Loki's Daughters

by Delle Jacobs

  Both of his big hands shaped over the curve of her shoulders, then descended to cup and lift her breasts. Dizzy with the sensation, Arienh wanted just to stop and feel his touch, yet wanted as badly to touch him. She ran her fingers beneath his tunic and wriggled it over his head as he had done her kirtle. His hands stopped their exploring as he lifted himself away and sought the knot of the cord at his waist. His breeches dropped, exposing the stout length of manhood among thick, dark curls.

  She pushed the breeches free of his thighs, and remembering the tingling of his passing fingers on her flesh, slid hers along his bulky, hard muscles in the same fashion, meaning to give to him all the pleasure she could find to give A passionate hum rumbled from deep in his chest. He kicked the breeches free.

  Traces of first sunlight cast a dappling of elongated spots across his shoulder and chest as it passed through the leafy bower. The dark sprinkling of hair had a faint glow of gold where the light struck it. She followed its track downward with her touch, where it skipped across his belly, then began again in a narrow line and spread out to encompass his swollen organ. As she traced its length from base to tip, his entire body jerked into rigid agony.

  A groan turned to a growl as he crushed her against him, his mouth hunting down hers and forcing it to his will.

  "Don't you dare," he said, his words tinged with threat and desperation. "I want this to last."

  "You didn't like it?"

  He took several ragged breaths before answering. "Aye. But you'll send me to the stars long before I take you there. This time, this is for both of us."

  He caught the tip of her breast with his tongue and nuzzled it between his teeth. Lightning jolted through her, down to that magic center of her that he controlled.

  "You see?" he whispered, mingling the ragged words with nips and tugs against her sensitized flesh. "Don't you want your share, too?"

  She couldn't form a word in her mouth. Only moans escaped, blending with his whispered pleadings, so that she did not know his voice from hers. Hazy, frantic desire flooded her as she ran her hands over the iron hard muscles that coursed and surged over his back like ripples on the open sea. She found the glorious curve of his spine and followed it down to strong, hard buttocks She cupped them the way he did her breasts.

  Sounds of lovemaking tangled with his heated breath and tingled her skin. His hands sought and found all the places she wanted them to be, in the creases and folds that had hidden the secrets of her womanhood from her, so recently awakened by him. Knowing, not knowing, wanting, he compelled her body to join his in its craving for completion.

  He nudged his knee, and then his thigh between her legs, and eagerly she wrapped herself around him, enclosing him, enticing him to enter. Moisture beaded on his brow. He pushed his way inside, and a great cry of victory burst from him.

  She tightened her hold on him as he nuzzled at her ear with whispered, secret sounds. She sought his mouth with hers, wanting a complete joining, and pursued his tongue to mate with hers.

  Slowly the rhythm of his body took over hers, slow and deep, filling her to endless depths, lingering, withdrawing, with each stroke leaving her to fear irrationally that it might be the last, when she was not ready for it to end. He lifted himself higher, away from her, joining only in the one place, yet coming deeper, faster, and the pace grew frenzied, as feral as wolves tangling for supremacy. She lost all thought, felt only the primeval power, need overwhelming them in its desperate rush for perfection.

  The rhythm suddenly changed to urgent, violent thrusting, as if he could not go deeper, yet somehow did, his body rigid, straining.

  The wave overwhelmed her, engulfed her, and washed her away. Washed away everything but Arienh and her Viking. Her beautiful, wonderful Viking.

  Slowly, the world found her again. She opened her eyes to the dappled brightness playing through the bower on his golden skin, and the feel of his fingers threading lazily through her hair. The heavy fringe of his eyelashes traced a streak of charcoal just above his cheeks, hiding those wondrously blue eyes. Did he sleep? Had she? She didn't think so.

  Yet it was as if eternity had passed and the world had been reformed. She closed her eyes, soaking in the pleasure of lying in his arms. And this time, slept.

  She woke again to a warm sunbeam penetrating through the bower's canopy and catching her in the eye. The scratchy wool of the blanket tickled her bare skin, reminding her of how she lay, flesh to flesh beside him. Twice he had awakened her and sought her body, and she had given it freely, happily. Once she had been dreaming of a feather and woke to find his fingers stroking her cheek, the feather of her dreams.

  His eyes opened and lazily surveyed her, as if she were his pirate's booty.

  "You're mine," Ronan said.

  "Aye." It seemed it was her heart smiling.

  But the morning was in full bloom, and there was much to do The Beltane was not over. Perhaps the men could join them now. She stretched lazily, reveling in the silken feel of the Great White Bear rug against her back.

  "We have no Maypole. I did not want to ask you. But we could teach you the dances if we had a Maypole."

  "Now?"

  "It is still the Beltane. We have not had a pole for several years."

  His eyes narrowed with a hint of suspicion.

  "Just a pole. It is not all that hard. Except that it must be made of beech. The pole is the symbol of all the lovers of the night before. And the dance symbolizes their life together."

  "Hmm. And you'll teach us the dances?"

  It must have been delight lighting her eyes, for it seemed the Vikings were doing most of the teaching. "Of course. I danced with you last night, in a dream."

  His face became suddenly solemn. "It was no dream."

  Arienh bolted up to sitting. "You were there? When I danced with the old ones?"

  He nodded.

  "Did you see them, too?"

  It was not quite a smile that quirked at the corner of his mouth. "Well, I am a Celt, too."

  "But did you see them?"

  "Well, no. I saw you dancing and went to dance with you. But Egil was afraid I would mess up the plan and called me back."

  Arienh snickered, mostly at herself. Whatever everyone thought of her strange dance the night before, he had been there, and the old ones had accepted him. They had told her so. "I'm glad you came," she said.

  He stretched as he rose, revealing interesting, languid curves and cords of muscles she meant to investigate further, later.

  But they had many things to decide today. For everything had changed. Reluctantly, she rose to her knees, pulled her kirtle over her head, and fastened her cord belt as she watched him pull on his buckskin breeches.

  A high-pitched scream pierced the morning air.

  "Birgit!"

  She glanced at Ronan's startled face. She jumped to her feet, dashed across the high meadow and scrambled through the forest down the steep slope of the knoll.

  Behind her, Ronan crashed through the forest, making as much noise as a boar as he caught up with her.

  "You said she'd be safe with him."

  "She would. She is-"

  Another scream. A high-pitched shriek.

  "From the Bride's Well," he shouted, and dashed ahead of her.

  Terror seized Arienh as she sped through the ash grove after him. They should have gone the other way and taken the horse.

  Past the trees, across the open plateau, they ran, along the straight cut of the stream to the waterfall, as the shrieks grew wilder.

  Not screams of terror. No, there was something oddly familiar about them. Something more like the Birgit of their childhood.

  Ahead of her, Ronan stopped short the edge of the cliff, staring down where the stream plunged over the cliff, bracing balled fists on his hips. Screams and splashes echoed from the pool below.

  Gasping for breath, Arienh caught up to him.

  Below, two heads bobbed to the surface of the pool, and ripples in rings spread out
from them. Birgit shrieked again, laughter rippling like the rings, her arms wrapped around Egil as he pitched her upward, to splash, shrieking, back into the water. Egil dove after her, scooping her up again. They paddled about, cavorting like otters.

  Ronan peered down at the two water imps, his nostrils flaring with disgust. "That's your sister?"

  Arienh nodded. She'd thought Birgit had forgotten how to laugh. "With your brother. They jumped, I'd say. He doesn't make a very good Viking, either."

  "Jumped?"

  "From the falls. We used to do that when we were children. But Birgit hasn't done that since... Egil must have helped her, because she can't see where the rocks are."

  Ronan studied the splashing, screeching scene below, then turned back to Arienh. That smoky look of wicked mischief crossed his face again.

  "You realize they're having so much fun they don't know we're here."

  "True."

  The wickedness broadened into an evil grin. "They wouldn't see us coming until it was too late. It would serve them right."

  "Aye. It would."

  His eyebrows arched wickedly and the corners of his eyes crinkled. "Shall we?"

  She pointed to the jumping-off stone, the traditional spot from which Celtic children pretended, for long, exhilarating moments, that they could fly.

  Stealthily, they crept up onto the stone like slinking foxes while the otter-like inhabitants of the pool below frolicked, unsuspecting of the coming attack.

  Standing on the platform stone, they grasped hands and flung themselves into the air. Arienh's wild screech echoed off the canyon walls and mingled with the Viking's roar as they plummeted downward and smacked the water.

  THE END

  A Few Last Words...

  Loki's Daughters was my first Golden Heart finalist, back in 1998, and it went on to be published and garner many fine reviews. But a lot has changed since then. Today, I would write the story differently, and hopefully with more skill, for what kind of writer cannot improve with years of practice? So I've chosen to go on with other books and leave this one much like it was back then.

  I did not realize until I finished the book just how much Arienh was like my dear friend Jan Shaffer, who was just as stubborn, just as determined never to give up. Jan survived four battles of cancer before finally succumbing to brain cancer not long before the book came out in print. I know she would have loved it. She read everything I wrote and never failed to love every word. Every author, published or not, needs to have a friend like her.

  Loki's Daughters is a Historical Romance. As a romance, it I more true to the genre conventions than to actual history, but I have done my best to reconcile the two. I have studied the Viking English and the Celts extensively– they are my ancestors, after all, and they deserve to be portrayed well. They were fierce and raw, yes. But they were also people, people who loved and lived rich lives. They didn't know much about their own ancient past, for much of that history was lost to raids and the ravages of time. They based their lives more on faith in their religions, perhaps not really realizing how they mixed Christian beliefs with the pagan leftovers. I've tried to capture the flavor of people who live by faith sincerely, not knowing the tremendous store of knowledge we have today.

  "Viking" has become an accepted name for the people who left the Scandinavian countries to raid. Whether they were so called in that day, we can't really tell, and some say the term was not coined until the 19th Century. However, a similar term, vikingr, is known in the Icelandic literature of 1000 A.D, at a time when that language was very little different from the Norse language of the day.

  Vikings did more than raid. Probably more were interested in moving on to new homes than in get-rich-quick raiding. They became a dominant fixture in the Brtish Isles, especially in Ireland, Scotland and Eastern England.

  If you'd like to know more about the Viking cultures in England, or the Celts, contact me through my website or blog and ask questions. I don't know everything, of course, but I dearly love researching and am always looking for an excuse. But please don't try to tell me "a Viking would NEVER surrender his sword." That may be a convention in romance novels, but the truth is nobody knows, one way or the other. And from what I can see, Vikings had a very realistic approach on when to fight and when to exit rapidly, with or without the weapons.

  See me on my website/blog IN SEARCH OF HEROES: http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com

  OTHER BOOKS by DELLE JACOBS

  See Website for Availability:

  http://dellejacobs.blogspot.com

  LADY WICKED

  SINS OF THE HEART

  APHRODITE’S BREW

  HIS MAJESTY, THE PRINCE OF TOADS

  LADY VALIANT (to be re-published as THE PERFECT HEROINE)

  THE MUDLARK

  FIRE DANCE

  SIREN

  THE BOSS WORE RED (Contemporary Novella)

  Coming soon:

  FAERIE

  BELOVED STRANGER

  GILDING LILLY

  EXCERPT from FIRE DANCE

  Cumbria, England, 1092 A.D.

  The odor of death filled the chamber where Fyren lay, its fragrance like the sweetly rotten smell of carrion. Beads of sweat formed on his brow and in the crust of his unshaven beard. His bulky limbs convulsed as he fought to rise, then fell limp. Yet his eyes blazed with a fury so malevolent, Melisande thought she smelled Satan's brimstone.

  She stood alone in the chamber, for all his allies had fled. Her hands lapped loosely together and her face was as bland as she could make it. Even now, she dared not show her fear.

  Caught in the stiff April wind, the wooden shutter clattered open against the stone wall, startling Melisande from her concentration and whipping pale strands of her hair into her eyes. She crossed to the open window to study the clamor in the bailey below where her unarmed knights stoically awaited their uncertain fate.

  The Normans had reached the gate.

  She had not counted on them coming so soon. They were only moments from entering the upper bailey, and moments more from the hall. And still, Fyren lingered.

  Quashing her fear and setting her face once more to a mask of stone, Melisande returned to the bedside.

  "The Norman comes, girl?" The words hissed from Fyren's lips.

  "Aye."

  "He will kill you."

  All her life he had feasted on her fear while she had fought to withhold it from him. She kept her face rigidly controlled. "Aye."

  "This is how you repay me. I gave you everything. Taught you things no one else knows."

  She said nothing, made no move.

  "I am your father. I loved you. Have you no compassion?"

  "Compassion? Nay."

  "You hate me so much, girl?" His words began to slur. His eyes, once as bright blue as her own, faded as she watched, yet his rage at her audacity had not dimmed.

  "You should confess your sins," she replied.

  "I do not fear God." Fyren fought to eke out the words. "You will not escape me, Melisande."

  "You are but a man, after all."

  "You think I die. But I will come for you. You cannot escape."

  Even now, he threatened her. Yet Fyren’s eyelids sagged and closed. Perhaps the end would come now.

  But what if he did not die? He was Satan's own, and God would not favor her. That she now dispatched Fyren to Hell meant only that he would be there awaiting her own arrival. And all her suffering in this life would be as nothing compared to what he would do to her then. Fear rose in her like gorge. She gulped it back down.

  A whispered voice came from the doorway. "Lady?"

  She knew without turning that it belonged to Thomas, by its tone of urgency as much as by its gentle timbre.

  "I am here, Thomas."

  "Is he gone, then?"

  "Soon."

  "You must hurry, lady," he said, rushing to the window to peer at the commotion below. "The Normans are already within the gate."

  "Aye, Thomas. Soon." She bit her c
heek to control her impatience, knowing his anxiety to be as intense as hers, but first she must see this finished. It was her doing. All of it.

  Once again, Fyren’s fading blue eyes popped open. "A last thing, girl. The purple. As a shroud."

  Her lips drew bowstring-tight, like the foreboding that twanged within her. "Aye. 'Tis fitting."

  Melisande crossed the chamber to a small, heavily carved chest that had once been a reliquary for the bones of some long-forgotten saint. Now it held only the purple cloak, a sacrilege in itself. She lifted the cloak carefully, not wanting to touch the detested thing, and smoothed it over Fyren's body. A shame, that such a beautiful garment could be such a malicious weapon.

  Fyren's breath came in shallow pants. His body lay stiff and motionless. His eyes drooped closed, then his breathing ceased. The stillness of death filled the chamber.

  "Is he gone?" Thomas called impatiently. "The Normans approach the hall. You cannot delay longer."

  "Come and see."

  Thomas approached the bed and lifted the limp wrist, testing the pulse. "Aye, he's gone. Come now, hurry."

  Dashing to the chamber door, he peered down at the hall. The clangs of metal and rough male voices resonated against the stone walls.

  "It is too late, lady. They are below. Perhaps they will not be so harsh. Who could blame you– "The Normans could. For all their violence, they are pious men. Never fear, Thomas. There is another way out, if you will delay them a little. You will do as I ask?"

  "Aye, lady. And I will see to the earl."

  Melisande turned toward the door, but then pivoted back to face Thomas. "Bury him deep," she said.

  Thomas's pale grey eyes reflected his concern and gentle fondness of her. "As deeply as shovel can dig. God keep you safe, lady."

  "And you, Thomas. Keep our people safe."

  It was as much of a smile as Melisande ever made, that small quirking of her lips at their corners, but she gave him the best she could manage. She had learned early in her life to stifle all signs of emotion, so that she now knew no other way.