Dagmar gave an excited nod, accepting the scheme. ‘But what should I do?’
‘Go now and tell your father that you are tired and will go to the Viken’s bed. Wait for me there. We can change places. You can go and sleep on my pallet, taking care to keep your hair covered.’
‘It is such a simple plan. But what happens when he wakes? Or lifts the light? Sometimes men want to have the rush light on…to see your face. Sven likes to look at mine.’
‘I will make sure there is no light.’
‘But there will be light in the morning…’
Thyre captured Dagmar’s cold hands and held them between hers. ‘In the early morning, I will slip out of the bed, and you can go back and receive any morning gift that he cares to leave. You can even sit on the end of the bed, and play with your unbound hair. That way you will keep true to your oath to Sven and your duty towards your father. Ragnfast wants the gold and the prestige. The Viken dangles the possibility of new markets for his timber.’
Dagmar bowed her head, acknowledging the truth of the statement. ‘But what if we get caught?’
‘We won’t be. What means more to you—your oath to Sven or your fear of your father? And in any case, it can hardly be worse than dying. You want to see Sven again.’
‘I…I…’
‘Allow me to handle this, Dagmar. Some day you will be able to repay me.’ Thyre closed her eyes and tried to concentrate. Dagmar had to let her do this. It was a way of solving both their problems. She had to seize the chance.
‘And you would this for me?’ Dagmar’s bottom lip trembled.
‘I refuse to let you throw yourself away. Pointless dramatic gestures only work in sagas, Dagmar. Trust me on this point.’ Thyre put her hand on Dagmar’s shoulder, squeezing it when Dagmar returned a weak smile. ‘In the name of the mother we share, I love you too much to lose you.’
‘And what is this if not a dramatic gesture by you?’
‘It is a practical one, forced on us by your father and his greed.’ Thyre straightened the pleats of her apron dress and straightened her shoulders. She could seduce the Viken jaarl. It was the only way. All it would take was a steady nerve and a cool head. ‘It is my life to make of it what I will.’
Chapter Five
Ivar watched the guttering torches with growing distaste. Soon the hall would be cast into darkness and he would have no choice but to retire to bed. The vast majority of his men had already left the table to find a space to sleep either with or without female company. His orders of no fighting had kept the quarrels to a minimum and nothing had happened that could start a lasting feud. All in all the evening had gone better than he had dared hope. It was not luck, but planning and paying attention to the smallest detail. It represented a potential ally gained and a harbour of safety for the Viken. The route to the markets of Permia would be open to Viken ships again, one way or another, plus it was also a good timber source for ship building.
‘Do you intend to remain awake all night? You have been staring at your tafl pieces for a long time,’ Ragnfast said, slurring his words. ‘I have had a bed prepared for you. The best bed in the hall with all the comforts. After a journey like yours, you could do with a warm bed and a soft pillow for your head. Honour me by accepting my best bed and all its comforts.’
‘You do me much honour.’
‘It is you who do me the honour.’ The old man dug his elbow into Ivar’s ribs. ‘It will be something to say—one of the great jaarls of Lindisfarne slept in my bed. Enjoy my hospitality.’
Ivar made a non-committal noise. Refuse now and he risked making an enemy for life. This bay would make the perfect place to wait out storms, or re-supply boats with fresh water.
If he returned again, he could continue his pursuit of Thyre. She would fall eventually. ‘Lead the way.’
‘There you go.’ Ragnfast pointed to a raised area curtained off from the main hall. A single tallow lamp guttered in the corner of the makeshift room. As beds went, this one could rival many in Kaupang—piled high with furs, down pillows and linen sheets. Despite everything, the lure of linen reached out and called to him.
Ivar lifted an eyebrow. ‘Most unexpected. You live well.’
‘My late wife had a taste for luxury,’ Ragnfast replied, hooking his thumb in his belt. ‘I did manage to acquire a few things along the way.’ He gave Ivar a pat on the back. ‘Enjoy your…rest. We will speak more in the morning.’
Ivar groaned as he approached the bed. A telltale bump was in the middle of the bed. The blondeness and overt charms of Ragnfast’s daughter held little appeal after his encounters with Thyre.
He ran his hand through his hair, contemplating turning on his heel and sleeping in the boat. Immediately he rejected the idea. Excuses should have been made earlier.
Ivar pressed his lips together. He was no longer in the first flush of youth and intent on proving his manhood. Sleep would come easy, no matter who his bed companion. And it would be sleep. He would give the woman a suitable morning gift and all honour would be satisfied.
Ivar eased his body between the crisp linen sheets, placing the tallow light on the bedside stool. The soft pillows and the furs enveloped him. He disliked thinking about the last time he had encountered such luxury. Why had Ragnfast indulged his wife in this manner? Had she really been as penniless as Ragnfast pretended? Ragnfast appeared to have mastered the technique of never really explaining anything. Thyre ran things, but who was her mother? It was a mystery and he hated mysteries.
When he returned to Viken, Ivar resolved to visit Bose the Dark to discover if somewhere in his vast memory Bose knew of a Ragnfast the Steadfast and how he had come by the nickname. He put his hands behind his head. Mysteries were there to be solved.
The woman stirred slightly, stretching. In the dim light, he could see a slender hand, but nothing more. He lifted the tallow light higher, throwing elongated shadows on to the bed. Her body froze, but she remained hidden underneath the covers.
‘No light.’ The two words slid over his skin, low, musical and full of promise.
‘Hush,’ Ivar said, placing his finger against her mouth after he had put the light on the bedside stool. Her fresh flowery scent filled his nostrils and held him in its embrace. ‘Sleep now.’
Her lips quivered at his touch and her tongue flicked out to taste his finger. An unexpected surge of warmth went through him, causing the need for sleep to fall away and to be replaced by something far more urgent. He frowned. The last blonde who had truly attracted him in this fashion had been Edda, his late wife. Ever since her death, blondes had only served to magnify his loss and to rebuke him for his failure to protect her.
Was Erik right and were all cats black in the dark?
He had forgotten the last time he had felt the need for a woman’s body without knowing anything about her. Perhaps as long ago as his first voyage. There was a difference between taking and savouring your partner. The delights of Freya’s grove were far sweeter when the mind played a part.
He forced his shoulders back against the pillows. Desire would pass. He would remain in control of his body. ‘I want to sleep.’
‘Then we shall sleep…and only dream of delight.’ Her words were a soft caress.
Ivar stilled. The voice sounded different from the brash, nasal-like quality of Ragnfast’s daughter. Completely different. There was an underlying tone of intelligence and quality.
He reached towards the light, intending to lift it higher and satisfy his curiosity. But a gust of wind extinguished it, plunging the room into complete darkness. Ivar regarded the darkened figure. Getting up and relighting the reed would make the woman realise he was on to her and give her a chance to escape. And he had no wish to lose her. With every breath he took her scent further infiltrated his being, making the tiny flicker grow within him, drowning out his earlier intentions. But he would know whom he bedded. ‘Or perhaps we should find a little relaxation first.’
‘I live for your desire.’
He turned her body towards him, trailed his fingers down her chin, skimming the indention of the dimple. A dimple, not smooth skin. He paused and grasped the chin more firmly, checked to make sure that his fingers had felt true. The dimple was unmistakeable.
He lay back against the pillows and struggled to breathe, reviewing his memory of both women. It was Thyre who sported the dimple in her chin, not the daughter. He was certain of it. His body sprang to life at the knowledge.
‘I wish to see you,’ he whispered. ‘Let me find another light.’
‘It is better this way. Darkness has its own embrace.’
Ivar lifted a brow. He was torn between wanting Thyre and wanting to solve the mystery of why she concealed her identity. She would be in his arms come morning. Ivar smiled grimly. He would play the game. First seduction and then revelation with the first light of dawn. ‘Darkness it is, then. For now.’
‘For ever.’
His fingers traced the outline of her cheekbones. Her flesh quivered at the slight touch, calling to him, tempting him to taste it. His body sprang to life, insisting. Ivar breathed deeply and regained control. He was not some untried youth. He wanted to prolong the encounter, not spill his seed before he had begun. ‘You are an unexpected surprise. A welcome one.’
He cupped her face between his palms and lowered his lips. One brush of his lips. One indulgence before the true seduction began.
Thyre relaxed slightly as his lips whispered over hers. It had begun. She had spent so long lying there that she had been convinced he had found somewhere else to sleep. Or that she should abandon her position and let him assume that it was only a bed on offer and risk the insult. Half a dozen times she had started to get out, but each time she remembered her promise to Dagmar and the look in Dagmar’s eyes. How hard would it be to fool Ivar?
Then he was here, lying next to her, his musky masculine scent enveloping her as surely as his arms turned her body towards him. And she knew it was more than that. Something about him called to her. She should consider this man an enemy, but she knew tonight he was to be her lover. A singing of the blood, her mother had once said, and now she began to understand. Quick flames of heat licked her insides, radiating outwards from his lips.
The pressure of his mouth increased, calling to her with warm insistence. His tongue traced the outline of her lips, demanded entrance, and she forgot to breathe. Her lips parted and his tongue slowly penetrated her mouth, teasing her. Every part of her suddenly seemed to be alive and tingling with anticipation.
‘You like this?’ he whispered against her lips as his hand trailed along her shoulder, sending ripples of pleasure coursing through her body, each stronger than the last.
‘Yes.’ The word was drawn from her throat in a soft sigh.
His lips returned, recaptured hers, plundered and took. They were slow and smooth, but firm, and demanded a response from deep within her. A tide of warmth engulfed her, making her forget everything but the sensation of his lips moving against hers. Each breath caused her to sink deeper into the tide of warmth. Her hand lifted, curled around his neck and held him there, his silky hair wrapping itself around her fingers, his body covering hers, hard muscles pressing into her soft curves.
She knew she should confess about the deception and tore her mouth from his. ‘I…’
‘Hush now,’ he breathed against her temple, smoothing her hair back. ‘The time for talking is done. You are here and I am here, and that is all we need to know. You are free to leave if you wish, but I would far rather you stayed.’
Scorching molten heat infused her. She was not powerless. She had a choice.
Here in the darkness, no one would ever know, would ever guess, and she could indulge in the fantasy of seduction.
‘One night,’ she murmured. One night of pleasure was all she would have. In the morning he would sail away and she would be married to Otto, becoming little more than a thrall. Her mother would have wept at how far her eldest daughter had fallen. She had trusted Ragnfast and he had betrayed her. She deserved this one night of passion with her chosen warrior.
Tonight she refused to think about the future; she would simply experience the present. Her stomach became heavy with desire. The steady practical self had vanished and in its place she had become someone different, someone who was determined to take pleasure, pleasure she knew instinctively his touch promised.
‘One night, one perfect night,’ she whispered against his lips.
‘One perfect night? If that is what you demand.’ He settled her more firmly in his arms, his hot skin burning hers. Intoxicating her. She arched forwards, brushing up against him.
His mouth shifted, slowly moving down the column of her throat. At its base, he suckled hard. Gently nipped. Then he returned to the spot again and again as the ache grew within her. She squirmed slightly at the sudden pressure, but his mouth travelled upwards again, reclaiming hers. His tongue traced the outline of her lips and demanded renewed entrance.
This time his kiss became more insistent, as if it were feasting, calling to something deep within her and she could only feel this growing need inside her, pushing everything else away. It made it impossible for her to think beyond the next pulse of heat. She lifted her hand and silently traced the smoothness of his scars; his skin quivered under her fingers.
His hand stroked down her body, skimming her shoulders, turning her more towards him, making her fall against him, covering her with his body.
He pushed the hem of her shift. Thyre suddenly wished she had taken Dagmar’s advice and had gone into the bed naked. But that had seemed odd so she had gone to bed as she normally did. Her back arched, seeking his warmth, and her nipples tightened, thrust up against the confining cloth.
His hand lifted her plait from her shoulder, undid it, and drew her hair over them both, creating an intimate curtain. Thyre’s breasts ached and became heavy with the need to feel his touch. Tongues of flame licked her core.
‘Soft, so soft.’
He trailed open-mouthed kisses down her throat and when he reached her shift he brushed it aside with impatient fingers. He cupped her breast, exposing it to his mouth, and bent his head. As he breathed, he sent a stream of air over the nipple, causing it to harden to a delicate nub. She arched her back, driving her breast upwards towards his mouth.
His tongue licked, sweeping around and over the tightly furled nipple, exploring its surface. Slow and languid, he took his time as if he understood exactly what he was doing to her and was determined to make her suffer. Her hands gripped the linen sheet. Everything had come down to this gentle tugging on her breast. The suckling became harder, more insistent, as waves of raw heat thrummed through her.
Her hips lifted towards his hard body. He slipped his hand down her back, edging her towards him, her hip hitting his, his arousal nestling against her, demonstrating his desire for her.
Her fingers explored the firm muscles of his chest, trailing over his flat nipples. They became molten heat under the pads of her fingers. She dipped her head quickly and licked them, much as a cat would lick its milk. She tasted faint salt and something indefinably him. She felt the rough points with the tip of her tongue and returned to taste again.
His muffled groan echoed in her ears and his arms locked around her, holding her there, face pressed against the rise and fall of his chest. She lay there, listening to the steady thump of his heart, and knew her heart beat the same rhythm.
His hand tugged at her shoulders, raised her face. Their breaths intermingled for an instant before he reclaimed her lips. Ivar’s friend Erik had been wrong. All cats were not black at night. He was not just any man, but this man. He was doing this to her, and her to him.
He lowered his head, returning to the sensitive point of her nipple. A mewling cry emerged from her throat. He stopped and freed the other breast from her shift, captured its swollen peak, taking it into his mouth, and suckled with renewed intensity.
The primitive fire within h
er raged, consuming her senses, demanding that she become one with him. She pressed her body closer and felt his skin, warm and subtle under her fingertips. He pushed them aside and rolled her over, so she was under him.
Her world began to blur at the edges as his hand drifted inexorably lower and found the nest of curls at the apex of her thighs. A single finger traced her crease, delving inwards and parting her innermost folds. Stroking firmly, he discovered the hidden peak. He lingered, playing, circling it as his mouth covered hers again. His fingers mimicked the playing of his tongue, sliding over her crease and within her. Thyre longed for more. Her hands grasped his shoulders, trying to make him understand.
Ivar’s heavy weight came down on top of her. His knee pressed against her legs, wedging them open. The tip of him nudged her, resting there. It seared her. Pulses coursed through her body as she squirmed upwards, seeking more. And then he impaled himself, driving deep within her. She gasped at the unexpected burning pain. His lips touched her brow, soothing her.
‘I am sorry,’ he murmured. ‘I had not considered…’
He lay there inside her, not moving. Thyre moaned in frustration. Her entire being was consumed with him and she needed something more, something to take away the burning itch inside her. She tried to lift her hips.
Gently he kissed her mouth, his tongue coaxing a response from hers. Tangling, twisting, thrusting with his tongue. Suddenly the fire that the pain had held at bay flamed with a new intensity and consumed her, turning her resistance to ashes and forging her from new again. Her hips arched upwards, driving him deeper.
He began to move against her, faster and faster. The pain subsided as the need overtook her. She grasped his shoulders and held him there. It was as if the world had been made anew. A great shuddering engulfed her and a heartbeat later it engulfed him.
Afterwards, they lay together, his hand lightly cupping her back. He started to speak, but Thyre touched her hand to his mouth. ‘No regrets.’
The Viking’s Captive Princess Page 7
