The Bear and the Bride

by Jianne Carlo

  “What?” Ainslin demanded, the second the man left the dais.

  “Victory, wife. Earl Sigrid and his men have left Stjórardalr.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  Three nights after Sigrid departed, Ainslin speared thread through the eye of a whalebone needle. Heat climbed her throat and face as another eye filled her mind, the weeping slit on the crown of Torsten’s cock. He had not allowed her to lick his spigot or taste his seed as yet, and she so yearned to do so.

  Will he enjoy my tongue as I did his?

  She had been plagued with dizziness and cold sweats from the shrimp after eating on the second night of the feast. The third day, the clamminess eased, but the wooziness continued to afflict her at odd times. Torsten had been so concerned for her pain and treated her with such tenderness, her heart ached recalling his actions even now. The evening meal had long finished and she wondered how long he and his brothers would linger.

  The fire Feisal built earlier crackled and popped. Ainslin shrugged the furs from her shoulders when the logs burst into flames. Earlier, she’d taken a length of scarlet silk, given her by Ælfgifu as part of her dowry, and cut a tunic for Torsten. The brilliant color and the pattern she’d chosen would add to his regal arrogance and highlight the blue glints in his black hair. Inspecting the line of gold stitches for any unevenness, she smiled, picturing Jarvik, Magnus, Ruard, and Njal and Torsten side by side.

  Angels and Devils from their coloring—the three so fair, the other two so dark. The planes and angles of Torsten’s chiseled features didn’t conjure the word handsome, yet her sex—she blushed—her puss wept remembering his wicked grin when he glanced up at her from between her thighs. She had already decided not to mention any intimacy between them in confession.

  She heard a door creak open, hastily hid the tunic in her trunk and tossed a shawl around her shoulders. Looking around the room, she took a deep inhale, hoping her efforts would please Torsten. Her dowry carts had arrived with the twins, and she’d pressed Feisal into service. Tapestries hung on the walls, embroidered pillows plied the bench and chairs, two additional rugs carpeted the floor. Silver goblets, green glasses, clay plates, and stone bowls lay on the table.

  A three-drawer oak chest, Hadrain’s morning gift to her, stood to the left of the bed. A draft of cold air snaked across the chamber, and the blazing flames bent in the opposite direction when the door opened. Ainslin shifted to face her husband. Excitement sang through her veins as she drank him in. He filled the room to overflowing. The scent of him swamped her nostrils—leather, smoke, and some male tang that made her mouth water.

  “To me, Ainslin.” His deep voice fired an ache between her legs.

  She fair glided to him, unable to stop staring into his storm-clouded eyes. He stood, arms akimbo, dressed in a brown tunic, tight chausses of the same color and black boots laced in the front. “Our children, Feisal, and Eileen, are quartered in a cottage close to the longhouse for this night. We leave on the morrow for Trondheim, for King Canute’s coronation. He honors us after with a marriage mass, that all may witness our union.”

  She frowned, unsure how to take the news.

  “’Tis good, Ainslin.” Framing her face, he bent to brush his lips over hers.

  Sighing into the caress, she set her hands on his chest. “Sigrid will be there.”

  “We have already negated any claim he can make. He seeks Canute the Great’s favor and therefore he will not gainsay Canute the Great’s public blessing of our union.”

  “I thank you, my lord.” Tears pooled in her eyes. “Not simply for arranging such an honor, but for claiming Brom and Rob as yours, and for allowing me my Christian faith.”

  Fore he had told her the day before of his plans to build a church on the holding and seek a priest to teach and bless the people of Stjórardalr, including him.

  He folded her in his arms, one hand stroking her side, the other kneading her bottom. “You are mine, Ainslin, as are Brom and Rob. I protect you all to the death.”

  His thumb swiped an escaping tear. “What ails you, elska?”

  Ainslin had to swallow three times. “Not many warriors accept another’s child. ’Tis more than I could ever hope for, yet…” she searched his eyes, praying he understood her hesitation. “I did not birth Brom and Rob.”

  “But you love them as a mother would, nay?” He tangled his fingers in her hair.

  She nodded.

  “’Tis all I require. You please me, Ainslin.”

  The knots in her stomach loosened, and the flare of desire in his eyes made her bold. Letting the shawl fall to the floor, she tiptoed and touched her lips to his, sipping the soft, smooth skin, tasting the ale he’d drunk. Moving to deepen the kiss, she angled her head, and the slight stubble on his chin tickled her mouth.

  He drew away and met her gaze, his quick breaths fanning her moistened flesh. His nostrils quivered, he glanced down, sucked in a breath and rasped, “’Tis a feast for my eyes, Ainslin.”

  She’d chosen a sheer chemise, the hems and sleeves embroidered with green ivy leaves, hoping he’d understand her signal. His jaw clenched and a muscle under his eye jumped.

  “We can join Torsten.” She dropped her focus to his neck, to the rapid throbbing at the center of his throat. “I—”

  Instantly, he swept her off her feet, and his mouth covered hers. He stalked to the bed and sat heavily on the mattress. His tongue delved inside, sweeping the edges of her teeth, stroking the inside of her cheek. His hands fumbled at the tie holding the thin chemise together. Every touch, every caress, had her belly rippling, her toes curling and uncurling. She fisted her hands in his tunic, and tugged him closer.

  Torsten broke the kiss, his rapid breathing flickering fiery streams of air across the tops of her bared breasts. His gray eyes had darkened to coal. He helped Ainslin to her feet, slid the chemise down to her waist, over her hips, and the garment fluttered to the skins beneath her bare feet. Her shoulders hunched, and she fought the urge to cover her mound and breasts.

  He must have noticed for he ordered, “Nay, Ainslin, never hide the glory of your body from me. ’Tis for me to worship, to pleasure, to taste.”

  His hands moving to the roundness of her flesh, thumbs rubbing her nipples.

  “Torsten,” she moaned, her knees trembled, and she rested her palms on his shoulders.

  He tugged her close, and set his mouth to the valley between her breasts, suckling and licking the undersides.

  Desire swept through her and she sat up and reached down between their bodies to caress and squeeze his breech covered cock.

  Suddenly he stilled, and the chamber grew silent but for the snapping fire.

  Ainslin blinked and stared at the inky hair covering his head, all the confidence she’d gathered flying to the far ends of the Norse lands.

  She had been too bold. Eileen had been wrong about men liking their peckers squeezed.

  When he chuckled, ice coated her feet and hands, and she yearned to crawl into her trunk and slam the lid closed. Torsten must have felt her rigidity, for he pushed her back down, nuzzled her belly button, and then looked up at her, a wide smile dominating his face.

  At once, his expression changed, he muttered something she didn’t catch in Norse, and stood, framing her face with both hands. She didn’t want to see his displeasure and kept her gaze on his square chin.

  “To me, Ainslin,” he crooned. “’Tis many winters long past I near spilled my seed in my breeches. ’Tis the reason I halted, elska.”

  She peeked at him.

  His thumb crept across the seam of her mouth.

  “The náttverðr strung too long, this eve.” He slipped a finger between her lips, “I speared a choice morsel, but had no thought, no taste for food, only for your mouth, your tits, your puss. I near sprinted to the lodge.”

  Every word he spoke melted her stiffness. Tentatively, she touched her tongue to his finger’s tip, and sucked.

  He groaned, gathered her into his embr
ace, and placed her on top of the skins on the bed. The warm fur felt wickedly delicious against her bottom, and Ainslin wriggled into the plush softness. Her gaze devoured the muscled definition of his chest when he tore off his tunic, his belt having flown across the chamber and clattered on the table. Then he shucked his boots off and kicked them out of his way.

  Ainslin remembered their last joining, when he’d draped his tunic and stacked his boots, his movements unhurried, ordered. A grin tugged at her lips, and her womanly parts slickened. She arched her back, displaying her pouting nipples. Her sex wept, the nub there tingling, craving his firm tongue, his sharp teeth.

  Torsten came down over her, his knee nudging her legs apart, his mouth fastening on a breast, and she cried out when he drew in the point and grazed her pulsing flesh. Her body knew what happened next, and moisture drenched her folds.

  “Mine,” he growled, his rumble skittering heat across the damp bud of her breast. He lapped the peak, and his rough tongue singed her to her core. Ainslin cupped his cock with her mound, rubbing from side to side, an inarticulate plea for possession.

  “Nay.” He gave her breast one last lingering lick before rolling them over.

  “Do we stop?” she wailed, and tried to catch her breath, pushing up and resting her palms on his hard chest.

  “I will not injure you again, Ainslin,” He panted between the words, his voice coarse and husky. Lifting her above his rigid cock, he shifted her back and forth, teasing her swollen folds.

  “I beg you, Torsten.” She struggled to close the gap between them and let out a long moan when she felt his stiff prick easing inside her throbbing channel.

  “To you, Ainslin. I yield to you. Set the pace,” he urged, loosening his grip on her hips.

  She closed her eyes at the ecstasy, sinking down on his cock, bliss filling her when his pecker stretched her to bursting, the sensation at once both agony and rapture. The need to move drove her to glide up and down his organ, and her breathing faltered when he tweaked her nipples.

  Her chest ached, she rode him faster, her inner walls clamped at his prick, affirming the excruciating rhythm of plunder and retreat. She wanted, nay needed, the release just out of her reach. His thumb found her hooded nub, and he pinched. Ainslin screamed his name as the peak claimed her, shuddering and convulsing around his cock. He held her hips and continued to thrust, lifting her off the mattress as he spilled his seed inside her, and another release wracked her body.

  »»•««

  The following day, Torsten glimpsed the Jarl of Lade’s hall in the distance and stifled the instinct to turn about and return to the safety and seclusion of Bjarndýr Skáli. He hadn’t wanted to hurry Ainslin, knowing her puss was swollen and tender from the eve before. Therefore the journey to Trondheim had been one taken at leisure.

  Glancing behind to see her laughing while riding side by side with Ruard, his grip on the reins inadvertently tightened, and his steed, Prúðr, snorted his disapproval.

  Jarvik, cantering on his left, taunted, “’Tis a dastardly matter to see you brought so low as to be jealous of your own brother.”

  “I will see you in practice on the morrow,” Torsten vowed. “I welcome the day you meet your bride.”

  “Many moons will pass afore such happens—you have yet to settle Ruard.”

  “’Tis time you learn to gather knowledge afore spilling nonsense,” Torsten chided. “Ruard received a missive from the king last eve. His alliance is arranged.”

  Pulling up short Jarvik exclaimed, “Nay!”

  “Aye,” Torsten retorted and kicked his horse into a gallop. “Canute the Great has already settled yours. As he has Njal’s and Magnus’s. ’Twill be my turn to smirk at your efforts at taming a wife!”

  They arrived to find the jarl himself, Hákon Eiríksson, the leader of the Norse nobles who’d refused to support King Olaf against Canute’s invasion, addressing a contingent of his hird in a secluded corner of a practice field. The minute Hákon spied Torsten, Ruard, Magnus, Njal, and Jarvik, he dismissed the assembled delegation of his warrior army and strode to greet them.

  The Hákonarson and Østberg lines fostered first sons with each other’s families. Hákon and Torsten, both older sons, had fostered together at Thorkell the Tall’s holdings before being called to battle by King Canute.

  Known for favoring bedsport above all but ruling Trøndelag and leading his hird to battle, Hákon grinned at Torsten, his smile both lascivious and taunting. “Has the fair Ainslin the Frigid arrived?”

  “Speak you that name once again, and I will see you in practice on the morn,” Torsten snapped.

  Before Torsten could say more, Jarvik revealed, “From the moans and screams last eve, ’twould seem envious gossip fostered that title. Though my knowledge be only secondhand—”

  “Desist!” Torsten roared, leapt off his steed and grabbed the reins of his brother’s horse, startling the stallion into a swift buck and tumbling Jarvik to the hard earth. Right before Torsten attacked his youngest brother, he checked to ensure that Ruard and Njal were, as per his orders, escorting Ainslin to Castle Lade.

  Once assured of his wife’s safety, Torsten pounced on Jarvik. Magnus jumped off his stallion and stomped to Jarvik’s side.

  Hákon vaulted off his destrier and landed not a foot away from Torsten.

  Torsten and Hákon exchanged a glance full of impatient anticipation.

  “Like old times, heh,” Hákon shouted, “Attack!”

  The tussle that ensued involved every warrior in the vicinity and proved particularly satisfying.

  Darkness had long fallen when Torsten made his way to the chamber assigned to him and Ainslin. Finding the chamber devoid of any but Martha, he discovered King Canute’s archbishop had commanded Ainslin to confession. Torsten cursed heartily while bathing and dressing, and continued swearing when he burst into the great hall to find the seating divided, jarls and nobility on either side of Canute, wives seated at the table below the dais.

  Torsten’s gaze kept returning to Ainslin. She conversed little, ate mere morsels, drank even less, and sent him furtive glances through the meal. When the lawgiver rose to recite the Øre-Thing meeting bylaws, the king’s handfast wife, Ælfgifu, led the women from the hall. The lawgiver began the Øre-Thing by declaring Canute King of Norway and after all the jarls had pledged their fealty, the new king pronounced judgment over a score of petty disputes.

  All were shocked when, at the close of the Øre-Thing, the king rewarded Sigrid for his service by dubbing him the Jarl of the Isle of Mull. None knew that Torsten subtlety encouraged the king in Sigrid’s reward because the island was located on the west coast of Scotland. Torsten doubted Sigrid would ever set foot in Norway again. The rough seas and the enormous land mass separating the two counties would require more than three summers of travel by boat and land.

  Hours later, when Torsten returned to their room, he found his wife crouched over a chamber pot, her complexion tinged green, her hair plastered to her cheeks. His heart stopped beating, and he consumed the distance between them, stooping and curling an arm around her shoulders.

  Had the shrimp sickness returned?

  “What ails you, Ainslin?”

  She moaned and shook her head cupping a hand over her mouth.

  He lurched to his feet, poured a glass of ale and returned to her side.

  “Beg pardon, my lord,” she croaked, sometime later, after the last contents of her stomach filled the stone bowl. Color returned to her skin, but not a healthy rose as before, more a slash of painful scarlet. “’Tis my courses. I am always ill during this time. I have asked Martha to find us another room or pallet for the night.”

  “Nay.” He gathered her into his embrace. “You stay with me and I will play maid.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  When they returned to Stjórardalr and Bear Hall, Ainslin blossomed like a daisy in spring. In truth, those months of the lands’ awakening to the sun became a boon Torsten never expected.
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  His lust for his wife swelled with each joining, his desire never slaked, simply stoked higher with each new dawn. As the planted wheat crops burst through the rich soil, so did her trust in him, and the intimacy between them ripened to a deep and abiding love.

  Brom and Rob shot up with the fresh green stalks, their chubby legs shedding fat and developing muscles as Torsten and his brothers began their training for fostering.

  ’Twas nigh on midsummer, and Torsten could take his wife’s suffering no longer. For too long, he’d watched helpless as his wife grew more despondent when her courses descended. Not only did her laugh dim, but the sickness that accompanied her courses lengthened and intensified.

  He decided to remove her from Bjarndýr Skáli for a sennight or two.

  “Are you cert, brother?” Jarvik asked.

  “Aye. ’Tis will do her good to be in the mountains. Watch my sons well,” Torsten ordered, glancing to Ainslin mounted on a prancing chestnut mare.

  Jarvik followed his gaze and nodded. “Go, I will ensure no harm befalls Brom and Rob.”

  The five-day journey to his lodge in the interior seemed to lift Ainslin’s spirits.

  Ainslin’s eyes brightened when they reached Sumar Söngur, and she quickly became absorbed in decorating the sparse one-room lodge, cooking, cleaning and planning an addition so they could bring the boys the following summer. Her green eyes regained their twinkle, her cheeks their rosy hue, after a week of swimming, cavorting and tupping in the lake, on the sandy banks, and beside the blazing fireplace in the lodge.

  He yearned to take her in full sunlight, on the crest of the mountain in the soft grasses.

  “Nay,” she protested, her cheeks all aglow. “’Tis midday, Torsten, and we are in the middle of a field.”

  “Aye.” He pressed openmouthed kisses on her nape and throat.

  Ainslin batted at him, but when he suckled on that spot between neck and shoulder that never failed to make her whimper and surrender, she sighed and touched her mouth to his jaw, grazing the hard bone there, licking his flesh soothingly.