by Suz deMello
Her body was heating, tingling, sizzling, and she wanted to touch herself the way she did when she was alone at night, but... Wasn’t that wanton? Would he cease to treat her kindly if he knew the desires that drove her?
He lifted his head. “Touch yourself. Touch yourself in whatever way feels good to you.”
She inhaled a startled breath.
“Aye,” he said. “’Tis all right. Do it.”
She kissed him and dropped a hand to her quim. ’Twas damp and needy, and she couldna resist pushing in one finger, then two, moaning.
“Aye,” he whispered. “Are you ready?”
“I... Should we?”
“You’re asking me?” He laughed.
“Truly, sir, I ken not what I should do.”
He pulled away and regarded her, his expression thoughtful, and rubbed his chin. “What troubles you, Mistress Rhona?”
“I, er... I ken that a man will reject used goods. That the Bute would reject me as would every other well-born man because I am with ye tonight.” She rose and picked up her shift. “But what if ye should do the same?”
He shook his head. “I will not.”
She pressed her lips together. Well she knew the ways of men, having seen more than one lass broken-hearted by a lad’s inconstancy. “I should go.”
“Is that what you truly wish?” He fixed her with those eyes again, those impossibly deep, soulful eyes.
Caught in their spell, she sank to her knees before him. “Nay,” she whispered.
“Well, then.” He set his hands beneath her arse and lifted her as though she were light as a sea shell. “Open your legs.”
Mesmerized by his bewitching eyes, she obeyed without really thinking. He drew her close and set her atop him. Set her atop that pole of flesh she’d seen dangling between his legs, which was now hard and erect, pointing up along his equally hard belly. His aim was a little off, so he moved her around a bit before something—it—rubbed against her slit.
She gasped but he didnae stop, instead loosening his grip to let her weight drop upon his shaft. An aching heat started and she wriggled, suddenly terrified. She scrabbled for his shoulders and tried to lift herself up off his rod a little. But he pressed her slowly, inexorably downward and with a little sob, she let it happen.
Pain cut through her and she clung to his shoulders, wailing.
He stopped, his pole throbbing inside her. ’Twas wondrous, and she raised an astonished gaze to his.
The midnight eyes smiled. “Aye,” he murmured. “The first time is both pain and pleasure for you, but all the other times... I promise you, you shan’t regret the choice you’ve made this night.”
Gripping her hips, he slowly lifted and lowered her. Each time her body accepted a little more of his until she was seated fully upon him.
Was she going to burst? It seemed so! Her quim was on fire, not just the opening, but all the way inside, so deep that he seemed to reach her heart with every push and thrust. And he used his tongue in her mouth to echo his cock’s quickening rhythm inside her. She became wetter with every movement, the sizzle burning hotter until she could do nothing but hold on and take what he chose to give her.
Her eyes tight shut, colors burst against her closed lids, rainbows and stars until a great flash of light and heat and rapture seemed to stop time. She cried out, then went limp in his arms, boneless and weak from the overwhelming pleasure.
His cry echoed hers, and his seed flooded her channel. “Rest,” he whispered. “Rest against me.”
She sagged against him, and his spent shaft fell out of her. But he wasna done. He lowered her body back until she rested on the sand. Kneeling between her legs, he began to lick her thighs clean, starting at her knees and going up, up, up...
Up until he reached her sore quim, where he continued to lick and then to suck. Propping herself up on her elbows, she stared. “Wha-what-what are ye doin’, mon?”
He lifted his head and smiled, moisture glistening on his pale lips. “Loving you. Lie back and enjoy yourself.”
He rubbed his tongue over her sensitive bump and lightning tore through her body. She fell back onto the sand with a moan and let him take her to heaven. Eyes closed, the bright pulses she saw echoed the ecstasy tingling along her skin and gathering in her core.
A small, but sharp prick on her cunny surprised her, but the little hurt receded as he continued to suck and lick. The same bright rainbows filled her mind and thrummed throughout her body. She moaned, pushing her mound into his mouth, chasing her pleasure. She arched her back and shouted out her joy.
*****
She awakened astonished, remembering everything. She was no longer Rhona Kilbirnie, facing a dreaded marriage. She was a Viking warrior’s woman, and although she didna ken what would happen, she could face life with confidence.
She opened her eyes. Faint daylight filtered into the cave... Where was Erland?
Fear clutched her belly. Was he gone? Had he lied? Had he taken the only thing she had of value—her virginity—then left her alone to face an uncertain future?
Whistling reached her ears, and she sat up, her heart eased. Someone—Erland?—had draped her dry shift over her, providing little warmth, but nearby the fire crackled, providing enough heat so she had been able to sleep.
Erland, still whistling, approached and knelt beside her, tenderly brushing sand off her shoulders and breasts, where his hands lingered. He tweaked one nipple and asked, “Good morrow, mistress mine. And how do you fare this fine day?”
She shrugged. “Well enow.”
“Ah, you’re afeared again. ’Tis time to face Da and Mam, hmm?”
She shook her head. “Not Mama. She died a while ago.”
He stroked her face. “Mayhap that is part of the problem with your da. He doesn’t understand you the way a mother would.”
She nodded, swallowing her sadness.
“Never you mind. ’Twill all come right. You’ll see. Now get dressed. I have a great hunger this morn.”
*****
They dressed, Erland in his customary black—a rough tunic, trews and boots, with a short sword scabbarded in his belt. Rhona’s pleated chansil smock was embroidered around the neck and hem, and her cyrtel tightly woven green wool. He hadn’t doubted her word that she was the local laird’s daughter, but her clothing, despite their dampness and salt-stains, proved her honesty.
He led the way out of the cave and into the thin daylight. The storm had passed, and the sun struggled through low-hanging fog to glitter off the weapons of a half-dozen warriors surrounding the cave’s mouth.
Energy shot through his veins. He shoved Rhona behind him and snapped, “Get back in there and do not come out ’til I say.”
White-faced, she obeyed without protest. He advanced, dropping one hand to his sword’s hilt. “Who threatens me and my lady without cause?”
“Without cause?” One of the warriors broke from the group. He was protected by a bronze chest plate over a tunic and black trews, and wore a plaidie of red, white and green wrapped around his shoulders. Erland recognized the pattern. Stuart of Bute.
So this was the swain his lady had risked death to flee. Bute’s narrow, cruel eyes and seamed face contrasted with full, almost girlish lips. Though he seemed fit, he was indeed older, and certainly Erland could defeat him in a fair fight.
But fights were rarely fair. He shifted his gaze to the rest of the group. Some wore bows slung over their shoulders, less helpful in close quarters. But all wore swords.
Erland tugged on his ear. Six against one. Not great odds, but not impossible. Mayhap he could improve his chances. “I challenge you for the lady’s hand.”
Bute snorted. “I wouldnae have the whore on a golden platter.”
Erland sprang at him, seized his head and with a mighty twist, wrenched it off. Gouts of blood sprang from the torn neck, and a man screamed.
Erland grabbed the corpse. Holding it between himself and the Bute’s warriors as a shield, he
allowed the leaping blood to flow into his mouth while watching them.
He needn’t have bothered. They fled.
He drank his fill and considered the situation. He couldn’t allow his little lady to see what he’d done or what he was, so when he was sated, he tossed the carcass far into the sea and washed before calling for Rhona. “Lead us,” he told her. “Where is the best path to the keep?”
She eyed him, saw patches of blood soaking into the sand, then eyed him again. “What happened?”
“Never you mind. Let us merely say... Don’t worry about the Bute.”
“Hmm.” Head tilted to one side, she absorbed that.
He nudged her. “The path to the keep?”
“This way.” She gathered her still-damp skirts and strode along the beach to a steep trail up the cliffs that nevertheless seemed to be oft-used, judging by its width and lack of plant life.
As she struggled up the path in front of him, he steadied her with a hand on her back. “I reckon that early this morn is the best time to enter the keep,” he said. “While all are still awakening, we can make ourselves presentable and mayhap talk with a few folk who may influence your da in our favor.”
“What do we need that for?” she asked over her shoulder.
He chuckled. “A great deal. My first mate should have waited for us, but the treacherous bastard left with my ship. My lands are far away across the sea to the north. Do ye wish to go there?”
“Nay, not really...but why not? We must do what we must.”
“Should we receive a chill welcome in your keep, I suppose we can travel to Skye and ask King Haakon for succor.”
Her silence told him what she thought of asking the Viking overlord for help.
“As you say, Mistress Rhona, we must do what we must.”
She harrumphed as she lifted one booted foot over the lip of the cliff and stood at its top, then reached down a hand to help him. He did not need help, but took her hand nevertheless, enjoying her touch. For a moment they stood, her breaths huffing, before they turned toward the keep.
He examined it with a warrior’s eye. The barrel-shaped stone structure was simple but would effectively repel invaders unless ’twas improperly defended, as ’twas this day, with its gate open and folk passing in and out freely. That portended peace in the region, which he hoped would presage a happy chieftain. The reaction of Rhona’s father to Erland’s advent was crucial to his survival, and hers.
They passed through the gate, with Rhona waving to the sleepy guard. “Ho, Shuard! Good morrow!”
“Uhhh... Good morrow, Mistress Rhona.” Shuard cradled his head in his hands, clearly the victim of drink.
“Where be Keith?” Aside, she told Erland, “Me brother. He’s the apple of my da’s eye. If he will intercede for us, all will be well.”
Shuard rubbed his temple. “I havena seen him this morn. I believe he is aboot, but milaird is still abed.”
Perfect. Erland glanced at Rhona, seeing his thought reflected in her eyes. She led him through the gate and into the dirt-floored keep. ’Twas quiet, with only a guard or two, but ’twas Yule, so many would also remain abed after the night’s revels.
Chapter Two
Keith Kilbirnie, immaculate in dark trews topped by clean white linen, stood at the scullery door and regarded his sister. Rhona had always been a brat, but he had never seen her so disheveled. And the company she was keeping—Och.
He advanced, one hand on the hilt of the long knife he always carried in his belt. “And what have we here?”
Rhona dropped the bannock she’d been devouring. “Brother!” She flung her arms around him.
“Doona ye ‘brother’ me, ye imp. Where have ye been all night long? I searched for ye everywhere! And who might ye be?” he asked the stranger, a dark giant with a fierce, wild demeanor.
“I am called Erland Blodson.”
“A Viking?” Keith whipped out his knife and crouched in a defensive position, ready.
“Nay! He rescued me!”
Keith eyed Rhona, noticing salt stains on her formerly elegant cyrtel and sand in her hair. “What have ye done?”
Rhona stared at the stone floor. “I took a boat out last night and left...tried to leave.”
“She nearly drowned,” the Viking said in a rich bass. He picked up a mug and drank deeply.
“She passed the night with ye?” Keith asked.
The Viking put down the mug and wiped foam off dark stubble with a brawny forearm. “Aye.” He locked eyes with Rhona, whose cheeks reddened.
Keith leaned against the long wood table in the scullery’s center while the maids, who should have been chopping onions, stared. “What a tangle.” He rubbed his forehead. “The Bute may attack.”
The Viking smiled. “Not likely.”
Rhona pressed against Keith and looked up at him with wide eyes. “Can ye fix this with Da, do ye think?”
“Lassie, this is not breaking a jug or taking Da’s favorite mount. This could mean war.”
“Nay,” Blodson said. “I fought the Bute on the beach this morn. He’s dead.”
Keith drew a startled breath. “And his men?”
“They fled.”
“Why didna ye tell me?” Rhona demanded of Blodson.
“A man doesn’t boast.”
“Unhhh...” Their da appeared, gripping the doorpost, eyelids puffy. He blinked. “G’morrow, me bairns, and, uh, ye.” He fixed a bleary, bloodshot gaze upon the Viking. Da’s stained linen was open over his thrusting belly. His graying hair straggled over a balding pate, and he reeked of sweat and strong drink. Pressing his lips together, Keith tried to conceal his shame.
But Blodson set down his ale and bent his head respectfully. “Good morrow, milaird Kilbirnie.”
“Who are ye?”
“This be the man who rescued my foolish sister,” Keith said, pleased the Viking showed respect despite Da’s slovenly appearance. “She took out a boat last night to flee marriage to the Bute. Who is dead.”
“Dead? How?”
The Viking shrugged and smiled. Da blinked, his attitude visibly changing. Keith could practically see Da’s clouded brain trying to sort matters out.
Da’s gaze brightened. “Och, I doona have to pay him the dower-price.”
“Nay,” the Viking said. “Nor to me. I do not want a dowry. Your daughter’s hand will be enough.”
Their da told Rhona, “Ye deserve a beating.”
“Aye, Da.”
“Ye’re lucky I am not quite fit this morn.”
“Aye, Da.”
“Get oot of me sight.”
She scooted toward the door and the Viking followed.
“Nay, not ye,” Da said.
Blodson stopped.
“From where did ye spring?” Da asked.
The Viking grinned, teeth a bright flash against his burgeoning black beard. “I was sent from Skye by King Haakon to take your keep.”
Da stared, jaw slack, then bellowed with laughter. “Weel, ye have done that, and without a single strike of a blade!”
*****
Still chuckling at the father’s jest, Erland followed the daughter—soon to be his wife—up several flights of stone stairs. At the top of the turret, he entered a round-walled chamber to see servants filling a wooden tub with hot water. At one end, a fire burned, sending its smoke up a primitive chimney. Nearby, a child’s bed stood, its linens untidy. He made a mental note to have that small virgin’s bed replaced.
A salt-stained cyrtel was flung by an unseen hand from behind a woven screen, and was soon followed by the smock. Boots clunked to the floor.
Ignoring the maids’ scandalized stares, he slipped behind the screen and embraced his woman. Naked, she smiled up at him and put her arms around his neck.
She kissed him, but he preferred to put off the love-play. “Yer da isn’t the ogre you painted him,” he told her.
“He suffers from the effects of our whisky, but is pleased you did away with the
Bute, so he doesna have to pay the dower-price.” She stroked his chest. “And ’tis clear ye could best him in battle. Da kens what’s best for himself and our little clan.”
“Ah.” Satisfied, he threw himself fully into their kiss, as did she, judging by the quickness of her darting tongue and exploring hands. He sucked hard, drawing her tongue into his mouth while sliding a hand down to find her ripe, ready quim. He set a palm on her mound and rotated it.
When she’d moaned and dampened, he feathered his lips along her neck and slipped in his fangs for a little drink. He wasn’t thirsty, but relished his woman’s toothsome flavor.
She gasped and gripped his shoulders hard. “What are ye doin’?”
“Tasting your sweetness, milady. You’re irresistible. Are you hurt?”
“N-nay, not exactly.”
“Well, then.” He gave her one final hard suck, then stuck his head around the screen. The servants had left, so he stripped and led Rhona to the tub. He got in and urged her to follow. With her back to his chest, he maneuvered her until she was seated on his cock, leaning forward.
Her groans and pants of desire told him that he had her exactly where he wanted her, and now, he could do anything with her. Lust sang through his veins. He pushed her forward so that her arms rested on the tub’s far end and her backside was perfectly presented. That she’d been virgin was a joy, yea, but that she was now open for his pleasure pleased him more. He didn’t have to hold back, and now he gave her his all, pumping hard until they both gasped and screamed.
*****
And that eve, Da joined them, reciting the solemn but joyous words that would bind her to her Viking warrior forever. She glanced around. Their Great Hall wasna so great, but on this afternoon the servants had outdone themselves. They’d cleared away the remains of the previous night’s revelry and decorated every table, mantel and window ledge with fresh evergreen and holly boughs. Their fragrance and bright berries lent a festive atmosphere to the ceremony. Pale moonlight struggled through the few arrow slits uncovered by tapestries.
A fire crackled and glowed, fed by the great Yule log that smoldered in the hearth. She was relieved to notice that because the storm wind had died down, the chimney didna smoke—for they were standing in front of the hearth for the short ceremony.
