Conquests: an Anthology of Smoldering Viking Romance

by James, Elle

  He stripped off his tunic, and I discovered why the shieldmaidens had been so interested in my birthmark. Tattoos covered his skin, the most elaborate and detailed being that of a tree on his torso. In the branches, an eagle sat at the top while a dragon nestled at the bottom. A squirrel climbed in the middle. The trunk ran down the center while the branches spread across his chest. I couldn’t help but touch it.

  “Yggdrasil. The tree of life,” I said, and was rewarded with a smile of approval. I don’t think he’d expected a Christian like me to know. But I’d pounced eagerly on all the tales my tutor could relate, especially those of Yggdrasil.

  He stood quietly while I drew my finger down his chest, stunned by the knowledge that I had brought him here to my favorite place, and that we shared matching marks upon our bodies. In my childish fancies, I’d dreamed the tree atop the tor was Yggdrasil, and if I looked hard enough I would find a way to reach from my world to the next. I’d managed no such magic on my own, but with Sweyn, I might be able to accomplish something at last.

  I wrapped my arms around his neck, grateful beyond words. His answering embrace nearly crushed the wind from my lungs.

  He released me and pulled off his breeches. Yggdrasil’s three roots spread downward, the first to Asgard, the home of the gods, which flowed around his right leg. The dragon curled by the third root, guarding the way to Niflheim and the well Hvergelmir.

  I couldn’t stop the giggle at the second root, Jotunheim, home of the giants, which pointed to the man’s sizeable prick, already thick and erect.

  “You think me amusing?” he asked with a smile.

  I thought him more than that. I clasped his manhood, surprised by the softness of its skin while the rest of him was so rough and hard. He made a sound of approval then slowly began to rake up my skirts. I aided him by undoing the laces so he could draw the garment over my head.

  I stood before him, naked and unafraid. With huge hands, he grasped my arms and turned me around, pausing just long enough to kiss the mark on my shoulder.

  Then he spun me, pushing me up against the tree. The bark scraped my back in long, burning streaks, but I didn’t care. He nipped at my neck and shoulder, and I bucked against him, but he held me fast. I loved his wildness, the absolute domination while he somehow remained aware of just how to please me. Each nip sent bolts of sensation all through my body, and when he kissed me, his tongue invaded my mouth, exploring and seeking and tasting of the wine we’d brought in our flasks.

  He let go and swiftly grabbed his fur cloak, draping it over one of the boulders with a fairly flat surface. Returning, he lifted me beneath the buttocks and carried me over, laying me down none too gently. As Gyrid had predicted, he spread my thighs and set to work with his tongue. He was more forceful but provided no less enjoyment as he dipped into tender, secret places.

  He glanced up just long enough for me to see his barely concealed restraint. He was a scant distance away from the brutality the Northmen were known for. I could sense it within him, a caged beast seeking to act as the wild thing it was.

  I sat up and clasped his weathered face, lightheaded with nerves and excitement. His masculine scent hit my nostrils and filled me with a feverish hunger of my own. “Do what you will.” Wrapping my legs around his waist, I drew him in until I felt the rounded hardness of his sex seeking entry. Roaring, he speared me in one swift stroke. Pain flared then died away as he filled me. I arched backward, panting and moaning, as he drew out and then pushed back in, deeper, harder, thrusting fiercely while I clung to him.

  Maybe it was the sheer freedom of offering myself or the magic of the place we’d chosen, but I couldn’t get enough. I raked his shoulders, his back in an attempt to bring him nearer. Yggdrasil’s roots dug deep, reaching within me to call me home. I clawed at him, desperate to hold on, as if I might climb his tattooed tree and find my way home.

  How long this continued, I couldn’t say. I was so lost in the frenzy of our coupling that I didn’t know where his body ended and mine began, whether it was he or I who’d first reached the pinnacle and fell beyond it. My body spasmed around his. Moments later, his member throbbed as he released his seed. I prayed it would take hold and grant him the wished-for son.

  He had the good sense to roll to the side once he’d expended himself to prevent crushing me beneath his weight. As it was, he pulled me to him, and I lay there for some time, curled within the warmth of his arms and utterly content.

  *

  We shared a horse as we rode back to the keep. The villagers spoke in hushed whispers. No doubt they could tell by my tousled hair and rumpled dress just what had occurred between Sweyn and me. But I didn’t care. For the first time in my life, I had made my own decision, and I would live with the consequences.

  A messenger must have ridden ahead, because my father met us at the gates. “Take her to her room,” he told one of the guards. “See that she does not leave.”

  Sweyn’s grip tightened around me, but I patted his hand. “Don’t fight. I’ll be fine.”

  Seeing how badly he was outnumbered, he let go. I allowed myself to be unceremoniously escorted upstairs and heard the door bolted from the outside. There would be no leaving unless my father allowed it. The window, even if it hadn’t looked down upon sheer cliffs, was too small for me to squeeze through.

  Angry as I was, I hung on to the memories of Sweyn’s body against mine, the way his cock had moved so securely within me. I’d known bliss, and I wasn’t going to let it slip away.

  Just past dusk, my father entered, his face purpled with rage. “He was your sister’s betrothed. Now…” he shook his head. “You are a wicked, ungrateful girl and have ruined everything I sought in these negotiations. Sweyn refuses to wed Ethelfleda. He claims she is too weak and finds you more to his liking. I would have killed him for touching you, but I know your sinful heart that lies within.”

  Usually, I would have cowered a little at his raging, but now I stood steadfast, pleased rather than dismayed by his consternation. “Ethelfleda is afraid of him. I’m not.”

  The backhanded slap stung my face. I staggered, caught off-guard. It was my father’s stubborn pride that kept him from seeing the truth. He didn’t like being shown his mistakes. But his expression when he met my gaze was filled with anguish.

  “Don’t you see, Ailith? I can’t let you marry him, not even after you’ve become his whore.”

  The word stung, although I deserved it. But there was something more than just a father’s anger over a child’s disobedience. His agitation seemed tinged with grief. “No. I don’t see. Perhaps you’d better tell me, Father.”

  He sank limply into a chair, skin ashen, and for a moment, I worried that he’d been stricken ill. “You’re not my daughter.”

  I stared, uncomprehending as the world seemed to crumple away beneath me. “What?”

  “Your mother went to visit her sister. While there, the keep was raided, and she was misused. She tried to pass you off as mine, but I knew. I knew, and I kept you anyway.”

  I’d never before suspected such a thing, despite all the whispers and constant comparisons to my sister. Painful as the news was, it gave me hope. “Then I am no kin of yours.”

  “No, but I have treated you as if you were. Haven’t I?” he asked, sounding tired.

  “I am grateful, my lord,” I said, and meant it. He had treated me well and given me opportunities few maidens had. He’d loved me, in his own way. “Do you know my true father?”

  He flinched at the word. “One of these Northmen. She did not know his name.”

  And there, I had the answer as to why I’d always had a wandering soul and a need to be outdoors. It also gave reason as to why he was so adamant about peaceful negotiations; he wanted to prevent any further raiding on his people. How painful it must be, to sacrifice his only true offspring to those who’d cost his wife her life when she’d birthed me. I was no longer angry with him for keeping me sheltered and protected or for denying me congress wi
th Sweyn. I understood him, but I no longer had to obey him.

  “Let me out, my lord. I’m no longer under your command.”

  He rose unsteadily and came over to me. Brushing back my hair, he placed a kiss on my forehead as he had so often when I was a little girl. “I will miss you, my child.”

  I would miss him, too, as well as Ethelfleda.

  He stumbled out and did not close the door behind him.

  When I told Gyrid and Gunhilda of my father’s confession, they smiled.

  “I knew,” Gyrid said. “I could see it in you, little warrior.”

  Gunhilda hugged me. Gyrid kissed me, a promise of more to come.

  Our wedding was held with all the proper pomp and circumstance. Sweyn finalized trading agreements, insisting he’d received a glorious gift in me and couldn’t have asked for a better wife, even if she was a bastard.

  When the boat prepared to leave, it was filled with crates full of treasures. Sweyn carried me aboard as carefully as if I was one of his new trinkets while his crew laughed and made crude jokes about privacy on the way home. As the ship turned and headed away from shore, my warrior husband stood at the prow, more magnificent than any man I’d seen. I curled my arms around his waist, already home.

  Protecting Her

  Regina Kammer

  Constantinople, 860 AD

  Aelfrun stared up at the shadowed stone ceiling and tugged back the linen tunica bunched around her hips. The blackness just before the rite of First Hour was the best time for self-pleasuring. In lonely cells all around her, the monks of St. John Stoudios slept heavily. They wouldn’t hear her panting breaths or muffled moans as she frigged herself to fantasies of nude novices in the bathhouse.

  She slid her anxious finger through her slick sex, recalling that afternoon’s sensual inspiration—brothers preening and joking as they disrobed in the changing room, others unabashedly parading their sleek oil-sheened athleticism, all unaware the attendant folding towels was a woman hiding in their midst.

  She vigorously stroked her awakening pearl of pleasure. Surely, the more lustful acolytes also lay awake, gripping their cocks, sliding palms over rampant shafts, seeking erotic release in frenzied masturbation—

  A crash shattered the night. A scream. Aelfrun froze under the thick woolen blanket, her hand stilled between her legs.

  Beyond the wooden door of her cell, the clap of leather soles hurrying down the stone hall accompanied the worried whispers of monks unused to clamor. Whispers intensified becoming shouts of fear and warning.

  Invasion! The monastery was under attack. Tall men. Blond men. The army of Satan. The End of Days had come.

  Aelfrun jumped from her bed, threw on her robe, not bothering to bind her breasts, one thought impelling her. She had to save Father Damianos. He would be in the sacristy performing Matins.

  She peeped out the window of her door. To the right, tall men wielded double-bladed axes, their blond braids flying as they slaughtered all in their way.

  The path to the left was clear.

  Her heart pounding, Aelfrun tore down the hall. Behind her, cries of terror were silenced in mid-scream. She stumbled down the narrow staircase to the sacristy. Her hands trembled on the latch as she cracked open the door.

  The room was empty. On the other side of the antechamber, the door to the chapel stood ajar, the grunts of men and the clank of metal striking stone filtering in from beyond.

  Aelfrun quietly padded to the open chapel door and peered around the corner.

  She was too late.

  In the pale glow of oil lamps, Father Damianos knelt before the altar, his ancient lips murmuring his last prayer, his wrinkled hands clutching a jewel-encrusted cross while a blond giant clad in a thick leather cuirass and fur-fringed garb raised an ax above his head.

  Aelfrun tried to scream but terror held her mute. A shout from behind halted the ax-wielding giant. He let loose a string of guttural noises as an even larger warrior strode forward brandishing a sword. The warrior punched the giant in the jaw, knocking him to the ground. The giant flailed limply then lay in a lifeless heap.

  Father Damianos’ aged body crumpled to the stone floor.

  Shock. It had to be shock. Please, God. Father had to be alive.

  Aelfrun screamed.

  A large hand clamped over her mouth. She clawed futilely at the insistent restraint. A beefy arm wrapped around her chest, thick fingers inelegantly crushing her breast.

  Her captor chuckled. “Hush, little one. I am your protector now.” His heavy accent was one she had never heard.

  She struggled. He muttered in his foreign speech as he clasped her firmly, then moved forward and grabbed Father’s arm, yanking him off the floor. Her captor dragged them to the sacristy, shoved them in a wooden cupboard, and then slammed shut the door to the chapel.

  Aelfrun held her breath, exhaling only when silence descended. As Father Damianos murmured orisons, she cried herself to exhausted sleep.

  Hours later, she woke alone, the heat of the day penetrating the close space, mingling with her fear, dizzying her. She tore off her woolen robe and tried to pray. An hour passed before Father returned to retrieve her. He held her steady as she staggered into the courtyard.

  Aelfrun shielded her eyes against the noon-day sun beating down blindingly on the travertine and marble, finding relief from the glare only where the white stones had been darkened by blood.

  All around the courtyard, monks moved the bodies of their dead brethren, meekly sniffling their terror and anguish, their wails and screams quieted from nine hours before.

  Aelfrun stared blankly at the pile of corpses.

  They shall hunger no more, thirst no more; neither shall the sun light on them…

  “Brother?”

  The vaguely familiar voice of a man, his accent foreign, came from above.

  “I do not wish to give insult to your grief, but I am covered in blood.”

  They have come out of great tribulation, have washed their robes, made them white in the blood of the Lamb…

  Dazed, Aelfrun looked up at the man who had spoken, meeting the sky-blue eyes of the barbarian who had saved her and Father Damianos from certain death. Blond braids sprouted serpent-like from under his scuffed and dented helmet. Above his close-cropped beard, a streak of red crusted on his cheekbone.

  “Show our guest to the bathhouse, Brother Albinus.”

  Aelfrun livened at the soft voice of Father Damianos. Brother Albinus. That was her.

  The barbarian’s gaze swept over her. A twinkle sparked the cerulean irises as a smile played on his lips.

  Aelfrun flushed and glanced down. The sight of her white hem stained with mud and gore gave her cause to glimpse up at her savior once more. His knowing glint had vanished, replaced by an imploring crinkle to his brow.

  “Follow me, please.” She led the way across the bloodied courtyard to the bathhouse, heavy steps thumping one pace behind and reverberating up her spine. Once inside the small structure, the air changed, humid, fragrant, a respite from the horror.

  Behind her, the barbarian gasped. “I have only heard tales of your pictures in stone,” he said.

  She turned to see him gawking at the mosaic floor, his gaze tracing the pattern of vines as they looped around medallions of sea creatures, and then following the border of cresting waves and twining guilloche.

  This barbarian from a murderous race was in awe of simple beauty.

  He looked at her, his blue eyes gentle. “I am Rakki.” His gaze flicked to her hair, shorn like that of a novitiate.

  She found courage. “Why are you here? Why did you kill my brothers?”

  “’Twas not I,” he said gently. “Those men, I sent away.”

  While she and Father Damianos were locked up.

  “Who are you?” she asked.

  He tilted his head with a slight smirk. “I am Rakki. From the north. Some call us Rus. We have taken your city.”

  “Constantinople?”

 
“Yes. It has a good port. We need access to the sea.”

  Her heart sunk. If these men had reached St. John’s, they must have obliterated Constantinople in their path. Once again, she faced an uncertain future.

  Or, perhaps…freedom?

  Rakki scratched his beard. “I do not believe in killing your Christian monks. They do not take up arms and have offered respite to our broken warriors.” He took off his helmet and tucked it under an arm. “I tried to stop my men from slaughtering your brothers.” He speared his fingers through his roots. “But was too late. I regret some were killed. It was not meant to be.”

  He looked at her. His smirk softened to supplication, his face was suddenly…handsome. Too handsome.

  Aelfrun flushed and glanced away.

  “I am left alone to hold this place until my chieftain arrives.” He offered a smile. “Am I to bathe in my clothes? Perhaps that is how they can be cleaned.”

  “No. We bathe without clothes.” Naked. She flushed again.

  “And after?”

  She swallowed. “I can provide such a garment as what I am wearing.”

  His gaze raked down her body as he licked his lips and lifted a brow. Her nipples puckered under his stare, tenting the fine fabric.

  She crossed her arms over her chest. “You may place your soiled clothes over there.” With a nod of her head, she indicated the stone bench along the wall.

  He chuckled and strode to the bench, removing his sword belt on the way. With his back to her, he undressed. His boots were first, and he made a display of unwinding the straps from muscled calves as if purposely trying to draw her attention. He unfastened and pulled off his cuirass, revealing delicate patterns on his knee-length blue tunic. He stripped off his stained leggings, carefully laying them on the bench.

  He turned to face her, stretching his arms overhead then bending at the waist to the right, to the left, exaggerating the exercises, the tunic sliding provocatively along massive thighs. He grabbed the garment at his shoulders and in one swift movement stripped it off, revealing all.