by Jianne Carlo
What of her twin sons?
The boys could not be hers, but he had made detailed inquiries about her marriage to Earl Hadrain. Ainslin had born Hadrain the babes within the first year of their marriage.
Did his new wife plot some evil?
Nay. She loved her sons, who were not her sons, that much was plain. For she had readily agreed to come to his bed willingly and only asked that he not cast them aside if she did not please him.
He suddenly wanted to prolong their intimacy and decided to forgo questioning his new wife for the time being.
Tremors continued to strum her channel, and her breathing stuttered with each contraction. His cock refused to subside, and though he loathed leaving the heat of her puss, Torsten knew he must, for he had used her hard.
’Twas only then he realized how ill his treatment of her had been. For in his crazed desire, he had taken her half-clothed. Heat dusted his cheeks when he looked down between their bodies and saw her bunched skirts and the torn chemise. “I beg your forgiveness, Ainslin, for riding you so roughly.”
Her head tilted back and stared at him. Color, bright and furious, stained her throat and face. She dipped her chin. Whispered, “I did not please you?”
He chuckled and set his palms to her warm cheeks. “More pleasure truly would have felled me dead. To me, wife. Aye, that’s it. Had I known of your unbroken maidenhead, I would have been gentler.”
“Then I did please you?” she asked again.
“Aye, Ainslin. You pleased me like no other ever has.” He glanced at her torn chemise and the severed laces. “Think you, your gown can be mended? Nay. It matters naught. I will buy you more. As many as you want.”
“I have no need of new gowns, my lord—”
“Torsten. ’Twill give me pleasure to buy you more.” The notion of gifting her did indeed please him.
“You have sent for Brom and Rob—” She gasped and cupped a hand over her mouth, her gaze now wary and fearful.
“Aye. Your sons. Methinks we have much to discuss. I made a vow to you. I vowed not to cast either you or your boys aside and I intend to keep my promise. You and your sons are mine now, Ainslin, and I protect what is mine.”
Her gaze flickered and her head turned on the pillow.
“I am parched. And hungry.”
She wouldn’t look at him, her glance darting to his collarbone, throat, anywhere but his eyes. “Helga had the cook prepare a cold meal for us. There is a tray in the main chamber.”
“Shall I fetch the food to you?”
It bothered Torsten that she no longer touched him, while some compulsion drove him to stroke her skin, sniff her hair, and toy with the bud of her breast. “Nay. I will take us to the food.”
With that, he eased out of her sheath, and rolled over to stand on the floor.
She clutched the torn garment together, and he decided he preferred the dress Saxon women wore—the front lacings a definite advantage for a lust-dazed mind like his. He glanced at her legs, spied the blood smeared on her thighs, and stifled a curse. All the questions he needed answered swarmed in his brain.
Chapter Three
Ainslin cringed under Torsten’s piercing stare.
She glanced in the direction he stared and winced when she saw the streaks of blood on her thighs.
He pressed her shoulder. “Lie down. I must attend to you first.”
“Nay,” she blurted, embarrassment scalding her from her scalp to her toes.
“Aye Ainslin,” he declared. “I inflicted the injury, and I will tend to you.”
Her breathing faltered watching him stride to the pitcher and basin on the bench against the wall. She had seen warriors train, had cared for her ailing husband during the long spring before his death, knew men and women rutted, but never had she anticipated the beauty of this Viking jarl. His back she’d memorized earlier. Now she drank in his sinewy calves, her gaze lingering on his powerful thighs bunching as he walked. She wet her lips when she glimpsed red marks from her nails on his flesh.
A chill draft snaked over her torso. She fumbled to re-lace her gown and managed to find three lengths to tie together. Though the silk gaped, her breasts were covered. Her gyrdel had become all tangled so she unhooked the metal links and set the gold belt on a low table next to the bed. She looked up to find him crouching by the fire, his sac hanging loose below his buttocks.
When Torsten stood and turned, she gasped and understood the cause of the sharp pinch and the initial discomfort when he filled her sheath. His prick jutted proud and erect from a nest of dark curls, the crown slick and reddened, a tiny slit glinting like an eye in the middle.
Fascinated by his organ, following the bobbing sway of it as he marched, Ainslin obeyed his command to spread her legs without hesitation. When he sat on the mattress she noticed her blood on him and spoke her thoughts aloud. “And who attends to you?”
He laughed and the booming chortle rent the quiet of the chamber. Tipping her chin with a finger, he forced her gaze away from his sex. “’Twould be my pleasure should you desire to do so, wife.”
Ainslin knew she blushed all over, and her eyes widened when he pressed a damp cloth to her mound. “’Tis warm.”
“Nay. ’Tis a flame that burns me alive.”
She frowned and his lips twitched.
“’Tis a bawdy jest, Ainslin.”
The drying cloth was warm too, and she sighed at the pleasure of having someone care for her for a change. Her muscles relaxed and she sank into the straw mattress.
He had made a bawdy jest.
She studied his face. Did the creases at the corners of his eyes mean he laughed often? In her experience, ready smiles were in short supply with warriors. He’d been patient with her, hadn’t struck her when he discovered her a maiden, and now he cleansed her flesh.
Hope surged and her spirits soared.
He had sent for her sons, and ’twas wondrous easy to be warm and willing in his bed. She must find other ways to please him. ’Twere not for Helga, she could be content here.
When he pulled her skirts down and rose, Ainslin lurched after him.
“Nay,” he said turning around. “Ainslin, the pain—”
“’Twas a pinch. I am sore not in pain.” Ainslin took the cloths from his hands. “’Tis your turn to lie down, my lord.”
He cupped her cheek and looked into her eyes. “Are you cert?”
“Aye,” she answered, not able to prevent a smile. “I am cert, my lord.”
“Torsten. My name is Torsten.”
“I am cert, Torsten.”
Ainslin rose swiftly and hurried to the basin on the floor right before the hearth. As she washed the stained cloth and wrung it out, Ainslin traced Torsten’s movements, her lips curling when he thumped onto the mattress and a flurry of dust motes jumped and leapt, catching the lamp’s light. Head resting on his palms, he stretched his long legs, and grinned when he caught her staring. She warmed the cloths, keeping the linen rectangles away from the sparks.
Excitement tempered by a hint of trepidation had her fingers shaking, and she near dropped the damp material in the flames.
Would he ask her?
Should she tell all?
Would he cast her aside?
Swallowing the bitter taste coating her tongue, she rose and moved to the bed, the slapping of her bare feet on the wood muted by the skins covering the floor. Her courage faltered when she sat on the mattress, and she kept her eyes fixed on his bulging arms.
“To me, Ainslin, look to me.” His voice dripped honey.
He circled her wrist and guided her hand to his sex curling her fingers around his rigid shaft.
Ainslin peeked at their joined hands.
His cock twitched in her grasp. Slowly, gently, she dabbed at the bloody streak. His sex jerked once, twice, and she exclaimed, “It has a mind of its own.”
“Oftentimes,” he agreed taking the drying cloth from her grasp. “Enough, wife. I can bear your cleansing no more.
You are tender and my belly rumbles. To the food.”
He lurched to his feet and pulled on his breeches, not bothering to don his boots or his tunic.
Assuming her new husband wanted her to dress too, she tidied her rumpled crytel, all the while holding her breath and waiting for him to demand an explanation for her being a maiden. She dared not glance at him directly.
To her surprise, he uttered not a word, but insisted on sweeping her into his arms, and he carried her to the main chamber.
Ainslin discovered she loved being in his embrace.
Savored being surrounded and encased by his powerful torso, relished the way his musky scent enveloped her like a warm blanket. Her nose bumped his chest, and the hairs there tickled the tip. He smelled of smoke from the fire, and she couldn’t resist inhaling deeply, her lids lowering as she cherished the strength of his hold, the safety of his arms, and the heat he radiated.
Torsten set her down in the chair she’d occupied before. The fire in the chamber had died down, and the logs glowed ruby hues. She shivered and hugged her elbows.
“You are chilled again,” Torsten stated as he strode to the fire. “The weather is milder in Cumbria than here at Stjórardalr.”
“I will grow accustomed.” She straightened in the high backed chair. “I will not complain.”
Ainslin couldn’t fathom how he didn’t feel the chill in the room, naked as he was save for the loose woolen breeches. She watched him throw logs into the fireplace and stoke the ashes until flames leapt and danced. The sweet smell of pine freshened the warming air.
She scanned the table that had held the jug of wine and spied a tray at the far end. At once, she hopped off the seat and took two paces to the right.
“’Tis the food you spoke of, my lord?” Ainslin asked, lifting the tray.
“Aye,” he replied, placed the stoking iron on the fireplace’s stone mantel, and reached her in two strides. Taking the platter from her, Torsten set it on one end of the table. He scooped her off her feet, sat on the chair, and arranged her sideways on his lap. “You like fowl, Ainslin?”
“Aye.” She tried to not wriggle or squirm, for she had never sat on a man’s lap before and was only too aware of his tumescent shaft prodding her bottom. He touched the wine goblet to her lips.
“Drink,” he directed.
Obeying him, Ainslin sipped the sweet wine. Her heart pounded like the bodham drums of war.
Frazzled under his sharp scrutiny, a few drops of the liquid spilled onto her chin.
He pounced, his tongue lapping the wine from her skin, and the tingling caress sent sparks straight to her toes.
Torsten brushed a morsel of fowl across her lips. “Open.”
Ainslin glanced longingly at the chair opposite, but parted her lips and captured the food with her mouth.
“You wed the Earl of Hitchin four winters ago.” He snatched a small eating knife lying on the table, speared a fat carrot, and sliced the orange root in half. “How come you to me a maiden?”
Startled, she jerked back. Her mind spun in endless circles. She could not gather her thoughts. The truth spilled from her lips. “Hadrain could not…he had seen two score summers, and his manhood no longer rose.”
“The marriage was never consummated,” Torsten said, his eyes narrowing. “Why did you marry then, if not to give Hadrain an heir? ’Tis true you are an heiress, but Hadrain had no need of wealth.”
Ainslin twined her hands together to still her sudden trembling and focused on her knotted fingers. “Hadrain’s holding, Castle Næss, and my father’s lands adjoin. Hadrain and my father were fostered together and became great friends. As a mere babe, I was betrothed to Hadrain’s eldest son, his heir.”
“To all counts a suitable match. Your sire had no surviving sons and King Canute agreed that his lands could be passed to you, and thus to your husband when you wed. All this I learned when our marriage contracts were negotiated.”
Surprised, but appeased by his calm tone, she explained, her confidence growing, “My father and Hadrain’s three sons were killed in battle when King Malcolm reclaimed Northumbria. My mother and Hadrain’s wife also were friends and we visited Castle Næss a score or more times a year. Hadrain had no daughters and he was like an uncle to me, though we were not related. When Hadrain discovered that the Earl Sigrid of Northdam intended to petition the king for my hand in marriage, he feared for my life. Earl Sigrid’s three wives all died within a year of him marrying them, you see.”
“Ah. Each wife brought him wealth and lands?” Torsten scraped a hand over his jaw.
“Aye. Hadrian petitioned the king for my hand. We married three sennights after King Canute gave his permission.”
Torsten frowned, his black brows pinched together. “I know of Earl Sigrid of Northdam. His lands adjoin yours and Hadrain’s.”
She nodded. “They do. Hadrain had no liking for Sigrid, but could not deny him lodging when he visited our keep.”
Ainslin studied her short nails. “Sigrid is a lustful man. He took my maid, Lavanya, to his bed. She did not go willingly.”
Tipping her jaw upward he forced her to meet his stare. “The boys are Lavanya’s?”
“Aye,” Ainslin whispered. “She died birthing them.”
“Why did Hadrain claim the boys his?”
“Hadrain’s sons died in the battle with my father, leaving him with no living heirs. He feared Sigrid would win control of his holdings and me after he passed. Lavanya got with child from Sigrid, and Hadrain saw a way to keep me safe.”
Tears pricked her eyes as she remembered Lavanya’s struggle to birth the boys and Hadrain’s long illness. “Hadrain announced to all and sundry that I was increasing and needed special care. He sent Lavanya and I and a few trusted servants to his holding in the highlands.”
“Who knows this secret?”
The grim cast of Torsten’s mouth had her pulse stuttering and skipping. She prayed for his understanding and mercy.
“Only three who know still live. Hadrain’s steward who accompanied us to the highlands, Feisal Lancaster, and his wife, Eileen, and Martha. They are all loyal to me.” Her voice failed.
»»•««
Torsten studied the woman he’d lusted after for two seasons. A jarl had to be able to determine truth from falsehood, and he had led his people too many years not to notice her shaking hands or the leaping palpitation in the center of her throat.
Ainslin had told him only part of her tale.
He debated forcing her to tell the all of the conundrum regarding her “sons,” but only for a moment. Realizing that his new wife’s trust in his care of her had to be earned, he decided to give her the time to come to know him.
She didn’t know that Sigrid had been his rival for her hand.
And she knew naught of Sigrid’s viciousness and ambitions.
Torsten had spent almost a full season in Italia to sway the king’s decision to him. If Sigrid sniffed the truth, he would claim not only the sons Lavanya had birthed, but could also declare Ainslin to be the mother of his children. ‘Twould be Sigrid’s word against Ainslin’s, and none would believe a mere female’s word oe’er that of a man’s.
Even tonight’s bloodied sheets wouldn’t convince Canute the Great that Torsten had pierced her maidenhood, for Ainslin had claimed the boys hers for nigh on three winters. Torsten thanked the Gods for the leagues separating the British isle from Norway.
The enmity between Sigrid and Torsten had been simmering from the instant the two men met in the Battle of Assandun. Sigrid’s father, a native of Mercia, had recently sworn allegiance to Canute and had been promised the Earlship of Northdam as his reward. ‘Twas in the height of the mêlée at the moment the combat turned in Canute’s favor when Torsten witnessed Sigrid fatally wounding his own father. The shock of a son murdering his own sire had stunned Torsten to his core.
How had Sigrid planned to use his union with Ainslin to further his ambitions?
What were Sigrid’s
aspirations?
God forbid Sigrid learned of Torsten and Ainslin’s marriage afore he got her with child. For Sigrid could petition the king to declare their union null and void because Ainslin had born him sons. Torsten needed to have the two other witnesses to Sigrid’s perfidy under his protection—immediately.
“I will send for this steward and his wife,” Torsten promised. Not wanting his gentle wife to be alarmed by his fierce avowal, he added, his tone mellow and soothing, “My steward is elderly and I need seek his replacement soon.”
He smoothed the lines creasing her forehead wondering what had her so fretful. “Worry not, Ainslin, all will be well.”
In truth, though her lies provided flint to a fire waiting to explode, this secret would bind her to him. “Sigrid and I are not allies, and he has no reason to stray this far north.”
Torsten could not avoid the king’s annual meeting, the Witan, with his nobles and churchmen to amend the charters and law codes by which all under Canute’s reign must abide. Indeed ’twas essential to attend to maintain the king’s favor and acquire greater influence and authority, but he preferred Ainslin remain here at Bear Hall protected and far from Sigrid’s reach.
Spearing a chunk of partridge, he said, “And should our union prove fruitful soon, you need not accompany me to Canute’s court when he returns from Italia and summons his earls for the Witan.”
Alarmed when she gasped and brought a fist to her mouth, he studied his new wife intently.
Fear chased her eyes, the dark centers expanded and the green outer circles deepened, reminding him of a meadow in full season. “What concerns you?”
“Will you send my sons back?” Ainslin’s voice wavered and she looked away.
“Nay.” He brushed the morsel of food over her lips. His cockstand thickened when she lapped a bead of juice that threatened to fall. “We will raise them with our sons.”
Casting him a sidelong glance, she finished chewing, and swallowed. “I thank you, my lord.”
“Torsten, Ainslin,” he muttered, the correction reflexive, more focused on her pallor at the mention of their progeny. Cutting a thick slice of cheese, he pondered her reactions before breaking the wedge in two, and feeding her the smaller bit.
