Kidnapped by the Viking

by Caitlin Crews

  “Do you drown me?” she managed to ask. She pushed at his chest, his shoulders, desperate—though he did not move or seem to notice. Something like a fury tore through her, though she knew well that was only permissible in a lady when it was her mother.

  But you are no lady either way, a voice inside reminded her. You are but his slave.

  “You forget yourself, Aelfwynn,” came the dark, forbidding rumble of his voice.

  Then his hand was at the back of her head, and she did not understand the tugging she felt until her hair tumbled down around her. He made a deep noise that seemed to wind itself around and around inside her. Then he raked his fingers through her braid until her hair hung wet and free and floated where it touched the water.

  She couldn’t breathe. She wanted to fight.

  She wished she knew how to fight.

  “You forget yourself,” he growled again, as if he could hear her thoughts. “Let me remind you.”

  And then he claimed her mouth with his, and everything seemed to shatter.

  Aelfwynn was aware of too many things at once. The heat of the water. The way her breasts were slick and yet ached against his bare chest, far worse than when there had been layers of wool and linen between them. He held her against him, her legs wrapped around him as if she were on a horse, and she could feel the thick shaft of him hard against her belly.

  His hands sank deep into her hair, holding her head where he wished. And all the while he plundered her mouth, making it clear to her that whatever game he had played in his furs these last nights, he played no more.

  And she understood this, then. That in all the years she had spent contemplating her purity, her chastity, the price of her maidenhead and what giving it away to the properly chosen husband would entail, she had always assumed that it would occur after a period of sober reflection.

  But this was a storm.

  She could think only that, then no more.

  The water was hot, but they were hotter. His mouth left hers, tracking down the side of her neck and he made a deep, growling sound that made everything in her shiver, then sharpen.

  This, then, was that frenzy. She felt it inside her. She became it.

  He shifted how he held her. His hands moved to the swell of her bottom, lifting her so her woman’s flesh found that thick shaft of his, and then...bloomed bright.

  She did not fully grasp what he was doing, only that it sent a peculiar kind of pain shooting through her. Though did not hurt. It only made her feel tighter, wilder.

  Up and down he moved her, rubbing himself in that private furrow he seemed to know ached beyond measure.

  He muttered words against her neck, strange words she could not understand, and yet they seemed to arrow straight to that place where they were not quite joined.

  Slowly, then quickly, a new storm began. It poured out from that pulsing place within her, taking her over, until it gripped her completely.

  Aelfwynn broke apart.

  Distantly, she heard the dark sound of Thorbrand’s laughter. The storm was inside her, someone cried out in a voice very like her own, and she was shuddering and fighting for breath.

  Yet he cradled her against his chest, and then, even as she shuddered, began to work that shaft of his deep between her legs.

  “Thorbrand...” she managed to get out.

  Though she knew not what she pleaded for.

  “It will hurt,” he growled. “But heed me, Aelfwynn. You will not weep. You will not cry out. You are the daughter of queens and kings and you will suffer beautifully. For me.”

  Where he prodded against her it felt rude, and new. She moved her hips as if she could make it better that way. Then only realized as she did that it was...connected to this thing, the wicked knot that hummed inside her, when he hissed in a breath.

  “Will I not cry out?” she asked, for the storm that had taken her away had not left her, and now it only seemed to grow,

  “You will not.” His voice was stern. “If you must do something, you may bite me. You may thank me for this privilege.”

  “Thank you,” she whispered, though she in no way felt thankful, but then Thorbrand smiled. His eyes, as dark as midnight, gleamed. And she felt as if she gleamed, too.

  His huge hands gripped her hips and then curved around, splitting her wide.

  And then he proceeded to do just that.

  His gaze held hers. He did not falter. And slowly, surely, he began to work that male part of him inside her.

  Inside her.

  And she was so slippery, and she ached, and yet he pressed in, stern and steel. Surely it should not have fit, but even her untried flesh obeyed him. The pressure grew and grew, and she shuddered against it, desperately trying to move the hips he held still. She had no choice but to use parts of herself she’d never noticed before, trying to accommodate him. Trying to take him. Trying not to rip apart—

  She wanted to scream that he was hurting her, but she did not dare. For it was not true.

  Hurt was such a small word, and could not possibly encompass...this. How it felt to be torn apart, little by little, by the Northman who watched her as if this sundering was a joy. Until she wanted it to be so, to please him.

  Then, somehow, she could feel the vast thickness of him inside her own body, nudged up against the place where she ended. And his hips pressed so tight against her, it was as if they were one.

  They were, she thought, in the next hot, half-panicked moment.

  She wanted, desperately, to do something. Maybe push him off her. Maybe pull him closer. But she could not move. He held her steady and only watched as she bucked against him, moving her hips whatever scant amount the grip he had on her allowed.

  “Remember what I told you,” he warned her. “No sound.”

  A different kind of sensation seemed to be gathering from her fingers, her toes, and yet connected like a new ache to that place inside her that he filled overfull. She dropped her head to his shoulder and found her mouth open against the slick, steel expanse of his shoulder. And she found herself panting there, still wriggling her hips this way, then that, though she could not seem to avoid the bright hot heat of his male flesh that pinned her thus. No matter what she did.

  She became aware again of the tight peaks of her breasts, and something about the way she dragged them against his chest connected to that heavy weight inside her. Her mouth against his skin was a part of it too, and so too the way his battle-scarred hands gripped the back of her, splitting her, making that full, deep stretch take her over.

  Aelfwynn followed some instinct she did not recognize and locked her ankles together around his hips, then moved a little more.

  Once, then again, she made room and yet filled herself more. The stretch became something else. And then suddenly, there was nothing in it but heat.

  That sweet, glorious fire that rendered her helpless and half mad with it.

  “Well done, sweeting,” Thorbrand said, and she shivered as if pleasing him was a flame all its own.

  And then he changed everything, pulling himself back as if leaving the clasp of her body only to slide himself back in. Then he did it again.

  Then he did it harder.

  “Now, Aelfwynn, you can make all the noise you like,” he growled in her ear.

  And so she let her head drop back, and she screamed.

  Because this was a rough wonder, a slick encompassing joy. She gripped him and he gripped her in turn, and all the while his staff plunged deep.

  Again and again he claimed her. When that proved too much, he gripped the back of her head and guided his mouth to hers again. Then she had his tongue and she had his hard male flesh too. Both took her, both destroyed her, and it took only a few thrusts like that before he pulled her apart all over again.

  And this time, when she cried out against his lips, he sound
ed his own cry. She felt that great staff within her jerk, then flood her, so scalding hot the water around them felt cool.

  Her final thought, as his mighty chest heaved and he held her in his arms, was that this was her ruin.

  Aelfwynn, daughter of Aethelflaed and granddaughter of Alfred, was ruined.

  And she could not wait to ruin herself all over again.

  Chapter Nine

  Verðr þat er varir ok svá hitt er eigi varir

  Much happens that one expects the least.

  —from Grettis Saga,

  translated by T. Kinnes

  A snowstorm rolled in that night and settled in over the valley.

  Thorbrand could not say he minded. He had provisions enough, having stashed foodstuffs, basic tools, and his bow and axe here before he had headed south to take possession of his princess. He’d made certain there was wood enough to burn so he might keep the fire hot no matter how long they needed to stay here, and he and Leif and Ulfric had spent a day or two performing necessary repairs on this old cottage that the nearest villagers, several valleys away, thought had been abandoned in the upheaval since the last Danes had ruled Jorvik some eight years back. For no one liked to be quite so remote when the city of Jorvik kept changing hands and new armies could turn up at any time.

  There was safety in numbers. But Thorbrand was not much concerned with safety. Not with a snowstorm battering at the thatched roof, as effective at keeping predators away as a fortress.

  Giving him leave to think of nothing but Aelfwynn.

  He had taken her innocence in the hot pool and he could still feel the first clasp of her body on his and the way she’d taken him deep, her woman’s flesh obedient even as the rest of her had trembled at his stark possession.

  For he had planned to take her, there in the pool where the hot water might wash away the stains he bore—if only for a small while. But not quite like that. He had meant to honor the sweetness he’d tasted in her on their journey.

  But then she had brandished his own weapon at him, fearless and determined. His heart had pounded as if this were a battle, and the best kind, at that. His cock had been harder than the dagger she’d tried to wield.

  And all of Thorbrand’s good intentions had been lost.

  Aelfwynn’s beautiful surrender had only whetted his appetite.

  He had carried her from the pool, draping only her cloak over her body as he’d delivered her back to the cabin. He’d returned alone to gather their things, enjoying the slap of cold against his heated skin. It had only made him hungry for more.

  Once inside, he had found her sitting on one of his furs by the hearth in the center of the small cottage, combing out that flaxen hair of hers with her fingers. He had moved her hands out of his way as he’d gathered her onto his lap, then done the combing himself. His fingers were a blunter implement, certainly, and he knew not where the urge to do it came from, yet he indulged it all the same.

  And it had built again in him, the thirst he could not quench. Thorbrand had held her before him the way he’d held her on their long rides. He’d moved her head to one side and feasted on her neck, moving his palms where they willed on her sweet flesh. He found her breasts, plump and high, and played with them until she moaned and his cock blazed again with heat and need.

  He had lifted her up and tilted her forward enough so he could sheath himself within her, then brought her against him once more, her back in a lovely arch.

  You know how to ride, Aelfwynn, he had said. I want you at a canter.

  She had shivered and flushed red, his pretty little captive. She had pulled her plump lower lip between her teeth. He’d seen the faintest hint of moisture on her brow. All for him.

  Then, at first awkwardly, she had figured out how to lift herself up then sink back down, rubbing her sweet bottom against him as she moved.

  Still he had played with her breasts, plucking and pinching her nipples, and grinning darkly as she had made all kinds of greedy little sounds. A quick hiss, a moan, as she had worked him, becoming wetter and softer as she moved.

  To reward her for such quick learning and innate skill, Thorbrand had slid a hand down between her legs, and found the stiff bit of flesh that stood proud, there within the slick folds that gripped him with such soft heat.

  Then he had played her like a lyre, a pinch to her nipple and pinch below. A dedicated strumming until he made her sing.

  Then sob as she shook around him.

  He had taught her how to tip forward, still sobbing out her release, and how to brace herself on her hands and knees while he gripped her hips and pounded out his own pleasure from behind.

  When he found them snowed in the following morning, it seemed nothing so much as a sign from the gods.

  There would be time enough once Ragnall summoned them to worry about the rest of it, he assured himself. The plot and the plan. The life they would lead until Thorbrand’s king had need of the very subtle weapon that was Aelfwynn, daughter to the Lady of the Mercians—though clearly sharp-edged enough that her uncle had wanted the threat of her removed forever.

  There would be time, then, to speak of the role she would play. To explain where they would go and what would be expected of her.

  But first it was time he put his long nights of seduction to the test.

  He did so with a passion he told himself was only because he had been forced to wait. Only because he had built up a hunger so powerful it required regular feeding to feel himself again. To even attempt to sate himself.

  Thorbrand did not feel anything but Aelfwynn, day after day. And he could not have said he was any nearer to sating himself. No matter how he applied himself to the task.

  They did not speak of what she was to him, or what might happen when they left this cottage. Wise woman that she was, she never asked.

  And accordingly, he did not ask himself what it was he did here. Or what it meant to lose himself like this, like a man possessed instead of a man fulfilling his duties and his vows.

  When he knew better than to imagine what he could never, ever have. A warm woman, a quiet home.

  He told himself that he was not betraying the vows he’d taken. That he was only setting their future in stone.

  And so it was, stone by stone, that they learned each other.

  Thorbrand had never spent enough time with a woman to learn her thus. One night, perhaps two, had he entertained the same woman in his furs, but was always in between battles. On the road, forever moving, fighting, focusing on what lay ahead.

  He could not recall a time in his life when he had not been, if not actively fighting a war, preparing for the next. For there was always a next, new war to fight. These were ages drenched in blood, as was known far and wide. Doomed seasons and petty kings led only to more blood spilled, but such was not Thorbrand’s concern. His sword had been pledged to Ragnall long ago.

  When he was not out on a battlefield, Thorbrand trained in battle tactics. Sometimes he was focused on recovering from what wounds he might have sustained. Always did he offer his support and counsel to his king when called upon to do so. His head was always in the next fight, the next disputed territory, the next stretch of cold land they would take, then claim, then defend.

  Thorbrand spent very little time worrying about how to take his pleasure. There were always women. There was always another mead hall. There were songs enough to sing, ancient heroes to admire and gods to praise. There was no shortage of pretty things to fill his cup and warm his furs.

  But here in this cottage there was only Aelfwynn and this greedy want in him that grew ever bigger, ever sharper.

  And more time than he could remember ever spending on his own, away from the king who had made the boy he’d been first into a man, then into a warrior. Much less the men he fought with and considered his brothers, whether they were closely related or not. No wars to pl
an. No land to defend.

  Just Thorbrand and his woman and a valley filled with snow and silence.

  One day bled into the next. When the snow eased, Thorbrand hunted what paltry game remained this time of year and foraged what little he could from the bleak forest and the valley below. He cared for his horse, bathed daily in the hot springs and encouraged his skeptical Saxon to do the same, and was no warrior, here. Here he was a simple man who lived off the land and took care of what was his.

  Very like the dreams he’d had, little as he might wish to think about such things in the light of day. Or at all.

  But what he did most was learn her.

  He was obsessed with that golden hair of hers and how it caught the firelight. Some nights they never made it from the furs spread before the hearth to the pallet in the corner. She slept as hard as she ever had, but sometimes he woke her in the dark, lifting her leg high as she sprawled over his chest and finding his way inside her. She would come sleepily half-awake, her face in the crook of his neck and her mouth against his skin, while he gripped her tight and thundered them both to bliss.

  Some mornings he insisted she never dress at all and go about her chores bared to his view, forever sneaking glances at him, so that by the time he caught her up and thrust himself into her, they were both at fever pitch.

  She was his. In every possible way.

  He taught her how to kneel before him and take him deep into her mouth. And he knew he had trained her well when, after he poured himself down her throat, she was trembling and greedy and desperate for him to put his hands between her legs and bring her to her own release in turn.

  They spent time in the pool doing more than simply bathing, where he taught her any number of things in the embrace of the hot water. The pleasures of cold snow against warm flesh. How to climb him, how to grip him, and how different those things were when the water lifted her than when he held her aloft in the cottage.

  The snow kept coming. As soon as one storm eased, it might seem clear for the stretch of a day only for another storm to move in.