Tykir put his face into both hands, atop elbows propped on the table. If he had not been muddle-headed when he came down to the hall, he was fast becoming so.
“Bodil is rescinding her agreement to wed with Rapp because the witch told her it is every woman’s right to change her mind. Can you imagine! As if women even have minds! And now Rapp suffers constantly from the gut rumbles. And that is not all. Jostein the Smith has been mooning about like a lovesick cow, and Bodil will not feel sorry for him.”
“Jostein? What has Jostein to do with this?” Tykir peeked out betwixt his fingers, thoroughly confused.
“Jostein is the one Bodil really favors, but Jostein spread her thighs and enjoyed her charms aplenty without the offer of matrimony. Then Bodil decided to show him what-for and agreed to marry Rapp in retaliation. Now, Jostein moons and Rapp’s stomach rumbles.”
“Rapp? Are you speaking of Rapp of the Big Wind? His stomach always rumbles. Is he not the one who farted and belched to the tune of ‘Three Maids and a Viking’ at the yule feast last year?”
Rurik ducked his head sheepishly, but only for a second. “She does not act as a captive should, Tykir.” He thought a moment, then asked, “She is a captive, isn’t she?”
Tykir cocked his head. “Well, yea. I mean, nay. ’Tis hard to classify her as captive, nor is she a guest.”
“The men ask when you intend to mete out her punishment. You have yet to discipline her for poisoning you back in Northumbria, not to mention her many crimes since.”
Tykir drew himself up with affront. “The wench will be punished, but I will be the one making the decision how and when, and no one else.”
Having lost that argument, Rurik tried again, “The lady pushes the bounds of impudence. Why, she whomped Bolthor over the head with a salmon just this midday when he was passing by the scullery. All he did was mention something about a saga involving trolls, witches and raspberry body parts.”
Tykir threw back his head and laughed heartily.
“I can see you remain unconvinced,” Rurik said with disgust. He sighed deeply, then informed him, “If the rest of what I’ve related does not weigh heavily against the witch, then hear this: The wolf packs have come down from the mountains. You must admit ’tis too early in the season for that. Some of the village folk claim the beasts howl all night long. I say they are the witch’s familiars come to do the beckoning of their sorceress mistress.”
It took several moments for Rurik’s words to sink into his thick head. When they did, Tykir stood abruptly. “You fool! Are you saying that you let Alinor walk the lake, alone, when there are wolves about? Best you say a prayer, or twelve, on those bloody crosses you keep carving. I swear, if she is harmed in any way, I will hold you responsible.”
With that, he grabbed a heavy fur-lined cloak and his broadsword, buckling it on as he stomped toward the double doors leading to the bailey and down to the lake. He could scarce breathe under the intense fear that overcame him.
It was he who prayed then. Not Rurik.
Please, God. Let her be safe.
No sooner did Tykir pass through the outer bailey than he saw Alinor approaching around the bend of the closer bank of the lake. Thank the gods, she was not far away. Though he was feeling much better and his leg hardly pained him, he probably would have been incapable of a long jaunt around the lake.
A quick glance back over his shoulder showed that Bolthor, Rurik and a dozen soldiers had donned light armor and weapons, about to follow after him. No doubt Rurik had told them of his concern about the wolves. By the wisdom of Odin! There should have been patrols guarding the area anyhow, if not for Alinor, then for the villagers who might be at risk.
He waved them back for now.
Alinor did not notice him yet, nor did Beast, who was racing up and down a slippery wooded path after a large rabbit. Alinor had stopped, her attention caught by the beautiful scene before her. Earlier that day it had snowed heavily. Now the lake and the snow-capped trees presented a vision of pure white under a bright blue sky. The air was chill and windy, but bearable. In truth, he could not blame Alinor for wanting this bit of fresh air whilst the light lasted. Although it was only early afternoon, it would be dark soon.
All that Tykir could see of Alinor was her face, in profile, covered as she was by his heavy, hooded, fur-lined cloak, which dragged on the ground behind her. For some reason, his heart constricted, watching her admire that which he held in such high regard, in his hidden heart of hearts.
He was thirty-five years old—a man of middle age—and still the old hurts stayed with him. It was foolish, really, how he could not let them go. The first eight years of his life he’d struggled like a scrappy pup, seeking affection from anyone who came within sight of him. Yipping, yapping, “Love me, love me.” How many times had his hopes and heart been battered?
Oh, his father had never intended to wound him so. Staying away from him and Eirik had probably saved their lives, as intended. And his mother, who’d abandoned him asababe…she would have been a poor mother if she’d stayed. And his stepmother Ruby had had no choice in leaving him. And Eirik had had every right to go off afostering in the Saxon court, leaving him at Ravenshire with two grandparents, Dar and Aud, who’d died soon after.
What a poor Viking he was with all these weak-sapped needs! Sniveling and yearning over emotions best left to women and children…and small dogs. Actually, he had learned good lessons from all that heartache. Never care enough to be hurt. Never let any other know that you are vulnerable.
But there was one small weakness he allowed himself: Dragonstead. If he could not trust his feelings to another person, he could at least harbor secret affection for a place. And, Lord, he did love Dragonstead…every stone and timber of the keep, every drop of water in its lake, every tree and animal that marked the forests, and from a deliberately kept distance, even its people.
“Well, the troll has come a-walking.”
Tykir jolted to attention. Apparently, the lady had finally noticed him. He took the several more wide strides needed to reach her side. “Good day to you, as well, witch.”
“What brings you out of your cave?”
“You.”
“Me? Oh, God’s tears! You’re not going to start that captive nonsense again, are you? There’s nowhere for me to escape here if I tried, lest you suggest I try swimming.”
Tykir fought a grin. “Can you swim?”
“Of course I can swim. Otherwise, my brothers would have drowned me on more than one occasion as a child. They put the same worth on me as kittens and other small animals, subject to their cruelties.”
Damn! I am going to have to wring the necks of those two Saxons one of these days. Mayhap when I return her to Graycote, I will teach Egbert and Hebert a few lessons, Viking-style.
“Don’t you be looking at me with pity, you lout. Any man who owns paradise and punishes himself for some lackwit reason by staying away a good part of the year is the one to be pitied. All for the sake of a-Viking or a-wandering or a-trading or—”
“—a-raping and a-plundering?” he suggested, not even bothering to deny her assertion that he was a fool to stay away from a home he loved. She saw too much. Or mayhap he allowed her to see too much. Now that was a dangerous possibility.
“At least you have not neglected your home. I will give you that,” she declared, sniffing haughtily. “The estate is run efficiently, inside and out, even in your absence.”
When had he asked for her approval? The bold wench! “And how would you know about the workings of Dragonstead? Its fields are covered with snow. Its stores are locked up in outbuildings. Its animals are snug in their winter stalls.”
They’d begun to walk side by side back toward the keep. Somehow his hand had linked with hers as they ambled along. Or had her fingers laced with his? Either way, she acted as if it was the most natural thing in the world. And, blessed Lord, it was. He could not remember any time in his life when he’d gotten joy from such a sim
ple thing as holding a maid’s hand…and she was well past the stage of being a maid.
Mayhap she did have witchly powers.
Mayhap he was besotted.
Mayhap he did not give a bloody damn, either way.
“I spoke with some of the villagers whilst I was walking,” she said in answer to his question as to how she knew of Dragonstead’s good care. “They have high praise for you. And Girta thinks you walk on water.”
He shrugged. “And that brings us to the reason for my clomping through the snow after you. A lady should not be out walking alone, unprotected. There are wolves about.”
“Wolves?” She shuddered, then waved his concern aside with her free hand.
He was holding on to her other hand like a lifeline. Even realizing that sad reality, he did not let go. It felt too good, and he had been feeling so bad lately. Hell, not lately, he corrected. Forever.
“But not to fear,” she babbled on, “I have brought my protection with me. Beast.”
They both turned as one to see the dog rolling playfully, side over side, in the fluffy snow.
“Some knight in armor your Lord Beast would prove!” he scoffed.
As if sensing that he was the subject of their discussion, Beast stood and shook his fur, then came loping toward them, tail wagging and tongue lolling. Without preamble, Beast stood on his hind legs, forelegs propped on her shoulder, and gave Alinor several sloppy dog kisses. Before he knew what the beast was about, the animal did the same to him, except that Tykir could swear he added more slobber.
Alinor laughed gaily.
He said, “Yeech,” but he was oddly touched by the dog’s demonstration. Beast dropped to all four legs and gave them each a long, considering look, waiting like a good dog to be told what to do next.
“Wouldn’t it be nice if people could love us unconditionally as a dog does?”
He raised a brow at her.
“A dog does not say I will love you if you are beautiful. Or if you do what I want you to. Or if you have wealth. Or if you produce babes. Or—”
“—if you are good-mannered. Or more quiet. Or less troublesome. Or a strong fighter. Or a diligent student. Or generous with gifts. Or especially lusty in lovemaking.” He waggled his eyebrows at her with that last remark.
She clicked her tongue in a familiar tutting sound he was coming to love. Nay, he was not coming to love anything about her. ’Twas just a sound he was coming to associate with her. There. He felt better having made that correction in his mind.
“Tykir?” she said softly.
He braced himself. The wench had a habit of boring her way into his personal life with her intrusive questions, and they most always started with a soft-spoken, “Tykir?”
“Why have you never settled here with wife and children?”
Intrusive did not begin to describe the depth of her probe this time. It speared the heart of him. He was about to say that it was none of her affair. Instead, some demon in his head said, “Why don’t you tell me…since you seem to have an opinion on every blessed thing in the world?”
“Mayhap you never found the woman with whom you wanted to share Dragonstead,” she said faintly. The expression that passed over her face could only be described as glorious.
Why should she look glorious?
He did not want to know.
Yea, I do. Why?
Females always think it is a woman who will make a man’s life complete. A fierce fight, strong ale and a warm bed…that is all a man really needs…and mayhap an occasional wench, but for rutting only.
Could she possibly think she is that woman?
“Where do you get these fey ideas?” he snapped, dropping her hand from his clasp as if it were suddenly leprous.
“Testy today, are you? Perchance you should have stayed abed another day. I know,” she pronounced brightly, “you need another bowl of my chicken soup.”
He put a forearm to his forehead in mock horror. Well, not really mock. He would be truly horrified if he had to slurp another drop of that soup.
“By the by, why has a lock been put on the chicken coop? Can you open it for me?”
He started to laugh then and began to walk toward the outer bailey.
“Answer me,” she demanded to his back.
He didn’t stop walking away, just kept on laughing.
“I’ll show him,” he thought he heard her mutter, just before something hit him on the back of the head with a wet splat.
He turned with disbelief. The wench was dancing from foot to foot, taunting him with a fat lump of snow in each extended hand. She had dared to strike him with a snowball?
He took two steps toward her, exiting the castle grounds again.
She backed up two steps. “Now, Tykir, I was just doing you a favor.”
“A favor?” he hooted. “What kind of feminine illogic is that?”
“You said just several days past that you never had any playmates as a child…no one to have snowball fights with.”
His eyes grew wide at that. Then he chuckled. “You wish to play with me?” He took two more long steps closer.
She dropped her snowballs and ducked behind a wide tree. Peering around, she replied, “Nay. ’Twas just a joke…because you were ignoring me.”
“So, now you want my attentions?” He skirted around the tree and smiled.
“Not those kinds of attentions, you lout.” She skipped to the other side.
He stalked her, feinting one way, then the other.
She turned tail and ran for the open gates of the castle ramparts.
He meant to grab her by the waist from behind but his foot slipped in the snow and he ended up tackling her to the ground, falling on top of her.
“I can’t breathe, you big oaf,” she said in a suffocated whisper.
He lifted himself slightly, allowing her to turn onto her back, then immediately pressed his body over hers, holding her fast to the ground. He took both her wrists in one hand and held her arms above her head. “Now you have my attention,” he said, also in a suffocated whisper.
And she did have his attention.
Her hood had come off in the struggle and her bright red hair lay in cascades over the white snow, like silken flames. Her face was wind-flushed under her creamy, freckled skin. Her lips parted and she breathed heavily from their exertions. She stared at him through clear green eyes, framed with blondish-red lashes and brows.
She was the same near-homely woman he’d first seen on the Northumbrian moors tending her sheep. And she was different. Now she was beautiful to him. How could that be?
“So, the Saxon wench wants to play with a Viking, hmm?” he teased, taking a handful of downy snow in his free hand and rubbing it into her face.
She struggled and sputtered, to no avail. “You have me at a disadvantage, Viking…being as big as a war horse. Release me.”
“Nay, not till you pay forfeit for your misdeed.”
“Hah! And what might that be?” she said, sweeping her tongue over her top and bottom lips to remove the lingering flakes.
He felt that sweep over every nerve ending in his body, and one in particular.
“You have already refused my coin. And I am not going to gift you my prize ram, even though your land is well suited to raising sheep.”
He laughed. “Never once did it occur to me to ask for a bloody lump of mutton as forfeit.”
“What then?” she asked, still struggling against his hold.
He had not intended to say, “A kiss.” The words just slipped out.
“A kiss?” she repeated. “That’s all?”
All? That was everything, as he soon discovered.
She moaned before he even touched her. Oh, if women only knew the power of a moan, released at just the right moment, men would be slaves to their every whim. He was a man partial to a woman’s moan.
First, he settled his warm lips over her icy ones, still cool from the snow bath. Gently, he pressed, testing for a perfect fit. It
was.
“Do you like that kind of kiss?” he murmured against her mouth.
“I don’t know,” she murmured back, her breath sweet and her lips no longer cold. “I have naught to compare it with.”
“Bold wench!” he chided, nipping at her bottom lip with his teeth. Now that he had her lips parted, he kissed her more forcefully, shaping from side to side, giving and demanding, pressing and sucking. When he pulled back this time, her lips were moist and her green eyes glazed over. “And that kiss?”
“’Twas satisfactory, I suppose.”
“Satisfactory? That is what one says about a batch of manchet bread. Or a business transaction.”
“Well, I was hoping for another kiss, like that other.”
“What other?”
“The one back at Hedeby.”
Ah, now he understood. As he recalled, there were tongues involved. He smiled. “So, you remember my kisses from that night in the bed furs, do you?” he asked, twining a strand of her rose-scented hair around a forefinger, studying the change of colors as it was held this way and that in the sunlight, everything from pale blond to bright orange.
“Don’t you remember those kisses?” she asked, tilting her head slightly to the side.
“Som man roper i skogen fr en svar,” he said with a laugh.
“What does that mean?”
“As you shout in the forest, so will the echo sound.”
“Well, that’s as clear as moat mud.”
“It means, ask a stupid question and you get a stupid answer.”
“Oh.”
“Are we done jabbering?”
“I hope so.”
Lord, the woman had no sense at all, tempting a man with such wanton insinuations. This time he burrowed his fingers into her hair, holding her face in place. He kissed her voraciously then, letting loose with all the pent-up longings of the past few sennights…or mayhap the past few years…or, God above, mayhap a lifetime.
He tongued her open mouth.
She gave him her tongue in return.
He whispered wicked words when he came up for air. And she whispered equally wicked things back—things she could not possibly comprehend from her own experience.
Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] Page 23
