by Alexa Cole
She didn’t even know his name, yet here he was, holding her intimately as if he were her lord and master.
Indeed, he was.
Ironically, Elizabeth realized at that moment, she was free. She was free to eat food, free to feel the sun on her face, free to enjoy its warmth and beauty. Free to let a strange man fondle her breast. Free to put salt on her supper! She never had to return to the oppressive confines of the convent ever again. She couldn’t help but smile.
Whatever the future held in store for her, it could never be as bad as the bleak, hopelessness of the abbey. She turned her head towards the man, and rested her forehead against his neck, inhaling his enticing scent, feeling his prickly stubble against her skin. She reveled in the clash of his hard planes against her soft ones.
The man’s palm continued to caress the heavy weight of her orbs. His thumb arched across her breast, and flicked surreptitiously across her nipple. She jumped as a jolt of pleasure coursed through her veins. She mewed unwittingly. He chuckled, and did it again. Her eyes flashed to his face, but he stared straight ahead, his face an unreadable mask of stone. She hoped he didn’t stop. She wanted him to continue. She wished for him to do more, but for what, precisely, she did not know.
Elizabeth closed her eyes and nestled her head against her captor’s neck again. His thumb continued to minister to her aching breasts, first one, then the other, until her languid limbs went limp with desire. He traced imaginary lines around the outside of her globes with his fingers, until her tight nipples ached with need.
“Ragnor,” he said quietly in a mix of Danish and Anglo-Saxon. “Mit...name... er Ragnor.”
“Ragnor,” she repeated.
The name felt beautiful on her tongue. Masculine and powerful. Commanding and authoritative. Yet, comfortable and familiar. Like she had waited her whole life to say it. Like she would give her life to say it again.
“Ragnor,” she replied, “I am Elizabeth.”
“Værdifuld,” he murmured. “Elizaveta.”
His soft whispers continued to flow into her ear, flowery, unintelligible words in his mother tongue. Elizabeth didn’t need to comprehend them, to understand what they meant. Her body knew, and it responded. Mayhap it had known his for a thousand years, mayhap all eternity. His body serenaded hers in a primordial song that was older than time itself. Elizabeth sighed and gave in to it, sinking into the whole new world of sensation that he was so expertly evoking in her with each passing moment.
Ragnor looked down at the girl he held in his arms. She was beautiful. She was beyond beautiful; she was stunning. Her body was perfect in every way, and her face was an angelic seductress. She was like nothing he had ever seen in his life.
He grimaced inwardly as he recalled the horrible conditions in which he had found this angel. What kind of a society locked away perfectly good, hale and hearty young women rather than celebrating them? Kept them captive in dark, dank cells behind stone walls rather than bedding them? It was a disgusting waste: in his lands, any woman who was fit and healthy was considered a treasure.
Even slaves lived better in Scandinavia than these women did. Although they were considered property by the law, most slaves were treated more like family members. They ate, slept and lived inside the house alongside the family, worked the fields together with the Viking men, and cared for the children jointly with the women. Many of Ragnor’s own men relied on their slaves to watch over their wives, children and crops while they were away on summer raids.
Free Viking women had almost the same rights as men, including the right to carry arms, to speak their mind openly, and even to divorce if they were mistreated. Most men considered their wife their most faithful advisor and trusted ally. She was their cherished companion to be cared for and protected at all times. Ragnor’s father honored his mother above all others, and relied on her as an equal partner in both work and wisdom.
Someday, he hoped to find what his parents had.
But today, he would start by breaking in his new slave, he thought. Ragnor suckled gently on the young woman’s earlobe, enjoying the slow process of seducing her. As his prisoner of war, he could have just tossed her over a log behind a tree, pulled up her skirt, and rutted her like a randy stag. But there was no thrill in that. Building up her desire slowly, teasing her relentlessly, stirring up her passion into a boiling cauldron of rhapsody - and then watching her explode in a cataclysm of rapture – it was all worth the wait. And the momentary discomfort in his balls, he mused, shifting in his seat.
Although she was afraid, she had left the convent without putting up much of a fight, he thought, all things considered. She would prove to be a willing partner and a lusty one, too, he anticipated eagerly. Tonight, he would teach her joy like she had never imagined.
He would start right now, he thought. His tongue swirled in her ear, invading it. He probed in and out, mimicking what he knew he would do to her below, both with his tongue and his cock, before this day was through. He brushed her long braid away from her neck, kissing it lightly above the rope that bound her to him. He thought of removing it, for her comfort, but for some reason he liked it. She tried half-heartedly to resist him, but her efforts were wasted. Every inch of her body cried out for his touch. She was already his.
Still holding the reins, he dropped his left hand to her leg. Agonizingly, he made long, slow circles around the inside of her knee, moving his fingers like the accomplished bowman he was, drawing her strings tighter and tighter, until they were ready to snap with tension. He knew exactly where to touch a woman, for precisely how long, to enflame her senses and make her lose control of her body. He could read her mind better than she could read it herself; anticipate her next desire even before she did.
His hand grew bolder, caressing the inside of the girl’s thigh, but going no further, knowing the pause would only augment her longing for him. He continued sucking her earlobes, laving her neck, and planting kisses across her flesh. His hands never left her breasts and thighs. By the time they reached camp, she would be ready to tear off her clothes and throw herself flat upon her back, he thought arrogantly.
Ah, but so would he.
He imagined unbinding her braids leisurely, and wrapping his hands in her hair. Her long, silky tresses smelled sweet, like spring and rain, and he envisioned himself burying his face in their waves. He would lie back upon the bed of fur in his tent, and she would climb upon him, like a shield maiden scaling her mount. Her creamy thighs would spread for him, breast dangling in his face, and he would watch as she slid his long, smooth sword slowly into her wet, slick sheath. Inch by inch, she would devour it. Then, when she was filled to the hilt with him, she would cry out her climax and ride his hips frantically like a wild, unbroken filly, showering him with milk and honey.
Ragnor groaned aloud and pulled her tighter against him. Elizabeth felt the heat of the man’s powerful thighs, encasing hers from behind, and a firm bulge rubbing up and down against her, as he posted upon the horse. From knee to hip to buttock, his flesh branded her. An image flashed unbidden in her mind of a wild bull she had once seen mounting a cow in the field behind the abbey.
She imagined Ragnor pushing her head forward, and propelling violently into her from behind, biting her neck and bellowing savagely as the bull had done. But it was no hallucination. The stranger’s man-root was pressing into her rump, just as real as the wild bull penetrating the young heifer that day in the meadow. The man’s breath was heavy in her ear.
By the sounds of it, he was every bit as much aware of the situation as she was.
Alarmed, she inched forward in her seat, but the solid protuberance in the man’s breeches only grew larger. She away moved again, and he pulled her back against himself, pinning her firmly to him. His turgid member stabbed her like a bolt of lightning, throbbing and pulsating against her bottom. Elizabeth struggled against it, trying to free herself.
“Nej,” he said sternly.
She wiggled again, shaking her behin
d to squirm away, but the unruly appendage only continued to grow bigger and stiffen.
“Stoppe,” he commanded in Danish.
She moved again. He growled.
Realization dawned gradually upon Elizabeth. She was causing his protrusion to swell. She was causing it to fill with desire. The more she moved, the more it grew. He could discern the heat between them just as acutely as she could, and it affected him just as much as it did her. The newfound sensation of feminine power that filled her was scintillating.
But only for an instant.
She realized was playing with fire. Playing with fire meant getting burned.
My God, what had she done? She had awoken a sleeping giant, poked a wounded bear, unleashed a monster, she thought. Elizabeth tried to move away, terror flashing through her veins, but he held her immobile.
Now there was truly no escape.
Chapter Four
Finally, the ride from hell came to an end. The draft horse crested a hill, and suddenly stopped. And not a minute too soon, Elizabeth thought. Her cheeks were burning, and her breath was ragged. Their sensual exchange had left her completely discombobulated, and utterly unsettled.
How quickly she had turned to mush in his arms, throwing herself at him like a strumpet. Not only had she let him place his lips upon her neck, and his hands upon her breasts, she had permitted him to hunker her rear with his phallus!
She had only met him this morning, and he was a dastardly Viking. Her wanton behavior was beyond reprehensible. What would the abbess think of her now?
What did Ragnor think?
Wordlessly, the Viking chieftain slid down easily from the horse, his face revealing nothing of his thoughts about their intimate encounter. He reached up gallantly to help her down from the tall steed, but Elizabeth raised her chin haughtily and ignored his proffered hand. She had been a competent rider as a girl and certainly didn’t require his assistance now. Still flustered from her body’s mutinous response to him, she prayed sincerely that he never touched her again at all. She wouldn’t let him turn her into a common harlot, no matter how delicious his lips and fingers felt.
But when Elizabeth’s tired legs hit the ground, her traitorous knees buckled uncooperatively beneath her. Ragnor grasped her quickly and scooped her clear off her feet into his strong, waiting arms. Elizabeth tried in vain to disentangle herself from the man, but he held fast, and she already knew struggling with him was hopeless. He had probably been born as big as Goliath, she thought.
“Elizaveta, stoppe,” he said softly.
She gave in, and wrapped her arms around his neck.
Ragnor carried her to the edge of a great cliff. For an instant, Elizabeth feared he planned to toss her angrily from the dizzying heights. Instead, he squeezed her reassuringly, and smiled. His brilliant teeth dazzled her with a surprisingly boyish grin.
Elizabeth could hear the waves crashing into the surf below. The air here was agreeably cool from the ocean breezes, and the tangy, salty scent of the sea filled her lungs pleasantly. Ragnor slid her unhurriedly down his body. She felt his man-tool rub against her all the way to the ground. When her wobbly feet touched the soil, he put his arms about her shoulders to steady her. He quickly cut the rope from her hands, freeing her. He kicked the cording down the precipice, and she looked over the edge with curiosity.
Ragnor pointed excitedly to the three majestic longships tethered to the shore beneath them, riding the waves like a regal trio of mythical Pegasus. Elizabeth gasped at the sight of the sleek, dragon-headed Viking boats. They were long and lustrous, their flawless craftsmanship apparent even to the untrained eye. No one else had ever built such seaworthy crafts in all of history, she was sure.
Ragnor looked at her, still smiling. His blue eyes shone with pride, like a small lad with a new toy.
“They’re beautiful,” Elizabeth said sincerely.
She couldn’t help but feel impressed by the superlative skills that had obviously gone in to the making of the vessels. These men may be ruthless barbarians, but their shipbuilding capabilities were obviously far more advanced than those of the neighboring Anglo-Saxon, Germanic and Frankish peoples. Even the Greeks and Romans had not achieved such a feat as crossing the North Sea with its perilous black, icy depths.
Elizabeth could not even begin to fathom the piloting methods they must have employed to find their way here to England, nor the sheer unmitigated bravery of the men who crossed hundreds of leagues of angry oceans to do so.
And Ragnor had been their fearless leader. A tiny seed of respect for them began to grow in her bosom. If they were so far superior in their navigation, ship making and warfare, what other areas did they excel in, too?
“Værdifuld, eh?” he said in Danish.
“Wonderful,” she agreed. “Beautiful.”
He beamed proudly. For some reason he could not name, he wanted her to like his longboats, and his people. He wanted her to like him.
Ragnor pointed at the ships individually, reading aloud the names that were painted affectionately along the curving hull of each one. He had lovingly constructed every last inch of the vessels himself ten years ago, with trees from his father’s farm.
“Søl,” he pointed to the lead ship. It was the largest, with twenty oars on each side, the pride of his fleet holding eighty men. “Gudinde.”
Elizabeth shook her head, not understanding his words.
He tried in German. His Saxon-language skills were rusty, but his father had been born in the market city of Hedeby, on the border of Denmark and Germany, so he could recall at least a handful of words when he chose to.
“Göten,” he said, pointing to the sky.
“Oh...a...god,” Elizabeth nodded with comprehension. “The sun goddess, named Sol. Its named after her.”
“Yes,” he said haltingly in Anglo-Saxon. “Good.”
She smiled. So, he did know a word or two in her language after all.
“Freya,” he nodded to the next one. “Mor.”
Elizabeth frowned.
“Mutter,” he said in German.
“Ah...That one is named for your mother, Freya.”
“Yes.”
He pointed to the last ship, the smallest and fastest.
“Cathrinka,” he said. “Soster.”
“Your sister, Cathrinka...Katherine.”
“Good,” Ragnor replied, laughing almost merrily.
He grabbed Elizabeth up in his arms and twirled her around in a circle. He didn’t know why he did it, but something about her felt special. Something about her made him feel strong and alive.
Elizabeth giggled, caught up in the moment, too. It felt so good to be outside, to talk, to smile, to laugh. Even the simple act of smelling the sea was sublime after years of confinement in the convent. And, it felt good to see the surly Viking lord smile.
Ragnor took her hand, and showed her a deer path that wound around the cliffs. It lead down into a secret, protected cove below. It was well concealed, invisible unless one literally stumbled right into it, and a perfect spot for launching a raid. Even if a local fisherman, or a larger Anglo-Saxon war ship, happened to pass by in the water, they would not spot the Viking boats in the hidden bay until it was too late.
Elizabeth could see a group of armed Nordic warriors, presumably guards who had remained behind to defend the ships, had already made camp in the hidden valley. The scent of roasting meat wafted through the air up to Elizabeth’s nose, making her stomach growl. How long it had been since she had eaten real, red meat. The succulent smell was delicious.
“Elk,” Ragnor said.
“Værdifuld,” replied Elizabeth in the Dane’s language.
He beamed at her, and smacked her rump familiarly. She swatted his hand away, but inside she privately enjoyed his playfulness, wondering innocently what would happen once they were alone again. Did she secretly wish he would caress her breasts once more and mayhap even press upon her from behind with his manhood, just like he had done on the horse
? Certainly not! But her cheeks burned, and she hoped Ragnor did not guess her scandalous thoughts. She held his firm hand tightly to steady herself.
Throughout their treacherous descent, Ragnor’s free hand never left her for an instant, hovering protectively near the small of her back, or clasping her elbow to right her quickly if she stumbled.
“Ragnor! Ragnor!”
A cacophony of hoots and whoops filled the air when the Viking men saw their leader return.
At the bottom of the cliff, Elizabeth heard a whistle behind her. She turned, and saw the rest of the horde of raiders, scores of them, filing down the path behind her, laden with spoils. More cheers went up as the guards laid eyes on the prolific trove of plunder their cohorts had secured to be shared among all.
Elizabeth almost felt happy for them.
“I am...sorry,” Ragnor said quietly to Elizabeth.
She didn’t know what he was talking about.
But then he tugged on the cord that still hung around her neck, winding it tightly around his fist. He raised the hand victoriously and the men roared raucously. A boisterous din of jeers and catcalls assaulted her ears. Elizabeth did not need to ken a single word to know what they meant. They were applauding their lord’s conquest, and celebrating his upcoming debauchery. Rooting him on so he would defile the helpless virgin taken captive.
Elizabeth bristled. Mayhap he needed to put on a possessive display for his men, perhaps it was even for her own protection, but it rankled her to the core. She boiled with fury. She had done nothing this day but whatever he asked her to. There was absolutely no need to collar her like a hound, except to humiliate, degrade and embarrass her. He had changed back to the Viking brute in only seconds.
Ragnor strode through the camp, pumping hands vigorously with his men, receiving their walloping congratulatory thumps on his back, and returning them in full measure. One gigantic man lifted the Viking lord clear off his feet with an enthusiastic bear hug, almost tugging Elizabeth by the neck right along with him.
