Her Lord and Master

by Alexa Cole

“What say you, Ragnor?” the man tried again. “Why do you get to keep the girl?”

  Ragnor did not look up.

  He paused a long moment before he spoke.

  “Because I want her,” he said simply.

  The angry man opened his mouth again to protest, but he was cut off.

  “I say—-"

  “—-Do you wish to challenge me, Føde?” the leader’s words were almost inaudible.

  Someone gasped.

  Ragnor stopped peeling the apple. A silver ray of moonlight glinted off his wicked, jagged knife.

  “Any weapon, Føde, you choose,” Ragnor said.

  Silence.

  “Or no weapon at all, you decide. Hand to hand.”

  Elizabeth looked at Ragnor, then at the man, and back again. The man was much, much bigger than he was. Yet everyone seemed to know something about Ragnor that she didn’t.

  The other man shook his head, and sputtered

  “Do you wish to challenge me for the girl?” Ragnor repeated.

  “No, my liege,” the man said, stammering.

  “Then ‘tis finished,” he bit into the apple.

  The other man bowed, and backed away.

  “And no more ale this night for you, Føde.”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  “Does anyone else wish to challenge me?” Ragnor came to his feet.

  No one spoke. He waited a long moment.

  “Very well. The girl is mine,” he proclaimed loudly. “I will hear the matter no more.”

  Ragnor took Elizabeth’s hand, and lead her to the tent.

  People began to chant. “Ragnor! Ragnor!”

  They thumped their shields noisily with their fists and swords.

  The throng moved in rapidly around Føde, and he disappeared. The feast resumed, as if on cue, and the agitator was absorbed into the merry, drunken crowd.

  Just like that, it was over. Her fate was sealed.

  She was the Viking’s woman.

  Chapter Six

  Inside, the tent had been transformed. A hempen tarp covered the floor, except around a small fire, where a circle had been cut around it. The fire glowed inside a copper brazier in the middle of the room, settled safely upon a pile of rocks, inside a ring of stones. An overturned wooden barrel formed a table that it held a candelabrum, stolen from the convent, Elizabeth noted, along with some candles that also looked suspiciously familiar.

  Ragnor’s sword and shield had been laid out meticulously next to the bed, along with his various other accoutrements of war.

  Additional candles had been lit and scattered about the room, forming a radiant circle of pinkish light. To the right hand side, a luxuriant pile of furs – literally a fortune’s worth - made a lavish bed, and to the left was a wooden chair with an embroidered cushion. Elizabeth recognized it as the abbess’ special seat, the only one in the priory where a pillow was permitted. No one was allowed to touch it.

  From now on that would be her special chair, Elizabeth thought with glee. She apologized instantly to God for her avarice. It was a sin.

  In the back of the tent stood her laundry tub.

  The oversized tin trough was filled with warm water, and rose petals floated on the surface. A kettle of steaming hot water sat patiently beside it, along with a plush pile of drying towels. The tree stump had made a perfect side table, and a jug of mead was waiting atop it.

  In that moment, she felt like the most pampered and spoiled woman ever to live.

  “Thank you, my lord,” she mumbled.

  Ragnor led her to the improvised bathing tub, and pointed for her to get in. Elizabeth shook her head. She couldn’t take off her clothes in front of him. Then she would be naked, and all alone in a room with a man. A strange man. He was not her husband, and she was still under a vow of chastity. Forever.

  “I’m sorry,” she said quickly. “I can’t. I mean...”

  Shrugging, he went to a leather satchel that lay beside the bed, and retrieved a long length of rope. He pulled it out of his bag, and wound it, casually, around his hand. At the same time, he took off his leather belt, doubling it over in his other hand. He peered at her darkly, and strode directly towards her.

  Elizabeth watched him warily.

  She would be damned if she would let him tie her up again. She would run through the camp naked screeching like a harpy if she had to, but she would not permit him to restraint her. She would throw herself in the cold sea, and swim to France, if that’s what it took.

  Instead, Ragnor strung the rope up between two sturdy tent posts. He unfurled a bundle that lay next to the tub, shaking it out. It was a large cloak made of fur, lined on both the inside and out. She had never seen such a thing. He hung the fur robe over the rope, tied it with the belt, making a temporary curtain. He stepped to the other side to give her privacy.

  Elizabeth hesitated. This was still highly improper in every way. Even if she weren’t pledged to the church, this man was not her lawful spouse, not even her betrothed. She barely knew him.

  And he was a contemptible Viking.

  Yet the bath looked heavenly. It had been five years since she had bathed in a tub. At the abbey, the only hygiene available was daily cold ablutions, between chilly stone stalls, in the undercroft of the convent. Occasionally, Elizabeth had snuck out in the wee hours of the morning, before dawn, to immerse herself in the frigid water of the River Aln. It had been invigorating, and it had gotten the job done, but there was nothing in the world like a long soak in a tub of hot water.

  Mayhap it would not be so improper if she remained clothed...

  Finally, she gave in to temptation. She doffed her cloak and kept her kirtle, then stepped into the water. What harm could possibly come from it if she was still wearing a dress? She wasn’t technically naked, she told herself, so truly nothing unseemly could occur at all. Except that she was alone with him. And he had kidnapped her.

  And that he was the most virile and handsome man she had ever seen.

  Shrugging off the feeling that she was hurling herself into a dangerous abyss, she sat down in the bathing tub, and laid back. Just as she expected, the hot, fragrant water was heavenly. Elizabeth closed her eyes and relaxed.

  Inevitably, thoughts of Ragnor filled her mind. She recalled how he had kissed her, just before the feast, gently at first, and then with passion. She imagined herself kissing him back, touching his face, and running her hands though his hair. She twirled his downy locks through her fingers in her mind, feeling his lips on her breasts. Her body grew warm and restless, and an ache began to grow in her nether lands. She wanted to relieve it but she knew not how.

  Agitated, she pulled her skirt up around her hips, feeling confined by the annoying, wet fabric.

  “Sæbe?” Ragnor’s voice penetrated her vivid reverie.

  His head peeked around the fur curtain, looking right at her shamelessly. His hand was extended, holding out a bar of soap.

  Elizabeth gasped, and scrambled to cover herself. The water only barely came up to her armpits, and her breasts were floating like water lilies on the surface.

  “Ragnor!” she squealed.

  Her wet kirtle was all but transparent, and she knew he could see everything. For all the good it had done to conceal her, she should have disrobed completely. It was utterly useless.

  He laughed, and held out the soap to her, just out of reach.

  “Kom,” he teased. Come.

  Elizabeth shook her head forcefully. Their eyes met.

  “Kom, Elizaveta,” he coaxed.

  Again, she declined.

  He strolled towards her from behind the curtain, eyeing her body blatantly as he moved. He stopped directly next to the tub, slightly behind her. He knelt down close, leaning over her shoulder. Teasing, he held the soap in front of her, and she tried to grab it. She clutched at it frantically, but he held it away, smiling.

  Finally, he dropped it.

  Straight between her knees.

  “Sorry,” he said in Engl
ish, with a boyish shrug.

  She knew he was anything but sorry. His eyes flashed mischievously.

  Elizabeth groped between her legs, searching for the slippery soap, while at the same time, trying to cover bobbing breasts from his sight. The comical display only aroused Ragnor further. She was a lovely vision, a water nymph, a kelpie, or a captivating siren, he thought. She was the most mesmerizing thing he had ever seen.

  He reached between her legs, and caught the soap easily.

  But he didn’t remove his hand.

  Elizabeth froze. Her breath stopped. Her eyes went wide.

  His hand was touching her. In her most private place.

  Fire emanated from her loins. The soap pressed against her outer labia, the last flimsy barrier between his hand and her flesh. He moved lightly, and began to make long, slow circles, lathering her womanhood with the soap. For what seemed like an eternity, he teased her this way, never touching her with his hand, letting the slick soap arouse her into a state of abandon.

  Slowly, the pressure increased, and he glided the bar between her nether lips. Up and down he rubbed, the soap growing smaller and smaller as it dissolved against her, his fingers now brushing her lips.

  Unhurriedly, he circled her button of pleasure with his thumb. He continued making spherical motions around her core with his hand. Closer and closer he moved to the entrance of her cavern, until the image flashed in her mind of his fingers diving right into her cave.

  She gasped, mortified at her own shocking thoughts.

  Ragnor’s free hand came about her left shoulder, and cupped her left breast. Languorously, both hands moved in unison, drawing slow circles of pleasure on her body, above and below, eliciting soft mews of desire from her lips. Meanwhile, his mouth lowered upon her skin, searching for the most sensitive spots on the back of her neck. Her floppy knees fell apart loosely, like butterfly wings. She tried to draw them back together, but they were made of sap.

  The sliver of soap floated to the surface.

  Elizabeth’s hips moved instinctively against his hand. He dipped the tip of one finger just into the mouth of her cave. It darted in and out like a little fish, returning to swirl around her sensitive nub.

  Tension rose inside her. She felt like she was running down a hill too quickly, faster and faster, like she had done as a child, until she was flying out of control. The sensation was frightening, yet it was so thrilling, she couldn’t stop herself from running headlong into it, seeking the prize she knew, instinctively, awaited her ahead.

  Sensing her impending release, Ragnor pulled himself away.

  The time wasn’t right. Not yet.

  But it was a herculean effort. His balls ached, and his mighty little soldier was marching so strenuously, he felt like the thudding head would pop right off.

  Ragnor held out the bear-skin robe, and she stepped quickly into it, scandalized by her own body’s response to him. The robe was warm and incredibly soft. Every inch of her finely-tuned flesh tickled pleasantly where it caressed her. He held her from behind for a long moment, his arms ensconced in the fur of the robe.

  Dragging himself away, Ragnor pulled the chair nearer to the fire, setting it conspicuously close to the tub. He raised her feet up on to the pile of drying cloths, situating them comfortably, and planted an affectionate kiss upon her mouth.

  She wanted to grab his head, and draw his mouth back down upon hers, to beg him to allay the prickly pain between her legs with his hands. But she clasped her fingers together tightly instead, and twiddled her thumbs to stop her hands from shaking.

  Ragnor disrobed unhurriedly, knowing full well the affect it would have on her. He was not vain, but he knew woman enjoyed viewing his body. Even better, Elizabeth was a virgin, whose innocent eyes had seen no man unclothed. Knowing he was the first - and only - man she would see naked did nothing to ease the uncomfortable condition of his stiff, rigid manhood.

  Elizabeth almost swooned, when he began to doff his clothes. What was he doing? Surely he didn’t intent to become naked right in front of her. She was seated less than three feet away from him!

  She squeezed her hands into fists, and tried to avert her eyes. She stared straight ahead at the fire, as he stripped off his shirt. She knew his chest was splendidly wide and broad, swelling and rippling with muscles. She would not look at it, nor at his bulging biceps, banded with thick gold rings, and painted with blackened warrior tattoos.

  He removed the leather wristlets that covered his forearms, setting them aside, along with the gold arm bands. She noticed the thick tendons that corded his arms, and the pulsing veins that covered that back of his hands. The sheer vitality of him was magnetic.

  When he turned away from her, and bent over to remove his boots, Elizabeth nearly fell off her chair.

  His buttocks were mere inches away from her!

  And he wore no undergarment.

  Feigning oblivion, Ragnor slid his leather pants slowly down his hips, over his butt and down his legs, smirking to himself with every inch of naked skin he revealed to her. Behind him, he could hear Elizabeth’s shocked breath growing more and more ragged, and he could envisage her pale, chaste face turning burgundy with shock. She was squirming in her chair uncomfortably, seeking release for the secret little ache that she didn’t think he knew about. Ah, she had reacted to his nudity precisely how he hoped she would. She liked it.

  He’d better cool things off before she came right there in her chair, he laughed to himself.

  Ragnor eased himself into the water, now barely lukewarm. He had been thinking of a hot bath since he first saw the jumbo tub at the convent that morning, but tepid water had certainly been worth the price to let Elizabeth bathe first. Seeing her in the water had only whetted his appetite for her. Her body was even more flawless than he had imagined, and he was burning with yearning for her. The big, brown nun’s habit did her a grave injustice, he thought, submersing himself in the half-cold water. He would have it burned tomorrow, he decided. She deserved to be clothed like a queen.

  While the tub had been large and ample for Elizabeth, it was not nearly adequate for Ragnor’s large frame. He lounged against the metal, leaning his head against the back, and resting his arms on the rim. But the situation was far from ideal. If he reclined his head, there was no room for his long legs. If he submerged his legs, he had to sit awkwardly upright, which completely defeated the purpose of taking a bath in a tub in the first place. Ruefully, he let his legs dangle outside the tub. At least they were warm by the fire.

  Elizabeth giggled at his predicament, and he laughed too. Oh, how they would banter and joke when she learned his language, he anticipated cheerily. Six months immersed in Denmark, and she would be just as fluent as Jordan was, he predicted.

  He could tell she was keenly intelligent, and her regal bearing revealed she was a certainly someone of high stature in these lands. It would not do for him to keep her as a slave once they reached his home. No, he would have to make her a freewoman. Once he had tamed her that was. He smiled, and she smiled back.

  But now was not the time for friendly repartee, he thought, shifting in the water. It was time to teach Elizabeth why her god had blessed her with such gorgeous lady parts and subtle feminine charm. And it was time to put them to use. He scrubbed himself quickly with the sliver of soap, and rinsed rapidly.

  “Bringe mig dem,” he said in Danish, pointing to the pile of dry towels. “Please,” he added.

  She shook her head. If he got out of the water, she would have to see him again. All of him. Naked.

  “Please?”

  She shook her head again.

  His eyes held hers, challenging her. She returned his gaze boldly. So, she was going to be stubborn, he thought. Two could play at that game. He would enjoy every minute of it...So would she, he would make sure.

  “Suit yourself,” he said in Danish, shrugging.

  If she wanted to play hardball, he could play too.

  Ragnor cocked a sardonic brow,
and slowly took his manhood overtly into his hand. He looked over the rim of the tub at Elizabeth, locking eyes with her. When she realized what he was doing, her eyes went wide, and her face invented a new color of red to blush.

  He lathered the soap between his palms, until it was white and frothy. Audaciously, he pulled on his spear until it grew longer. Elizabeth gulped dryly.

  He was touching himself!

  Ostentatiously, he skimmed his hand all the way down the shaft. She gasped. It was so big it stood clear out of the water. He ran his hand back up to the top. She couldn’t pull her eyes away. It grew thicker, and seemed to dance, as she watched. Once, twice, again, he repeated the vulgar motion, his eyes never leaving her.

  Suddenly, she didn’t even want to look away. She wanted to get closer. He pulled the skin all the way down, revealing a smooth, shiny head. She wanted to watch; she wanted to touch it. He pulled upward, and the head disappeared. She wanted to hold it and caress it, just like he was doing. He continued rubbing himself up and down with long, smooth strokes. She couldn’t move forward, yet couldn’t flee either. She stood spellbound.

  A bead appeared at the tip, and her mouth watered.

  “Kom her, Elizaveta,” he encouraged her.

  Elizabeth came shakily to her feet. She took one step towards the tub. He knew she wanted to join him. It was written all over her body. Her neck flushed prettily, and she exhaled in charming little puffs. She just needed him to tell her what to do, to teach her heart what her body already knew, to seduce her so she would not feel culpable for what was about to transpire.

  Ragnor continued his lewd show, guessing correctly her curiosity would soon override her caution. He pumped faster, just enough to arouse her interest, but not enough to frighten her. His mission was to calm her fears and pique her curiosity, not scare her entirely out of her wits, he thought. If she saw him roaring like a lion, shaking like an earthquake, shooting his cream like a geyser, she would run out of the tent shrieking.

  At least right now she would. Later, she would be doing precisely the same herself, he laughed.

  Another spurt of cream trickled from his manhood, and he saw her actually lick her lips.