a man feel guilty for the least little thing. "I rather doubt that," he answered. Rose, meanwhile, continued to glare at him with her usual attitude of superiority. She kept her distance, though, still not having forgiven him for the bath.
Without a pause for transition, the blathering boy moved on to a new subject. "Betcha I would make a good Viking."
"I doubt that."
"All that rapin' and pillagin' and stuff. Betcha I'd be the best damn raper and pillager in the world."
Rurik had to laugh, not only at the boy's imagination, but his continuing foul tongue, as well. "Do you even know what raping and pillaging are?"
"Well, nay, but they sound fun."
"I hardly think your clan will want you to go off a-Viking. Best you stay here in the Highlands and do your clan things… like reaving and feuding."
"I could go a-Viking with you during the seasons when I'm not reavin' and feudin'."
"Do you never stop talking?"
"That's what my mother says all the time."
"Wise woman," Rurik muttered under his breath.
But Jamie heard and yelped with glee. "See? Yer smitten, too."
They continued playing the game for several blessedly silent moments, but Rurik should have known it wouldn't last.
'Tell me 'bout swiving."
"I beg your pardon."
"Swiving… what's it feel like?"
Rurik grinned. "Good."
"How good? Do ye mean plum pudding good, or horse racing good, or hard swimming good, or catchin' a big trout good?"
"All of those."
"Does your dinky have to be bigger than your little finger to swive?"
Dinky? Oh, for the love of a Valkyrie! A dinky! Rurik's eyes almost bugged out of his head at the sight of the imp waggling his littlest finger at him. "Yea, it does," he answered with as straight a face as he could manage.
"How much bigger?"
Aaarrgh! Rurik clenched his fists and reminded himself that he probably would have liked some older man to explain these things to him when he'd been a boy. "Much."
"How big is yours?"
Rurik was beginning to pick up the rhythm of the halfling's chatter and found himself chuckling. "Immense," he replied, and hoped no one was eavesdropping on this boy-man talk.
"Can I see?"
"Nay, you cannot see, whelp." Enough was enough. Rurik folded up the board game, declaring himself the winner, and stood.
He stretched his arms out widely and yawned. It was the time of day between daylight and dusk… that odd period that the Scots referred to as the gloaming. Soon Rurik would be off to the MacNabs, and their plan would sink or swim.
Although Rurik was reasonably confidant that they would succeed, one never knew when going into battle. Therefore, his men were completing last-minute personal tasks, in case they did not return on the morrow. For instance, Stigand was off somewhere with Nessa, swiving her silly, he suspected. Bolthor was banished to the outer, outer courtyard for a last—it would be the last—bagpipe lesson from Murdoc. He had been playing the instrument in the great hall till a short time ago, when everyone protested, lest their hearing be impaired forever.
Rurik should talk with Maire one last time. This might be his only opportunity. He did not want to leave this world without telling her… he knew not what. On the other hand, mayhap it was best that no words were spoken, after all.
As if reading his mind, Jamie asked him in his small-boy voice, "Are ye gonna die tonight?"
"I hope not, son," Rurik said, starting to walk away. Son? He had no idea where that endearment had come from. It had just slipped out.
But the boy surprised him by saying, "I hope you don't die, either…"
Rurik's step faltered but he did not stop.
Then Jamie added the clincher, "… 'cause I have somethin' important to tell ye."
Chapter Fourteen
Dusk would be settling soon over the Highlands, and it was time for Rurik and his men, as well as a handful of Campbell clansmen, to make their way to the MacNab lands. They were gathering in the courtyard, preparing to depart… everyone except Rurik, that is. He was still inside, making some final preparations.
Maire found him in her bedchamber, where he was tying the laces on a fine-mesh metal shirt that he would wear under his tunic. All of his weaponry was laid out on the bed. His war braids were in place. His blue zigzag mark stood out like the tattoos of Celtic warriors of old. In effect, he resembled a grim-faced soldier about to go into battle… which, in a way, she supposed he was.
She entered, without knocking, and closed the door after herself.
He glanced up but briefly, then said coolly, repeating her own words, "Begone, Maire." He turned his back to her as he stood and drew his tunic over his head, then belted it at the waist.
Maire winced at his terse words and stiff demeanor, but she was determined to talk with him. In truth, there were some important things he needed to know before he put his life on the line for her clan.
"I apologize."
He was attaching a brooch to his shoulder mantle and would not meet her gaze. After a long pause, he asked, "For what?"
"For speaking to you so harshly, especially in front of others. But you have to understand that Jamie has been my sole responsibility for a long time, and it is hard for me to give up any of that control." She was babbling… saying too much. But she was beyond nervous. She was petrified.
He shrugged. Now he was fiddling with his belt buckle. "How about your husband? He has only been gone three months. Did he not ever reprimand the boy?"
Now would be a good time for Maire to tell him the truth about Jamie, but somehow she could not do so when he stood rigid with anger and not even facing her. "Kenneth had no interest in Jamie."
She could tell by the reflexive tilt of his head that he was surprised that a father could have no feelings for his only son. Fortunately, he did not pursue the subject.
"Rurik, why won't you look at me?"
He released a long breath. "Because I'm so bloody furious with you, I would be tempted to raise my hand to you." Then, he laughed softly, and revealed, "Or take you in hand."
"That latter has a certain appeal," she said softly.
He did turn then. "Is that why you're here, m'lady? For a good-bye swiving?"
Maire gasped at his crudity. She did not protest, though, because the cold, lifeless expression on his face held her transfixed. Was this how he appeared before battle? Or had her actions caused him to lose all feeling for her?
She raised her chin haughtily and, blushing furiously, declared, "Aye, a good-bye swiving is what I want… if it is the only way to break through that ice wall you have erected around yourself."
He shook his head. "Go away, Maire. You apologized. I accept. 'Tis over." Then he turned away again and began to gather his weapons.
'Tis over. 'Tis over. Oh, surely, he did not mean that everything was over. Maire's heart hammered against her ribs as panic settled in. She had to do something, quickly… but how could she get his attention… really get his attention?
Unbidden, an idea came to her.
But, oh, do I dare do such?
Do I have a choice?
In a rush, while Rurik was rummaging through his saddlebag on the bed, searching for some last-minute object, Maire began to peel off her garments. Every single one of them, including her hose and shoes. When she was done, and Rurik was about to put his sword in its scabbard at his hip, he asked churlishly, "Are you still here?"
"Aye."
"Why?"
"Because… because I haven't thanked you for the amber necklet you gave me," she said in a rash of words.
"I thought you had."
He sighed. And still he would not make eye contact with her. God, the man was stubborn as a Saxon mule.
"Would you like to see how it looks?"
"Why? I already know how it looks."
"Nay. You don't." She could be as stubborn as he if the occasion warranted… and this one did.
"Enough of your games, Maire! In your anger belowstairs you divulged your true sentiments, and mayhap that's for the best because I will soon depart from these lands and—"
Rurik's words trailed off as he pivoted and got his first good view of her amber necklet… framed as it was by her nude body. Eyes wide with astonishment, he muttered something under his breath that sounded like, "Odin help me!"
His attention seemed particularly fixed on her breasts. No surprise there! Actually, there was a surprise there. When Maire peeked downward, just for a second, she saw that her nipples were distended with arousal. Oh, how mortifying! This must be how men felt when their staffs had a will of their own, waving in the wind at the least little provocation.
"Well, how do you like the necklet now?" she demanded as if that were the question paramount in her mind. It was becoming increasingly obvious who the lackbrain was in this chamber, and it wasn't the one in battle gear. It was the one with hands placed brazenly on hips, tapping a bare foot with impatience.
Maire noticed the instant a transformation began in Rurik. Just before he drawled, "I like the necklet fine," his posture relaxed and a slow smile emerged on his lips, which twitched with the effort to remain stern and unmoved. But he couldn't fool her. He was moved. Maire could tell… even without examining that part of him which she knew to be highly movable.
Not giving herself, or him, a chance to think, Maire launched herself at him like a rock in a catapult, exclaiming in a long moan, "Ruuuur-iiiick!"
He had no choice but to catch her by opening his arms, then holding her up by the buttocks till she wrapped her legs around his waist.
"Why are you doing this, Maire?" he rasped out, already backing up and sitting on the bed, with her straddling his lap.
Now he wants to talk? Is he demented? I cannot answer logical questions when my blood is nigh boiling and every fine hair on my body is practically dancing. Still, she mustered the strength of will to tell him, "Because there are things I need to talk about with you, and you kept ignoring me."
Rurik was already undoing the waist laces of his trews and clumsily shoving the garment down his thighs, even though she had not moved from his lap. When he'd gotten them as far as his knees, he looked at her and smiled. Blessed Bones of St. Bartholomew! He has a fine, fine smile. "I could develop a fondness for your method of talking," he drawled.
Who knew a drawl could be so… sexual? Was it a Viking trick, or did all men have this knack for twisting a woman into sensual knots with a mere lowering of the voice? "You wouldn't pay attention to me," she complained.
"I'm paying attention now." The drawl was more pronounced than before. Without any preliminaries, he lifted her bottom up, then down, till she was filled with his rampant erection.
Aye, he was paying attention.
Maire closed her lids briefly, just in case her eyes were rolling. When she opened them, she saw that his teeth were gritted and cords were standing out in his neck. The man couldn't drawl now if he tried, Maire would bet.
Sure enough, he finally grated out, "Do… not… dare… move." He anchored her hips to make sure she complied. That created an overwhelming compulsion in Maire to do just the opposite of his bidding. In fact, if she did not move soon, she was certain the butterflies fluttering beneath her woman hair were going to burst free. So she tightened the inner walls of her body to hold them in.
Rurik's member lurched, and he groaned, but he still held her firmly in her place. "So," he said, once he appeared to be more in control, "talk."
"Now?" she squealed.
"You said you came here to talk," he reminded her.
"Are you demented? I can't talk now."
"Why?"
"Why? Why? I'll tell you why. Because I feel as if I'm sitting on a flagpole. That's why. Mayhap you can do various things at one time, but simple woman that I am, I can concentrate on only one thing at a time."
He was smiling. The lout! "And that would be?"
"The fact that you're not moving." She tried to squirm in place but he would not allow even that small motion. "Move, damn you, move!"
"Not yet," he replied.
Is he trying to punish me? She eyed him suspiciously, then entreated, "Make love to me, Rurik."
He held her eyes and answered, "Convince me."
Aye, it's punishment he's after. But no rack or whipping post for this rogue. Nay, he has a more devious torture in mind. "I am not experienced in the love arts… you know that. How would I convince you?"
"Use your imagination." He let go of her hips and leaned back on his elbows. The brute was going to make her initiate all the moves, when she didn't even know what the moves were.
"Rurik, we don't have much time."
He shrugged. "Then you'd best think quick."
She tried clenching her inner muscles again, and holding them taut. That was an exercise he'd seemed to like before.
Rurik bit his bottom lip as if stifling a cry.
Aha! A small victory, I spy. She repeated the maneuver, this time engaging a rhythmic hold-release, hold-release pattern. "How was that?" she asked.
"A start," he choked out.
A start? Just a start? Hah! I'll show you, Viking. She spread her legs wider and glanced down to where black curls blended with red, both glistening with her woman dew. When she looked back up, she saw that Rurik had been staring at the same spot… and he liked what he saw… oh, yes, he did! His face might remain impassive, but a part of him he could not control flexed and swelled, filling her even more.
Even so, the man still did nothing to initiate the undulations that her body craved. What could she do that would knock the complacency out of him?
Her gaze fixed on the chain shirt that came to a vee in the front under his tunic. Some soldiers pulled the mail all the way down and between the legs, with padding underneath, to protect the genitals. His lay open. That gave her an idea… a wicked idea.
Did she dare?
Did she dare not?
She pulled back slightly so that Rurik was still embedded in her but the base of his staff was exposed. Then she spread her legs even wider so that nub of woman pleasure Rurik had introduced her to was clearly visible to him.
She was too embarrassed to let her gaze connect with his. She thought she heard a hitch in Rurik's breathing, though, which she took for a good sign.
Then, garnering every bit of nerve she had, Maire took the flexible mail by its pointed front tail and ever so lightly stroked the base of Rurik's column, back and forth, side to side.
"For the love of Frigg!" Rurik roared.
There was no doubt in Maire's mind now. She was on the right route. Still, she asked, pretending uncertainty, "Dost want me to stop?"
"Bloody damn… bloody damn… whffffffff."
"Oh," she said coyly, stroking him again with the cool metal. "Does that mean you like it?"
"Yea, I like it."
"How much?" she teased with the metal poised a hairbreadth away.
"Immensely."
"I wonder if you would like it more or less if I did the same with my tongue."
He let loose with a strangled laugh. "Unless you are as double-jointed as Ivar the Boneless was said to be, I would say that is an impossibility in your present position. Perchance you could save that sex feat for another time."
Would there be another time? Would Rurik come back, alive and whole? Would he then mention the "bride gift"? Would he stay in the Highlands? Nay, Maire could not think of those questions now.
"But, yea, witchling, I would enjoy having your mouth on me there," Rurik continued in a low, husky voice. "More than you could ever imagine."
Maire was utterly shocked at the wantonness of her act, and the pleasure she took from it. Though her hand still held the supple metal fabric, she jerked it away, lest she be tempted to repeat the sweet torture.
Rurik grabbed her by the wrist and gently placed her hand back at the joining of her thighs. In a voice thick as the warm honey she'd imagined, he urged, "Do it again."
Sacred Saints, she did, and almost swooned at the intensity of searing heat that pooled there.
"Again," he prodded.
She had no choice but to comply, so far gone in arousal was she now. And the point of this whole exercise had been to arouse Rurik! This time, the warm honey and searing heat sensations were joined by an interior spasming… one, two, three sharp clasps of the thick spear on which she sat.
Rurik groaned… a long, lust-ridden, male sound. Even so, he pleaded, "One last time, sweetling. Come to the edge… just the edge of your peak for me… just a little higher."
"I can't."
"Do it, Maire… one last time." His command brooked no argument.
Maire stared down at herself and Rurik where they were joined. As if she were a puppet and Rurik were pulling her strings, she held the pointed fabric slightly above them. Then she let it swing from side to side like a rapid pendulum, creating a vibration against the ridge of her femininity.
She was keening almost continuously now, tears streaming down her face, as wave after wave of escalating excitement hit her. "Oh… oh… oh… oh… oh…" She must have swooned into unconsciousness for a brief moment, because the next thing she was aware of was being on her back and Rurik attempting to reassure her with soft crooning words, "Hush, now, pretty. You did good. Very, very good. There is naught to be ashamed of." His soothing words were contrary to what he was doing… creating new waves and new spasms with long, slow strokes of his hard staff. As his strokes became shorter, he hammered against her, driving her body from one side of the mattress to the other. And the only sounds were those of Rurik's panting and their slick parts hitting one another. Then, finally, the explosion of every nerve ending in Maire's body as Rurik pounded into her one last time with a delicious male shout of triumph. Then silence.
