Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05]

by The Blue Viking

  “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 hins 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 alius 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 fron-tispieced 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.”

  “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 wiüi 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 rush of words.

  “I thought you had.”

  “Not properly.”

  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 f
ine 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!”