by Jianne Carlo
Using his elbows, he nudged her thighs wide, and spread the swollen ruby lips of her sex. The reddened hood guarding her pleasure winked at him. He salivated.
She squirmed.
“Be still,” he growled and worked her woman’s pearl free of its armor. “Valhalla.”
He brushed his lips over the tiny nub and swirled his tongue around the base in a wide circle.
“Mercy,” she rasped. “Mercy.”
“Brand.” He licked her, a long lingering swipe over the engorged flesh.
“Brand,” she cried out and clutched his neck.
He grazed her nubbin and worked a finger into her narrow sheath.
She sank down onto it.
Her walls grabbed onto him. Her legs shook with the force of the climax that ripped through her. She squeezed his finger, her sheath clutching at his flesh in short, sharp contractions.
A surge of her honey drenched Brand’s nose and cheeks. He used his teeth on her woman’s flesh, tiny, gentle nips, and when she grew wetter, inserted another finger into her channel.
Her waning peak resumed three-fold when he began thrusting rhythmically.
Unable to hold off any longer, he surrendered to the lightning-flash peak churning his pelvis. Brand’s hips rose of their own accord. He bucked off the mattress in wild erratic thrusts. His blood heated to a glowing inferno.
The climax arrowed up from his flexed toes, galloped across his groin, and his seed spurted in red-hot jets from his cock. Brand shuddered through the waves of ecstasy battering at him. He clung to her and pressed his face into the delectable curve of her belly.
For some indeterminable period, they held each other thusly. ’Twas only when his lungs ceased blistering him from the insides did Brand realize how uncomfortable the position must be for his wife. He nuzzled her belly button, licked around the rim, and rolled them over so she lay curled around him.
Not since his first encounters with swiving had he spent into his breeches. Brand flung an elbow over his face and choked back a slew of curses aimed at himself.
Twice now, he had failed to adhere to his strict plans. Twice now, he had lost control. But the same had happened on occasion in the past. The waves of unstoppable thundering desire with a new lover always ebbed after the first few couplings. ’Twould be the same with Étaín. He hoped.
He opened his eyes, inspected her features, and relaxed.
A siren’s slight smile curved her lips, and her lashes winged up.
Their glances met.
Color suffused her face and she ducked her chin.
He nudged her head back. “What has you blushing so?”
She averted her gaze and the peaches in her cheeks deepened to ripe apples. “I had ne’er contemplated such a carnal act. To do such in daylight. It must be sinful.”
Brand choked back a curse. Damned be the priests for turning loving into a devil’s act. He cupped her face. “Look to me, wife. Naught that happens ’tween us in bedsport is wrong. Did you not enjoy what we did?”
He grinned when even the tips of her ears pinkened and was inordinately pleased when she tapped his arm in a chiding gesture. She rolled her eyes. “You well know that I did. ’Twas shocking howbeit. I have ne’er dreamed of such. Are you cert what we did…that…’tis practiced oft? In bedsport?”
′Twas not an act he had practiced oft. In truth, he preferred the receiving of such an act to the doing, but having once tasted Étaín’s honey, Brand knew ’twould be impossible to resist. He sought to assuage her fears.
“’Tis an act favored by both men and women alike. Did you not find your pleasure?” Brand hid a sly grin. He well knew she had climaxed. His fingers still throbbed from her furious contractions. A dollop of her cream glistened on one thick knuckle and beckoned to him. Without a beat of hesitation, he suckled the spicy essence of his wife’s pussy and closed his eyes to appreciate fully the musky fragrance of her pleasure.
He lifted his lids to find her staring at him, her mouth agape.
A mischievous part of him, one he’d considered trampled out of existence, reared. He offered her his other finger. “Taste.”
Her brown eyes widened to dominate her heart-shaped face. Through half-hooded eyes, she gave him a look reminiscent of those his mother had given him when he’d stolen a pie from the larder.
“Methinks, you tease me, my—Brand.” His wife’s lips twitched into an impish grin. Her little pink tongue lapped at the tip of his finger. She wrinkled her nose. “′Tis salty.”
She grasped his wrist and sniffed. A delicious shade of peachy-pink coated her from brow to breasts. “I must needs have another bath.”
Brand tipped back his head and chortled long and hard. He drew her on top of him and gazed in delight at her flushed features. “’Tis a most enticing scent, wife. That of your arousal and your pleasure. I am want to leave your musk on my nose and in my mouth, but ’tis better if none knew of our dallying. And there is naught for it but to change my breeches. One glance and I will be hounded by Nikolas and Thorkell until my final moments in this world.”
“All can tell what we have done?” She pushed onto her elbows and her blush deepened. “Methinks ’tis fortunate they have not cleared the tub. I will send for buckets of hot water.”
“Worry not, sweetling.” He thumbed away the lines on her forehead. “I will see to all.”
•●•
Étaín wrapped the furs around her shoulders and sat so the pelts covered her stockings and still slippered feet. Her mind reeled. He had licked and sucked her there, and ’twas delicious, this manner of tasting. She followed his movements and the splotch of dampness in the front of his breeches captured her attention. Had he spilled his seed there?
A score of questions had her dizzy with curiosity. So immersed in her thoughts was Étaín, that when Brand sat on the mattress, she started. He had shed his breeches and his pecker, still thick and large, bobbed at her. Her fingertips itched with the need to touch his manpart.
Fascinated, she stared at the thing, studying the tip of the purple-red crown peeking from its protective foreskin. So different from the male infants she had held, cleaned, and cooed over. Those peckers had been cute and wiggly, not that she had dared touch them, but it had been impossible not to inspect the peculiar little things intently.
Brand’s organ proved both enthralling and intimidating. His prick seemed to have a will of its own, for the more she gawked at it, the more it twitched and jerked. A drop of moisture leaked from a slit right on the top, and she followed the glistening wetness as it spread. He had tasted her sex; should she taste his?
Her belly quivered, and the flesh between her thighs began aching anew. A lick of excitement caused the buds of her breasts to tighten and tingle.
“Loath though I am to wash away the evidence of your pleasure, it needs be done if we are to sit at the dais and preside over a lengthy meal.” Brand pushed her down, parted the furs, and nudged her legs apart.
Étaín focused on the rafters while he cleansed her. She heated from within. ’Twas both embarrassing and wondrous to be cared for so tenderly and thoroughly. Surely ’twould be the same for him. Had she the courage to be so bold?
Aye. She would find the pluck to win his love.
From the moment she had set eyes on him, Étaín had known he would be the one to erase the remnants of the timidity and fear Eachan’s torture had engendered. According to the legends, she had to capture his heart, or forever lose her truthsaying abilities and be doomed to a barren existence.
When he tossed the cleansing square into a basin on the floor, she shook her head to clear away the scrumptious laziness his actions had induced, and sat up. Firming her chin, she met his gaze, and declared, “I would do the same for you, my lor—Brand.”
The silence while he studied her peppered shivers across her bare shoulders.
“Nay.”
He did not want her touch. Moisture brimmed in her eyes and she lowered her lids to hide the hurt and humiliation slashing at
her soul. She could not stand to see the rejection on his face.
“Étaín, to me.” His palms warmed the sudden chill in her cheeks, but she had not the mettle to look directly at him. “If you touch my prick, I will be erect and aching again. ’Tis nigh on impossible to concentrate on siege and defenses when my pecker is stiff and throbbing like it has been all morn.”
Each word he uttered was a balm to her fragile confidence. She lifted to see him and pressed her lips together to contain the beam threatening to split her face in two. He had told her the truth.
“I can see you have myriad queries buzzing like bees in here.” He kissed the top of her head.
He tilted her chin and their gazes met.
Would she always feel thus when she looked into his sky eyes? Entranced and complete? Convinced he, alone of all men, could see into her damaged soul and make her whole again?
The lines bracketing his eyes deepened when his lips curved. He traced first one brow and then the other. “Come, we must dress and make our way to the hall. Your father has called a meeting of the Council of Caul Cairlinne for after the noon meal. We are to settle on our plans for defending the settlement.”
Étaín sighed and forced her focus away from Brand’s pecker and the numerous vivid dreams of their loving that had haunted her sleeping and waking moments these past months. As princess, she had duties to her people and Brand that would always supersede her personal wishes and wants.
“How long think you we have to prepare?” She turned her face into his palm, kissed the underside of his wrist, and lurched to sitting.
Brand shifted to allow her to scramble off the bed. “’Tis two days journey from Rathane Isle to Caul Cairlinne with a favorable wind. The morn dawned scarlet. A storm is on the way. The breezes are changing and will work against Gunnar. Mayhap five days, mayhap three, but we will prepare for him to attack in two.”
Étaín blinked. ’Twould be no time for dallying if the whole settlement had to be ready so soon. She gathered her discarded leine and chemise, slipped the gown over her head, and trotted over to the three iron chests Gavin and his men had delivered earlier. “How do you dress, my—Brand? I spoke with one of your warriors earlier, and he indicated these trunks to be where you store your garments and light armor. I had them brought here, but should you wish them kept elsewhere…”
“Nay. ’Tis expedient of you to anticipate my wishes. Do not attempt to lift that lid, wife. ’Tis forged of iron and will strain your delicate frame.” He strode to her, his manhood now hanging to one side, and while not flaccid, not straining and bobbing either.
“I am not so weak as you may think. I can heft a sword above my head and carry a sack of grain.” She grinned, knelt, set the heel of her palms to one of the chests’ lid, and shoved. The lid creaked and lifted a mere hair’s breath.
Brand dusted her hands away. He gripped her by the waist and scooped her off her feet. He wrapped an arm snug around her waist and held her to him so her feet didn’t touch the floor.
She narrowed her eyes and pursed her lips, not caring at all for being in midair, or the accompanying feeling of helplessness.
He kissed her forehead with a loud smacking. “My wife will not swing a blade or carry sacks. There are others who will do so for you. While I am in this chamber, I will open and close the trunks, and when I am not, you will send for your captain, Gavin, to do so.”
It had taken Étaín many winters to earn back her strength and independence. Much as she wanted to please Brand, he demanded too much on this point. Being strong of body had helped her mind heal after being rescued from the months of Eachan’s torture. She had learned during her captivity how to smile and mask her true feelings, but did not want to have to do so with Brand.
“What is amiss?” he asked and slid her down his naked body until first her toes and then her heels encountered the cool wooden floor.
Distracted by his pecker pressing into her belly, she murmured, “’Tis insatiable.”
He chuckled and nudged her chin. “Aye. Why did you scowl at me?”
Startled, she retorted, “I do not scowl. Always I smile and seek to be cheery.”
Somewhat about the gleam in his eyes disturbed her. She fought the urge to shrug away the unease snaking across her shoulders.
“’Tis indeed so. Methinks I have seen you glower twice now.” He scraped a thumb over his chin.
“Twice?” She craned her neck back. “Nay. I tell you I do not scowl.”
“Thrice now. Hmm. Mayhap ’tis more a glower than a scowl. Now, wife, while I enjoy our bantering, we can tarry no longer.” He swatted her bottom, spun her around, and tightened her laces.
Her buttocks smarted. Étaín repressed the irritation needling her placidity. Bantering? He called quarreling bantering? Why, she never quarreled. Eachan had taught her well that any slight sign of argument or disobedience would not be tolerated.
“Tell me of this termagant who presides o’er the castle, Lady Hilde.” Brand opened the trunk and delved into it.
She glimpsed swatches of blues, greens, and dark browns, and edged closer, her curiosity piqued.
“Hilde is no shrew. She mourns the deaths of her child and husband with anger. The loss is new and raw.” Étaín had stayed with Hilde after the burial. Not a tear had the woman shed.
Brand drew a pair of muddy-colored hose from the trunk. “How did they die?”
“’Twas a raid. They lived on an outlying farm on the other side of Fathomless Forest. She and the other women of her village had brought their wares to market here. All those who had been left behind were killed. Savagely.” Da allowed none to speak of raids in front of her, but Étaín had learned long ago how to skulk around to discover what was happening in and around Caul Cairlinne.
“Picts?” Brand pulled on the hose and tied the rope.
“Both Picts and Vikings, some say.” She dashed to the table and retrieved her hairbrush. “Others speak of berserker beasts with bear-like heads and claws. Many claim to have seen the beasts. Some say they are like bears, some say they are wingless dragons.” She worked at the tangles at the ends of her long curls.
Brand shrugged on the blue tunic he had been wearing before their tryst and the dark material masked his face for a moment.
Her hand stilled at the expression he wore. He looked like a Viking raider in that moment, teeth bared, brows knitted, slashes of red staining the prominent line of his cheekbones.
“Is aught amiss, my lord?”
For a moment the only sounds in the room were the filtered cawing of gulls and the muted sounds from the bailey, cart wheels on the cobbled stones, men shouting to each other, and the low bleating of goats and sheep.
He dashed the lid down, sat on the trunk, and donned his knee-high doeskin boots. “Nay. I merely consider how to defend remote villages. Who has seen these beasts? When was the first sighting? Where have they been sighted?”
Chapter Five
“Taske has been here,” Brand muttered, keeping his tone too low for any but Nikolas to hear.
His brother stumbled, but regained his balance and rhythm in mid-stride. “Nay. Taske is dead.”
“Étaín told me the beasts have been seen by many on this isle. Some say they are bears, some say wingless dragons. They first appeared last spring and destroyed a coastal village on the borders of King Mac Eiccnigh mac Dalagh’s realm. Since then, they’ve raided the coastal settlements regularly. The attacks ceased once the channels froze, but they resumed on first clearing this spring.”
Brand could not repress the bleak images of all that had happened after Bá Brestá Isle’s lone mountain erupted and spewed vile ash and lava. A fortnight after the first explosion, the bulls in the herds of cattle ran amok, killing newborn calves and attacking each other. Brand and the rest of the people in the settlement had watched helplessly when all save two or three bulls rammed their skulls into rocks over and over until they collapsed and died, a black foam speckled with dark blood spewing from their
mouths.
“’Tis nigh unbelievable. How did our brother survive the eruption?” Nikolas asked. “Think you he had the same dream warning you did?”
“How else could he and his men have escaped the river of fire that destroyed our settlement?” Brand rolled his shoulders, but the move did naught to relieve the tension knitting his muscles. The bitter recollections of the year before surged anew.
By mid-spring, dense clouds of ash blacked out the sun and kept the isle in a perpetual dusk. With no sunlight or rain, the crops and grasses withered and died. What little sustenance there was came from the ocean.
Few slept, too afeared of the incessant dream-weaving and the necessity of always being on guard from assault by the man-beasts who ravaged the herds of swine and what was left of the cattle.
The dream warning had happened at the start of the summer. The moment he fell asleep, images of the mountain imploding and destroying the entire island filled Brand’s dreams. With each passing day, the mountain’s eruptions intensified in frequency, force, and duration. It had not taken much effort to persuade the remaining men, women, and children they had to leave at once. ’Twere not for their hasty flight to the nearby isle of Sceirdiúil, the Bärvik warrior line that had served Norse kings for time immemorial would’ve been eradicated.
On Sceirdiúil during the long winter that followed Brand, Nikolas, and most of their clan had learned to control the dream-weaving that haunted not only their nights, but every waking moment as well.
“Brother, to me,” Nikolas barked. “The king approaches.”
Brand shook his head to clear away his morbid recollections. He forced his focus onto the monarch striding in their direction.
They had arrived at the entrance to the great hall.
A brisk breeze chopped across the long chamber carrying the sweet aroma of fresh pine logs burning. ’Twas not yet noon, but already the hall buzzed with workers preparing for the meal; elderly men and women scrubbed the pocked trestle tables, three males on the verge of manhood stoked the two fireplaces, and the odd kitchen boy shooed hounds and goats through the open double doors.
