by Jianne Carlo
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“Wake, curse you. Wake.” Nyssa smoothed the cowlick on the top of Mús’s head, the one stubborn trait that resisted his transformation from man to mountain lion. “I cannot heal you in cat form. Pray thee awake.”
Tears blurred her vision. She could not fail Ciárrán, not after all he had done for her. A cold, wet nose grazed her palm. She swiped at her eyes, stared at Mús, and begged God for mercy.
A burst of blinding white light followed by a cloud of impenetrable black smoke filled the cave; she bit her tongue to stop the threatening sobs of relief. When the dense fog cleared, there lay her half brother, Ciárrán, the sword implanted between his right ribs.
Panic prickled like knives digging into her spine at his shallow breathing and the gray cast to his complexion. His chest barely rose and fell, and scarlet drops of blood trickled from the corner of his mouth. He faded fast.
She grasped the sword’s jeweled hilt and pulled, keeping the pressure even but firm. The moment the blade cleared Ciárrán’s flesh, blood spewed in a wide arc. Wet splashes flicked her cheeks; she did not dare hesitate but placed both hands on the wound and pressed down. At once sharp lances of pain wracked her body. Her palms burned. Closing her eyes against the violent spinning of the cave, she recited the Lord’s Prayer, chanting the verses over and over.
“Loki’s toes. What do you do, woman?” The Viking gripped her shoulders.
“Nay. Leave me,” she croaked as the darkness descended. Nyssa fell forward covering Ciárrán’s wound with her belly. Aware, but unable to move, she let the heaviness sink through her and into Ciárrán.
Dusk had fallen when she was finally able to lift her lids.
The Viking had kept the fire stoked, and the cave radiated warmth. He was garbed in a fresh tunic and shiny leather boots.
She pushed off the ground and looked at her half brother. His cheeks held a twinge of color, and he breathed easier.
The Viking’s stare bore into the back of her head or so it felt.
She bent to Ciárrán’s side and inspected the wound. An angry welt the length of her hand was all that remained of the injury. His flesh held a chill.
“He needs a blanket. Will you spare him yours?” Nyssa met the icy gaze of the warrior. She had not had the time to inspect the treasures in his iron chest, but had glimpsed a fine length of cloth of a deep heather hue.
In answer he jutted a chin to her left. “I did not want to disturb your healing else I would’ve covered you both.”
She glanced down to find he had piled two thick woolen lengths, a fresh tunic and hose, at her side. “My thanks both for the clothes and for leaving us be.”
Nyssa covered Ciárrán from neck to toes, curling the fabric under his shoulders and feet, and then pulled the tunic over her head. Her legs were cold, and the woolen hose warmed by proximity to the fire proved a delicious slice of paradise. The actions drained the last of her reserves. She curled into a ball beside her brother, rested her hand on the welt, and focused on the Viking.
Their stares met.
“I left you with a cat and returned to find a warrior in your embrace.” The grim line of his mouth left no doubt of his anger and irritation.
“Ciárrán is both Mús and my half brother.” She had not the strength for deception.
In the midst of whittling a weathered branch, the Viking paused, fixed her with a hard stare, and raised a brow.
She wriggled her shoulders under his relenting gaze. “Aegir cursed his wife, Rán, and any spawn born of her tryst with my Da—me. Mús challenged Aegir, and the god changed him into a mountain lion. Rán gave Ciárrán a day each season to return to human form to try to break Aegir’s curse. He used one the day he found me on the beach…I know not if this counts as another. I fear he will ne’er be free again.”
Bile filled her mouth, and she could not force the words as memories of that terrible time swamped her mind.
“’Tis clear Mús was not the victor.”
“Nay. No mortal can claim victory o’er a god. I tried to stop him, but my fool of a brother threw me aside.”
Ciárrán shifted, his fingers twitched and curled.
Nyssa rose on her elbows. Ciárrán’s hooked claws had appeared. He would not remain in warrior form for much longer. “Rán called on the gods to reverse the spell and my curse. Odin bade her choose between me and Ciárrán. She chose me, but Aegir would only lift part of my curse.”
“Tell me of this curse, betrothed.”
The way the Viking clipped the word “betrothed” sent shivers down her back.
“In good time. Mús is halfway to his cat form. It takes him some time to tame his beast anger when first he returns to lion. Make haste. We must leave him be.”
He rose and motioned for her to precede him out of the cave. “So be it. In return you will wash the filth from your flesh.”
Nyssa had grown to tolerate the slime and grime coating her skin, for most men lusted after clean females and in this guise they were wont to ignore her completely. But she could not return to Castle Caerleah in her current state and so, for now she would obey the Viking. The rain had battered most of the grease from her arms anyway.
A burst of temper soured her saliva. She misliked any man, any at all telling her what to do. Not wanting to vent her building anger she lurched to her feet, tramped out of the cave, and choked back a groan. The full moon hung in the middle of a black sky littered with winking stars.
Thrimilici would dawn soon.
She hung her head and fought back the threatening tears. For so long she had lived with the futile hope the curse would somehow be broken. Stifling a scream, she raised her gaze to the midnight, gritted her teeth, and broke into a furious march.
Fate had a battle on her hands. She would die fighting—would howl and curse the gods while the flames licked at her feet.
The Viking strode alongside her on the narrow path leading down the cliffs.
From behind them, a series of loud roars shattered the silence.
Konáll cupped her elbow when she stumbled and wrapped an arm around her waist.
She froze and bile raced up her throat. Twisting out of his hold, she leaned on a craggy stone. The roar of waves crashing on the tiny inlet and a sudden gust chased away the nausea. Nyssa drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, savoring the fresh tang of the sea.
“What ails you woman? You are as green as the moss on the cave’s walls.”
“I needs tell you of Aegir’s curse.”
“The cat told me all.”
Nyssa shook off his hold. “Nay. Aegir cursed me twice.”
He crossed his arms, spread his legs wide, and raised a dusky brow. “More than burning at the stake?”
“I am heiress to castles and lands—”
She shrieked when he sprang forward, scooped her into his arms, and marched into the tumbling waves.
“You did not answer me. What ailed you so your skin turned green?”
“’Tis part of the curse. A man’s touch brings bile to my throat.” She cupped a hand over her mouth. Speaking the words soured her saliva. The muscles in her stomach rioted.
He dumped her into a crashing wave.
Nyssa stifled an oath when she parted her lips to swear at him and swallowed a mouthful of salty ocean. Turning her back to the incoming swells, she coughed and swiped at the tears caused by the brine attacking her eyes.
He caught the neck of the tunic she wore and tore the fabric apart. Using the shredded linen as a cleansing cloth, he carefully wiped the grease from her face.
“Give me fair warning when you are ready to empty your belly from disgust at my touch.”
In truth, the nausea had faded somewhat. Mayhap because the fresh scent of the sea filled her lungs, or mayhap because when he scrubbed off the grime coating her neck and throat, she could no longer smell the stench of her own flesh. ’Twas blissful to be clean again.
When he began to rinse the pig lard from her breast, she stil
led his hand. Staring at his brown hand on her white flesh, she whispered, “I will finish.”
“Nay. We break the curse this night, Nyssa. Close your eyes and lean against me.” He grasped her shoulders and fit her back to his belly. At that moment, she realized he had shed his garments. He set her bottom to his pecker. His erect pecker.
She stiffened and tried to wriggle away.
“Nay.” He kneaded her shoulders. “Before Bagan One-Eye went to Niflheim, he spoke of his seven brothers who have taken over Castle Caerleah at your uncle’s invitation. If aught happens to you, your uncle’s eldest daughter inherits the lands and castles. Your uncle agreed to wed his daughter to any man who rends your maidenhead and burns you at the stake.”
Nyssa curled her lip. “That coward. My uncle, Ánáton, is afeared of his own shadow, and his eldest daughter, Monette, is a witch. And a greedy one at that. Bagan One-Eye intended to kill me then?”
She shifted her toes on the sand, arched her neck, and sighed when her aching muscles eased under the Viking’s steady massaging.
“Aye.” Konáll slid the cloth lower and rubbed small circles around her belly button. Her stomach rippled at the tingling sensation.
“Are you ill, Nyssa?”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “’Tis wondrous. For so long, if a man so much as brushed against me, I would vomit for days.”
He brushed his lips over the cusp of her shoulder. “Your face has lost the green twinge, and you are no longer as stiff as a metal rod. Methinks it time to have you find your woman’s pleasure.”
Tension stiffened her backbone. “What of the curse?”
“Tis time to break it.” He turned her around and set his lips to hers. Warm breath skittered over her damp cheeks. Her skin heated at the sizzling silken contact.
She set her palms to his chest, pushed to break the strange sensation of his mouth on hers, and met his stare. “I have much fear of this, Viking. I am not like other women. I do not lust after men. I have no desire to couple.”
“Shh.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Close your eyes and give over to me. I will not do anything you do not wish.”
“And what if I wish you to stop, right now?”
Chapter Three
“Nyssa, want you to die at the stake?” Konáll blew on her ear.
She yanked her shoulder up to ward away the caress and puckered her forehead to squint at him. “Know you any sane person who yearns to be burned alive?”
Only his warrior training stopped him from shaking her senseless. Did she never stop replying to one query with another? “Answer me.”
“I can find no way to break the curse. Trust me, Konáll. I have thought long and hard on this since the day I learned of it. Thrimilici is upon us.” Her voice broke on a choked sob.
She had called him by name. Odd, that should please him so. He traced the line of her chiseled arm. “I bear the ring of the Saracen.”
The brisk breeze didn’t whisk away her audible gasp and that, too, pleased him. Beneath his palm, her muscles twitched. Slowly, she turned to face him.
At that moment the moon shed her clouds and beamed a silvery stream of dazzling brilliance. His belly knitted. How had he not seen her beauty? She wore the allure of elves and pixies combined. The shorn hair should have lessened her womanhood, yet the silken, jagged edges somehow enhanced features of absolute perfection.
Wide eyes framed by thick fringes of muddy brown lashes stared at him, streaks of amber threaded through a gray only a threatening storm cloud could claim, and twin dark points punctuated the middles. Ash brows rose, and her nostrils flared.
She spoke, the words drowned by a squalling flock of white gulls flying over them.
Undeterred he continued to study her face. The nose mayhap a tad too arrogant for flawlessness, the cheekbones high, ridged and dusted with a hint of shyness and full, pouting lips the color of ripe raspberries. He loved raspberries. His cock throbbed.
“I did not hear you, Nyssa. Say again.”
“’Tis the truth you speak, Viking? You wear the Saracen’s ring?” Her eyes were luminous and nigh as dark as coals.
“Aye.”
“Mayhap ’tis why I can bear your touch.”
“Mayhap.” Mús had warned that e’en if Nyssa’s bile did not rise, she was cursed to fight his taking of her virginity.
“Show me.”
’Twas a command, not a request. Her hot breath skipped over his left nipple. Konáll knew she did not realize her short nails scraped his forearms. Lust crackled across his groin as the image of her lemon-kissed womanly curls crowded his mind.
“Are you deaf, Viking? Show me.” She cuffed him.
He shook his head. The curse. He had to break the curse.
“Hold my cock.”
She reared back, brows pulled together, but neither greened nor released her hold on him. “Nay.”
He grinned at her grimace. “Aye. ’Tis where I bear the ring. Whilst fighting with the Jomsvikings, I was captured. The caliph who took me enjoyed devising tortures to suit each prisoner. He spent many a sennight testing me and in the end, he found my weakness.”
Her head dropped and the heat of her gaze had him aroused and aching in a pulse beat. She chewed her bottom lip, but reached one hand to his erection.
Konáll ground his teeth. Desire lashed him. His knees wobbled at the sight and feel of her tanned fingers encircling the base of his shaft.
“Nay.” She dashed her hand away and a wave crashed around her waist when she fell to her knees.
The gods had mercy and a stiff wind carried off his low moan. Mesmerized by the sight of her eye-level with his engorged shaft, her sinful lips but a whisper away from the glistening head, he fisted his hands at his side. “You must find the ring.”
Expecting her to ask why, he flinched when she took him in hand.
With trembling fingers she explored the head of his shaft, warm puffs of her breath a soaring blaze to his pecker. He tried to hold still, but his wayward organ jumped and twitched between her palms. When she drew the foreskin back to the base, his stones tightened, and he bit his tongue until the pain caged his exploding lust. The copper taste of blood flooded his mouth. He locked his hands behind his back and blinked her into focus.
The sight of her nigh did him in. Worry furrowed her forehead and a tear leaked from one eye, she tilted her chin. Her lips opened, then closed. “How do you still live with such a thing? ’Tis the cruelest torture.”
“It hurts not.” The Saracens’ torture of him was naught compared to the sweet agony of her tentative tracing of the metal ring that pierced the flesh between his balls and anus.
Gently, he removed her hands from his skin and lifted her to standing.
Never before had a red haze of lust blurred his vision. He nuzzled Nyssa’s nape and reeled when the spice of her woman’s arousal filled his nose. ’Twas as if he had imbibed a score of ale and wine horns. His cock burned. The chill of the crashing surf swirling over his hips did naught to cool his desire.
She moved with such swiftness that he had no time to counteract her swift and powerful punch to his chin.
“By Odin woman!” He tossed Nyssa into the crest of a breaking wave, cracked his jaw, and ran his tongue over his teeth. Though the blow felt as if she had separated the front row from his gums, it had not.
In the murky darkness, he glimpsed the flaxen cap of her hair as his betrothed breached the ocean surface not an arm’s length from where he alternately treaded water and skimmed his toes on the sandy seafloor.
What mischief now?
He had smelled her desire. She had melted in his arms. Why, then had she pummeled him?
Mús’s earlier warning echoed in his head. He had to break the spell, but she would fight him to the death if need be. Forsooth, mayhap ’twas fate’s intervention, her powerful punch. For the blow had restored his warrior focus and discipline. He knew what he had to do, had planned the taking of her maidenhood and her woman’s pleas
ure during her healing trance. He thanked his brother, Dráddør, for the addition of the harem master’s tools to his trunk.
Swimming against the strong current, Konáll concentrated on Nyssa. He plunged after her, captured both her hands, and planted his feet on the seafloor. “We will finish this.”
“Nay. I see dawn’s light. ’Tis too late.” She squirmed and kicked his shin. His bones vibrated, and he clenched his jaw against the sharp pain. In truth, her strength nigh bested his hold on her.
Konáll locked her wrists behind her back—first her pleasure, then her maidenhead. He spun her around so she backed his chest. “Forgive me, mìlseachd.”
Trapping her waist, he hauled her higher so her feet skimmed the lapping water and carried her up the sandy incline to the middle of four stakes he’d driven into the sodden sand earlier.
He whirled around, dropped to his knees, and forced her onto the beach beneath him.
“What of your pecker?” Those sultry lips curled into a sneer. “Risk you it greening and withering?”
He grinned. “Nay, betrothed. I risk naught. Afore dawn you will be well pleasured, your maidenhead breached, and the curse broken.”
Charcoal eyes glittered fury at him, the amber flecks in them forcing him to recall the lion’s dire warning.
Konáll glanced at the horizon and cursed. He bore down on top of her squirming hips and legs, letting his weight still her movements. Working quickly, he spread her wide and bound her wrists and ankles. Once he had her secured, he retrieved the sack he’d hidden after the battle.
Nyssa spat Gaelic at him—short angry curses. Hissed her rage. Jerked her hands violently. Jolted against the ropes keeping her spread-eagled.
After retrieving the items he needed from the sack, Konáll knelt between her knees. Moonlight shimmered over her firm breasts and caressed her narrow waist and the slender curve of her hips. Sea drops glittered around the hollow of her navel, the liquid crystals sparkled and danced as she thrashed.
He was harder than marble, his stones rammed tight and ready to erupt, and the neat triangle of tight, pale curls at the apex of her thighs had him salivating. Frenzied desire heated his skin. Sweat peppered his brow. He concentrated on evening his jerky, rasped breaths. When he regained control of his shaking hands, he retrieved the dildo from its velvet sack and spread the fabric on the sand. Then he set the clay pot of the harem master’s aphrodisiac oil and the ivory penis on the golden square.
