Viking

by Fabio

  Still he watched her, his smoldering look making her heart roar in her ears. She tilted her head back and rinsed her hair. She looked up to see him grinning.

  "We are finished now?" she asked with a telltale quiver.

  "Nay." His words came out huskily. "You did such a splendid job of cleansing yourself, Reyna, that I would have you wash me as well."

  "Rot in Hel, Viking!" she replied tremulously, yet she felt more tempted than she ever would have believed.

  "Then at least come give me the soap,” he coaxed huskily.

  She edged closer to comply, then became thoroughly intrigued when Viktor did not grab her. He appeared so glorious and solemn so wet, gleaming, and sensual as he continued to devour her with his eyes. Why was his lack of aggression so very debilitating?

  And what madness had possessed her? For now Reyna went to him and shamelessly ran the soap over his magnificent male chest. With a growl of pleasure, Viktor hauled her close. The soap slipped through her fingers as Viktor claimed her lips, thrusting powerfully with his tongue and forcing explosive heat deep inside her—

  Reyna whimpered, drowning in pleasure, unable to bear the savage sweetness of Viktor's kiss. He kissed her with such desperate need, such urgency, as if they were indeed two souls wrenched apart and he was determined to bring them back together again. His lips were warm and skilled, his tongue deliciously bold and rough. Never had Reyna experienced such shattering intimacy with a man; she felt the communion, the joy, to her very soul. The feel of his hard, satiny chest against her tingling breasts was pure paradise. She could feel his desire straining against his Leggings, branding her pelvis with his heat. When his large, firm hands slid down her spine and cupped her buttocks, nestling her closer to his glorious erection, she thought she would die of pleasure. Traitorously, she found herself reaching for the ties on his leggings—

  The door burst open behind them, sending a chill sweeping in, and both sprang apart, slightly dazed as they turned toward the portal.

  "My lord," Sibeal called. "I have brought garments for my lady."

  Reyna glanced breathlessly at Viktor, and he winked at her. Oh, what was happening to her? Rather than being insulted—as she well should have been—she felt weak as a kitten, and appalled by her own defection. Had Sibeal not come, she would have given herself over to her enemy—and eagerly so!

  Half an hour later, Viktor tucked a very clean, very bemused Reyna into his bed. The wolves had already been banished to the next chamber. Viktor had forced Reyna to eat gruel and drink more mead, had felt her forehead and fretted over her until he was satisfied that she had been merely "dehydrated"—whatever that odd term meant—rather than genuinely ill.

  "You are comfortable, my lady?" he asked, lounging against the portal.

  "You are not joining me?" she scoffed.

  "Is that an invitation?"

  "Burn in Hel!"

  "I certainly feel flattered to be asked," he teased, ignoring her outburst "And Id like to oblige such a winsome creature as you. But actually, I'm saving myself for marriage."

  She glanced at him in perplexity, evidently not understanding his humor at all.

  "And you look so very disappointed," he added with a chuckle.

  That insult Reyna understood! A whalebone comb sailed across the chamber to hit Viktor in the stomach.

  With a grunt, he caught the object, crossed the room, and handed the comb back to her. "I told you to use that comb on your hoyden hair—or must I see to that task myself as well?"

  Reyna yanked the comb through her hair and glared at Viktor. "Touch me again and die, Viking!"

  "That hardly seemed the case in the bathhouse."

  "Because I was weak and exhausted—and dizzy from the mead you forced down my throat. But you were right on one account, Viking. From now on, I will build my strength so I may slay you."

  "Good girl," he rejoined solemnly. "I'm pleased to see you recovering your spirit." He glanced around the chamber, then pinned her with a stern glance. "And you know I am trusting you, allowing you to stay here in the longhouse."

  She grinned. "That is a mistake, Viking. You should never trust me."

  "Would you prefer being confined in the smokehouse again?" he inquired mildly.

  "My preference is to be set free."

  "To go where? You owe no allegiance to Wolfgard."

  "Yea. Because he captured me and carried me away against my will."

  "So he did. Why must you hate me as well?'

  "Because you did the same, Viking!" she raged through clenched teeth.

  Doggedly, he persisted. "I repeat, Reyna—if I released you, where would you go?"

  "To Loire!" she cried.

  A thoughtful frown puckered his brow. "Ah, yes, I've heard some of my kinsmen refer to it as the country of your birth. But I am afraid your going there is out of the question now." He grinned. "I'm too impossibly smitten, you see."

  Her face burned. "Then quit taunting me with that which I cannot have, and leave my presence!" she retorted in trembling tones.

  He sighed. "Gladly." He suspiciously eyed her belligerent countenance. "Will you promise not to come next door and murder me in my sleep, or must I tie you to the bed?'

  She smirked again. "No promises, Viking."

  "Then I will make a vow—and give you a warning." He caught her chin in his hand and spoke fiercely. "I'll be next door all night long, Reyna with my three faithful wolves— and be assured that the four of us are all very light sleepers. You cannot escape without going past us. Show up in my bedchamber—for any reason—and I will assume you are ready to share my bed. You will find yourself a wife by morning, and long before the vows are said. Is that clear?"

  Glaring at him, she nodded, but when he left, she quivered. She would not go to his room tonight and attempt to kill him. In truth, she was not sure she could slay him—but she did know she would melt when he touched her again.

  She wondered what he had meant by his soulful words in die bathhouse when he had told her how they were linked, that he had loved her in another life. Whatever his true meaning or purpose, his sorcerer words had momentarily decimated her defenses. She had been fascinated, touched, and hard pressed not to insist on more details. And she had felt so close to him, as if there were truly a deep bond between them. The sadness in his eyes when he had spoken had moved her greatly.

  She hurled down her comb and cursed. Oh, she did not want to feel these things for him—feelings that would ultimately defeat and humiliate her. Best to keep her distance from this confusing Viking until she found an opportunity to escape him.

  In the chamber next door, with his wolves dozing, Viktor felt restless. Reyna had given him a good scare tonight, and had stirred a hunger in him that would no doubt burn in his loins all night long.

  Why did she have to remain so defiant? At least he knew now that she wanted him—and that knowledge warmed him. In his arms in the pool, she had definitely responded. But would her stubborn pride ever allow her to give in to the passion they both felt? He hoped so, and hoped it would be soon—before he died from unmitigated lust!

  He almost wished she would come in during the night and try to slay him—so he could make good on his vow, haul her delicious body close, and end this torment for them both.

  TWENTY

  A. HORSE SNORTED IN THE NIGHT. RaGAR, HaRALD, AND THEIR

  company had ridden high into the back country and were now navigating a rocky embankment by the light of the full moon. After a day filled with rain, the night had at last emerged chill and clear.

  To the east of them rushed the deep, silvery fjord, which had gradually grown narrower as they had proceeded north over the past week, although the river was still too swollen to ford. In die distance loomed the craggy volcano, Suit, a haze of red surrounding its sharp peak as it sputtered menacingly.

  Grimacing at the ominous sight, Harald nodded toward the line of seven men who remained in the company. "Had we not best stop for the night?" he asked Ra
gar.

  "Yea, as soon as we can find a suitable camp."

  "And pray to Odin that our lodge holds no terrors this eve."

  Ragar nodded ruefully, recalling how they had already lost nearly half their ranks on this mission. Harald had initially raised a force of twelve, albeit most had volunteered reluctantly, with only the promise of a generous portion in gold enticing their cooperation. All of the men were superstitious about traveling this far north and risking the vengeance of Suit or an encounter with the ghosts or trolls that legend held lurked among the moors and mountains.

  On their first night in camp, one of the warriors had claimed to have been attacked by just such a demon. Nord's shouts had awakened everyone. The warrior had jumped up, trembling, insisting he had been tapped on the shoulder by a shape-changer. Observing a small, silvery shape streak past, Ragar had been sure the apparition was only a foraging fox— but convincing Nord of this had been impossible, and the frightened man had defected, fleeing for Wolfgard's camp.

  The next eve, just as they were making camp, a misty fog had drifted in, so white and thick that the warriors could barely see one another. To make matters worse, an eerie wind had blown through the hollow, whistling among the stunted trees and raising an inhuman howl. Two other warriors, thoroughly spooked and claiming ghosts were on the prowl, had fled for home.

  Then yesterday at noontide, amid a drenching rain, Otto had gone prowling for berries. He had stumbled into boiling mud and almost sunk completely into the seething abyss. At the sound of the man's rending screams, Ragar and the others had rushed to his rescue, and thanks to the heavy leggings and boots Otto wore, his wounds had not appeared mortal. Nevertheless, Ragar had been compelled to spare another warrior to bear the ailing man back to Wolfgard's village. The fact that he kept losing his company did not bode well, and the remaining warriors were growing all the more anxious and wary the farther north they proceeded. Only today, they had been impelled to dodge several sliding boulders that had come hurtling toward them, released from glaciers by the spring thaw.

  The group now descended into a valley dotted with birches and willows. Ragar reined in his horse, bringing the procession to a halt. "We rest here. Tomorrow we should reach the head of the fjord, and then we can turn southward."

  But before Ragar could dismount, he heard the scream of a horse behind him. He maneuvered his own mount around, to see a steam geyser erupting almost directly beneath Cuellar's mount. Spooked by the emission, the small, nutmeg-colored horse sidestepped, reared mightily, and threw its rider, who crashed to the earth with a cry of agony.

  "By Odin, what calamity has visited us now?" Ragar cried in disgust.

  He dismounted and, with the others, rushed to the fallen Cuellar, who was shrieking on the ground and clutching his calf.

  Ragar knelt beside the warrior. "Be still, man, before you do yourself more damage.'

  Cuellar subsided into piteous moans, trembling and gnashing his teeth. Ragar knew before gently examining the twisted limb that it was broken—even at Ragar's careful probing, the man howled again in torment.

  Ragar could have cursed his frustration aloud. "Thorald, go find a branch for a splint," he ordered. "The rest of you, use your axes to chop down yon birches. We will need the trunks to fashion a travois. I will have to assign a man to drag Cuellar back to the village."

  "We must all turn back now, Ragar," cried one of the men.

  "Yea, the gods have already bespoken their displeasure that we have disturbed their sanctuary," said another, his eyes bright with terror in the night. "Surely if we advance further, Suit will cover us with boiling rock and ashes—"

  "Or render us vapor with his breath of steam," added a shrill voice.

  Ragar stared at the frightened group and knew their fears were genuine. Still, he would not abandon his sister. "Men, we must continue. I cannot allow Viktor the Valiant to hold Reyna hostage—"

  "But we cannot go on," argued one of the warriors. "Our numbers are too few."

  Now Harald spoke up angrily. "And what of Viktor the Valiant? The sentries informed me that our enemy, with only a handful of his kinsmen, abducted Reyna in the night."

  "Yea, because he is a rainbow warrior now," the man argued.

  Harald scowled. "What mean you by 'rainbow warrior'?"

  "That is what the men call Viktor," the man explained. "He returned along the Rainbow Bridge to Midgard, as no living man has done before him. The gods have blessed him with magical powers in Valhalla. He is now much more than a mere mortal, and our small company will never defeat him."

  "Yea," put in another, "and he will be prepared for our attack, expecting Wolfgard to retaliate."

  Losing patience, Harald drew his sword and faced down the mutinous group. "I tell you, Viktor is only a man, as all of you are men. Any one of you who would take the coward's path must first defeat me."

  The warriors grumbled for a moment, then went about their assigned tasks. Harald took Ragar aside. "I do not like the look of things, my friend. What men we have left are consumed with fear, and will surely desert us when the opportunity arises."

  But Ragar was not swayed. "We shall go on, just the two of us if need be. If Viktor can steal into my father's house to carry away my sister, surely you and I can perform the same feat in his village,'

  Harald did not comment, but watching his friend trudge off to attend Cuellar, he could not share Ragar's confidence.

  On that same eve, Viktor sought out Sibeal. He found her standing in the sewing room of the longhouse spinning wool thread with her distaff. He stared in fascination at the rhythmic motions of her hands as she set the distaff to work and the weighted thread was stretched, spinning, toward the floor. She spotted him and gathered up her gear, ceasing her activity.

  "Jarl." She bowed and stuffed her distaff into the belt of her garment.

  Viking flashed her a kindly smile. "Please, do not stop on my account."

  Sibeal's expression remained guarded. "How may I serve you?"

  "I would talk with you about your mistress."

  "So you may better subjugate her?" Sibeal asked with a trace of bitterness.

  Viktor drew a heavy breath. "I hope not to subjugate Reyna, only to win her trust." When the woman did not reply but continued to regard him warily, he gestured toward a bench. "Would you sit with me for a moment?"

  "As you wish, jarl." Sibeal went to the bench and shoved aside a stack of snowy fleece. Both of them sat down.

  "I am trying very hard to understand Reyna,' Viktor confessed. "One moment she seems to warm to me, and the next she tries to kill me. And this stunt she pulled by trying to starve herself—frankly, that has me most worried. Since then, she has eaten, but her temperament has not improved."

  Sibeal nodded. "Reyna is most proud. She will not bend easily to your will, my lord, nor will she trust you before you have won her loyalty—a feat even you will be hard pressed to accomplish, Viktor the Valiant."

  "Woman, I am trying," he replied in exasperation.

  She raised a dark brow. 'Threatening her with beatings is not the way. She has heard that too oft from Wolfgard, and it serves only to raise her hackles."

  "I realize this." He gestured his frustration. "But at times the risk of retribution seems all she can understand." He flashed Sibeal an earnest smile. "And you must believe I will make a good husband for her, woman, or you never would have cooperated."

  Sibeal laughed bitterly. "You are saying that I—a mere thrall—could have stayed you, milord?"

  "On the night I captured Reyna, I would not have allowed you to slay Ottar—and I think you knew this at the time."

  "Yea, I knew," Sibeal admitted, "and that is why I allowed the deed to be done, Viktor the Valiant. I knew then 'twas true what the others had been saying—"

  "Which was? "

  "That you became transformed in Valhalla."

  He eyed her thoughtfully, impressed by her wisdom. "Then you must know that I would never harm Reyna."

  S
ibeal smiled. "Yea—though milady hardly feels so kindly toward you."

  "Will she never trust a Viking?" Viktor asked.

  Sibeal's sad gaze met Viktor's. "You must understand. As a small child, Reyna saw Wolfgard pillage her kingdom. She watched as her father was slain, her baby brother abandoned to die. Should it happen to you, jarl, whom would you trust?"

  He scowled pensively. "A good point—but I did not do. these things to Reyna."

  "Yea, but you are Viking, my lord, and 'tis all Vikings milady has chosen to blame and hate. Verily, you stole milady away by force, just as the hated Wolfgard did."

  "So Reyna has reminded me," Viktor conceded, "but I acted as I did to serve the ultimate good and bring peace to Vanaheim."

  Sibeal's smile was ironic. "Convince a captured bird that its cage is for its benefit."

  "You sound bitter yourself, woman."

  "Mayhap because I have known the same anguish as milady, and I understand her feelings."

  "Explain that"

  A faraway, melancholy look gripped Sibeal's lovely visage, "My husband was an Irish king, and our tuath lay in southern Ireland along the River Shannon. When I had been a bride but two winters, Wolfgard plundered our kingdom. He and his band of murderers scaled die walls of our dun, slaughtering my husband, his warriors, and even our poet and harper, who would have harmed not a lamb. Wolfgard took me, my ladies-in-waiting, and many of our freemen to Iceland to serve as thralls."

  "My God," said Viktor. "So you went from being a queen to being a slave?"

  "Yea."

  "But it did not destroy you "

  She shrugged, her expression impassive. "I have learned better than to battle the fates."