by Alexa Cole
“Jed er ked af,” he murmured against her neck. “Elizaveta.”
With deliberate slowness, he glided his free hand downward and untied the strays that bound her cloak. She had been genuinely terrified for a moment, and he was truly sorry for that. But he knew the pleasure he would teach her this night would more than make up for the fear she felt right now. Her body had already responded enthusiastically to his touch, and he was confident he had only uncovered the tip of the iceberg of her passions. He would unleash all of the desires he knew she held pent up inside.
Ragnor eased back the lapels of fabric that obscured her body from his hungry eyes. His eyes feasted upon the view for a long moment. Good gods, she was the embodiment of perfection, he thought. Every inch of her body had been created to drive a man insane with the need to burrow himself deep inside of her.
Drinking in every inch of flesh, Ragnor drew a long line down the sensitive swell of the outside of her breast. Elizabeth’s nipples puckered and raised. He repeated the action again, watching with fascination, as pleasure and yearning played across her face. He traced the underside of her fleshy mounds, one after another, lifting them and kneading them, one by one. His greedy eyes never left her as he drew her higher and higher to the heights of wonderment.
He placed his palm flat over her heart, and ran his hand down her belly. Her stomach quivered, and her hips arched instinctively against him.
Ragnor released her wrists, finally, and cupped both of her engorged globes with his hands. His mouth came down upon her breast, latching upon her nipple through her dress. She moaned deep in her throat, and clenched her small fists.
He smiled between her bosoms. Yes, she was a lusty one, just as he had hoped. Ragnor licked her nipple, wetting her dress visibly, and then moved to its partner, lavishing it with equal attention. He squeezed them together, sucking both nipples at once. His hands spanned her ribs, while his hips met hers with gentle gyrations.
Outside, a horn blew.
“Jeg er sulten,” he said, stopping abruptly.
Elizabeth didn’t understand. She looked down at herself, legs splayed, nipples wet, coat unfastened. She was a disgusting tramp. And obviously, Ragnor thought so too. She scrambled to cover herself, horrified. She had never been more ashamed in her life.
Ragnor came to his feet.
“Er du sulten?” he held out his hand to help her rise.
She refused his assistance and tied her cloak hastily, looking away. Ragnor rubbed his hand over his belly and licked his lips, grinning.
“Sulten,” he repeated. His flat stomach growled loudly. “Starving.”
He chuckled, and Elizabeth peeked up out of the corner of her eye. He was almost charming when he smiled, she had to admit.
Yes, she was starving too.
“Kom med mig,” he took her hand, and entwined his fingers reassuringly with hers.
She tried to pull away but he held fast, squeezing tightly. He kissed her mouth kindly, encouragingly. But Elizabeth hesitated when he led her to the door.
“Kom,” he urged gently. “Come.”
Elizabeth looked into his eyes, searching his face for a clue to her fate. His eyes were soft and warm now, and he was not ordering her or commanding her. He was asking her to join him. His mouth was smiling. He bore no resemblance to the monster that had looted a convent and kidnapped a nun, all before noon, then paraded her like whore before his men in a dog collar.
Yet, there was no reason for her to trust him.
There was no reason for her not to, either.
Except that he was evil incarnate.
He was a Viking.
Chapter Five
Elizabeth followed Ragnor through the flaps of the tent, out into the crisp night air. The bonfire was a blazing inferno now, and all of the raiders were seated upon fallen logs and flat stones scattered around the beach. Ribbons of indigo, crimson and citrine traversed the sky. The crowd was laughing, singing, and drinking mead from wooden tankards. The stolen barrels of wine and ale had been rolled out to the middle of the circle, and tapped for all to partake.
Some of the men were dancing, accompanied by music made with pan pipes, bone whistles, horn bugles and kettle drums. One man even had a lyre. Elizabeth thought it sounded like the old folk music of the Northumbrian-Scottish borderlands. She liked it instantly.
A red-headed Norsemen, seated near the tent, snickered when Ragnor and Elizabeth emerged. Another patted Ragnor on the back, as if congratulating him. Her face burned. Had all of these people heard her scream? She scanned the faces of the Danish pirates. A few smiled at her, a couple of them winked, one made a lewd gesture at her with his mouth. Every single one of them wore a knowing grin.
They all thought Ragnor had bedded her!
Elizabeth wished she could disappear into a hole in the ground. She had never felt so mortified in all her life. Ragnor squeezed her hand to comfort her, and guided her to a large fallen log just outside the door of the tent. A makeshift highboard had been constructed for them using slabs of wood and a rock. Elizabeth crossed herself when she realized the embroidered mantle covering the table was the tabernacle veil, stolen from the priory during the raid that morning. She ignored the pangs of guilt at the misuse of the sacred cloth, and looked at the feast before her.
The table was laden with bowls of local fruits, pears, cherries and currants, along with fresh mussels and clams from the nearby river. There were even prawns and boiled lobsters, straight from the sea behind them. Trays of other dishes, strange things like dill and vinegar cucumbers, caraway-studded rye bread, and smoked salmon, must have come with them from Vikingland, she thought.
Ragnor gestured politely for Elizabeth to sit on the log, and then took a seat next to her himself. He put his arm protectively around her waist, and held her closely to his side. Just like the Anglo-Saxon custom, there was an empty wooden trencher on the table for them to share as a plate. Ragnor began to eagerly fill the tray with foods. He motioned for her to eat, so she helped herself to fruit and clams.
“My lord,” Jordan approached with a bow to his lord.
“Jordan,” Ragnor greeted him.
They spoke rapidly in Danish, and Elizabeth could comprehend not a word.
While the men talked, Elizabeth ate fruit, and tried to calm her racing heart. She studied Ragnor’s face covertly out of the corner of her eye. His sharp nose was perfectly sculpted, and his strong jaw was angular and masculine. His face had been shaven clean this morning, except for his small, neat goatee, but now dark stubble covered his chiseled cheeks. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed when he talked, and his deep, rumbling voice sent strange sensations deep into her belly. Even his lips looked attractive, she mused, recalling his tongue in her mouth, and his mouth on her breasts. She closed her cloak tighter to cover them.
Elizabeth forced herself to relax, taking in the festive scene around her. To the left, several men were plucking wild ducks and geese that must have been speared on the trek after the raid.
To her right, a gigantic, one-armed man added humongous hunks of the elk meat to a cauldron of broth, boiling it over a flame. He tossed in potatoes, carrots, beets and turnips, followed by handfuls of barley and oats. The savory smell of the stew mingled with the roasting meat and sea air gave the night a delectable aroma.
A sense of anticipation pervaded the atmosphere, and she could feel it tangibly. Excitement was building, and the men’s enthusiasm was contagious. Elizabeth found herself humming along to the music, and tapping her foot to the beat as she ate.
Jordan presented Ragnor with a large, jewel-studded goblet filled with wine. He passed it politely to Elizabeth for the first drink, smiling. The vessel was so large, that she had to hold it with two hands to drink from it. She recognized the heavy, golden chalice as the sacred ciborium from the convent, used for holy communion. For a moment she blanched with guilt. But then she shrugged and took a long sip.
She knew that her parents, along with all of the other noble f
amilies, paid a substantial yearly stipend for the maintenance of the sisters of the abbey. Yet she had never seen a single farthing of the money, nor been given so much as a new chemise all the time she had lived there. The tithes had gone straight to the coffers of the bishops, archbishops, cardinals, and to the Pope in the Vatican.
Now that she was gone, kidnapped by Vikings, her family would most certainly double their donations out of guilt.
Besides, if this was the price of her freedom, then so be it. She would consider the goblet her dowry, she decided.
The paten would be too, she added, noting Jordan had served them a hefty portion of elk meat on the large, bejeweled disk of gold. It was meant to hold bread at communion. She shrugged again, and dug in to the meat with her fingers, just as Ragnor and everyone else did, sopping up the gravy with bread. At least she was out of the abbey.
Ragnor returned the half-full chalice of wine to Elizabeth to wash down the meat. She closed her eyes and drank her fill, feeling strangely connected to him, knowing her lips touched the same place his lips had been. For some reason, it felt erotic. She looked at him over the rim of the cup. His eyes burned and she knew he felt it, too.
She licked her lips. He groaned, pecking her on the neck. Someone cheered.
Ragnor reached into his pocket, and retrieved a small knife, handing it to her. It was her personal eating knife, the one she had tried to stab him with that morning at the convent. Surprised, Elizabeth mumbled her thanks and an apology at the same time.
Ragnor just smiled. He reached for an earthenware crock of a chunky, whitish condiment. Using his eating knife, he spread it thickly on the rye bread, topping it with pickled cucumbers and dried salmon. He handed it to her to try.
Elizabeth smelled the white sauce cautiously. She recognized the scent of horseradish root and vinegar. Gingerly, she took a nibble of the prickly sauce. It smelled foul, but tasted delicious, she thought, so she gobbled it down.
Ragnor was inexplicably pleased by her enthusiasm for his native foods. He selected a mussel, smoked in its shell, still dripping with warm juices. He put it to his lips. He sucked the meat out of the shell with a loud slurping noise, knowing full well the aphrodisiac affect it would have on his female companion.
Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. She did not know why, but she felt like she had just witness the most lewd and licentious act she had ever seen. The man was simply eating a shellfish, but somehow it seemed he had just performed a lascivious display, too wicked to be viewed by her virgin eyes. It was ridiculous, but it made her tingle.
Satisfied with her reaction, Ragnor ate another one, in just the same manner. He felt her squirm in her seat. She was getting hot.
He chose another one, and held it to Elizabeth’s lips. She looked at him hesitantly. He urged her on playfully with a nudge and a smile. Finally, she slurped it loudly, imitating him. They both laughed. A drop of juice gathered in the corner of her mouth. But before she could dab it away modestly, Ragnor leaned in and licked it.
Elizabeth’s face turned ruby-red. She looked at him, shocked. He had just licked her. In public. On the lips! His gaze locked with hers, and lightning flashed between them. His stare penetrated her as intimately as if she had been completely naked before him.
Someone hooted and clapped.
Elizabeth thought she would die, but Ragnor held her tightly. The banquet continued, and more food appeared. There was dried cod they called ‘lutefisk,’ strange turnips called ‘rutabagas,’ and even pickled eggs. Ragnor reached for Elizabeth’s hand under the table, lacing his fingers with hers, and making slow circles on her wrist with his thumb. The tiny motion caused Elizabeth’s belly to quiver, but she didn’t pull her hand away, as she should have. She liked it.
All around them, the camp was a flurry of activity. The other men served themselves elk from the spit, and stew straight out of the pot. More wooden trenchers, piled high with mountains of food, were passed around the crowd. Elizabeth saw that many of the men had lain their shields across their legs, forming temporary tables. All the while, the dancing, singing and drinking carried on.
Elizabeth took the opportunity to observe the Viking men around her as she dined. To a man, they all had long hair. Some of the men’s hair was worn straight and loose, while others had dreads locks or braids. They all wore ornate gold or silver bands around their biceps, and leather about their wrists. A couple had cords about their necks, strewn with animal teeth and bones. Almost all had beards; a few were long and twisted, or forked and tipped with beads. Every one of them looked ferocious.
Most of the men had donned shirts for dinner – mothers around the world must be in agreement on that point, Elizabeth thought – with leather vests and tunics, or collars lined with fur. A handful of men had donned pants made of bear fur. They were all still armed to the hilt, and many of them remained in their battle helmets. She wondered if they slept like that, ready for battle at any instant.
Elizabeth’s eyes were drawn to one of the dancers. Like the rest, his hair was long, but he didn’t have a beard. He was fully armed like his companions, but rather than a battle axe, he carried a crossbow strung across his back. His clothing and ornamentation was the same as the rest, except for a short, fringed apron of leather about his hips. His face was obscured from her view as he danced to the music, but something peculiar about him held her interest.
When he turned, wide, amber eyes lined with coal looked directly at Elizabeth.
The warrior was a woman. A beautiful woman!
Her eyes flew about the circle. One, two, five, ten. More than a score of the Viking warriors were female.
“Shield maidens,” Ragnor said, sensing her surprise. “Although they are not all truly maidens. Some are married women.”
Women who armed themselves, and fought in war beside men? It was outrageous. Yet for some reason, Elizabeth burned with inexplicable jealousy at their lithe, beautiful bodies, so free to move among the men, laughing, dancing and enjoying life.
As the night progressed, the soldiers presented themselves one by one before Ragnor, and saluted their Viking lord. Elizabeth seethed when the striking shield maidens passed.
The warriors bowed before him, and thumped their chests with fists over their hearts, even the women. ‘Jarl,’ they all called him. Elizabeth guessed it meant chieftain, captain or earl. There was no room for doubt that he was their respected, and beloved, commander. She actually felt proud to be with him.
“I am so full, I could not eat another bite,” Elizabeth groaned when the meal was finished.
Ragnor didn’t understand her. She rubbed her stomach comically. He laughed, and pointed to his in agreement.
“Look...More food,” he said, smiling, and nodding to Jordan who was rushing toward them with another tray.
Elizabeth stared, incredulous.
“Smoked apples with honey,” Jordan said. “And ‘søtsuppe’ for dessert.”
He passed her a steamy bowl of warm, thick cream. There were raspberries, gooseberries, star anise and cloves cooked into the liquid. Other berries she didn’t recognize, dull blue and bright red, dotted the dessert. Elizabeth drank it straight from the bowl, and then passed it to Ragnor. Not surprisingly, it was every bit as appetizing as the rest of the meal had been.
“Do you like...blue...berries?” Ragnor asked in English, returning the bowl to her to finish it off.
She nodded affirmatively between sips. He looked to Jordan to explain.
“They are called juniper berries, from our lands,” the young man said. “The bright red ones are lingonberries.”
Ragnor watched her nod, and sip the dessert soup daintily, growing hard again as she swallowed the cream. His mind flashed with a vision of his white milk on her lips, her little tongue darting out of her mouth to taste it. He imagined her licking her fingertips, impatiently tasting his manly ambrosia. Would she swallow his masculine essence as enthusiastically as she had devoured the cream?
“I like it,” she replied.
“The berries are sweet,”
“You are sweet,” Ragnor said, his voice low.
He leaned in to her, his eyes scanning her face hungrily. Jordan vanished swiftly into the darkness.
Ragnor’s hand came up, cupping the side of her face, and he moved close to her lips. His mouth hovered over hers, stealing her breath from her lungs. His breathe smelled sweet like berries, anise and wine. The scent of his skin clung to her neck from their earlier embraces. His lips finally came down on hers, kissing her softly.
Suddenly, everything went quiet.
A cricket chirped. The fire crackled.
Someone dropped a spoon in the pot of stew with a loud clang.
One of the hulking Danes stood before Ragnor and Elizabeth, obscuring the bonfire behind him. He was easily the biggest man Elizabeth had ever seen, making even Ragnor look small. Tension was thick in the air. A circle of warriors formed silently behind Ragnor, and the elite guards closed in upon Elizabeth. Jordan reappeared, coming to stand right next to Elizabeth with his arms crossed bravely over his adolescent chest.
The man’s ugly face was a mask of rage.
“Why does Ragnor get to keep a slave?” his voice boomed.
Half of the Viking men stood up, soundlessly, and put their hands on the hilts of their swords.
“We agreed to take no slaves on this raid, only booty,” the man said.
Elizabeth felt two hundred pairs of eyes boring into her. Jordan translated quietly at her side.
Ragnor pulled a giant dirk out of its sheath. He reached slowly for an apple, and began to peel it, disinterestedly, with the big seax dagger. His eyes never left the fruit.
You could have heard a pin drop.
Without a sound, ten or twelve men appeared spontaneously around the angry man, swords drawn, in unspoken communication. They were disciplined warriors, accustomed to working in silent unison. And they were fiercely loyal to their leader.
