Lord of Hawkfell Island

by Catherine Coulter

  16

  RORIK KNEW WHAT he should do. She was right, he was a man who’d had his share of women, enjoying them as he trusted they’d enjoyed him as well, and much more than that, he’d had a wife, and she’d been a virgin when they’d first come together, so he should be completely confident in himself. He should know when he should do what and how he should do it and for how long. Aye, this night was the beginning of their life together. He’d spoken smoothly to her; he’d spoken with sincerity, and gently. He was scared to death.

  He wasn’t ready for it, not for any of it. With all her strength, Mirana was still helpless against him. She knew naught of what was to come. Thus, he thought, he would simply try to enjoy himself and her and hope that she would come to him willingly. He didn’t want to hurt her.

  He pulled the shift over her head, then took a step back to look at her. He’d seen her naked in the bathing hut, and he’d looked his fill at her then. He’d fondled her breasts, to torment her, to punish her, but not for pleasure, she’d been right about that. But this, by all the gods, this was different. This was his wife and there was no anger in him now, and none, he prayed, in her toward him.

  But she was hesitant, she had misgivings about him and his body and what would happen, and he saw it. He would go slowly. That was the only thing he could make his mind comprehend at this moment.

  His eyes fell from her face to her breasts to her belly. He was, he realized, staring at her as intensely as she had stared at him. He was the one who knew what would happen so it wasn’t well done of him to scare her now by looking at her like a hungry wolf.

  “You are very nice,” he said, forcing his eyes back to her face. “You are pleasing to me.”

  “Thank you,” she managed. “You are too, Rorik. You’re very different from me.”

  That made him laugh. He crossed the few feet between them and pulled her into his arms, pressing his hands against her buttocks to bring her firmly against him. “Ah,” he whispered, feeling all of her, and knowing deep inside that it was good, beyond good, and that it was right. His hands came up her back, and he felt the suppleness of her, the narrowness of her waist, as he stroked the soft flesh, feeling the lithe muscles. He hugged her, kissing her ear. Then he took her face between his hands, drawing her up, and he kissed her, very gently, light nipping kisses.

  “You feel very strange to me, Rorik,” she said, her breath warm in his mouth and very sweet from the wine she’d drunk. “I like your mouth especially.”

  He laughed. “A woman who knows her own mind. That pleases me too. Now, kiss me. That’s right, open your mouth and give me your tongue.”

  Mirana was glad she didn’t hesitate, for the feelings that stormed through her when his tongue touched hers made every uncertain thought flee her mind. She gave herself to him in that moment, gave him herself and her trust, and Rorik felt her acceptance. It amazed him and astounded him and made him want to fall to his knees and thank Thor and Odin All-Father and especially Frey, who would surely bless their union with many children.

  He kissed her, holding her head in his hands, feeling her soft hair, stroking through the deep ripples, and growing harder by the instant.

  He pressed against her, never releasing her, until she fell back onto the box bed. He came over her, his knees gently opening her thighs. He came down between her legs, felt her breasts soft against his chest, felt his member pressing hot and hard against her woman’s flesh.

  He dimly realized that she was lying very still beneath him. He was going too rapidly for her. She was a woman, slower to peak in her desires than a man, and more than that, she was a virgin, untried in the ways of men and women. He forced himself to draw up onto his elbows. He looked down at her breasts, soft and white as her belly, and closed his eyes against the intense pleasure as he pushed himself against her. He felt the warmth of her, the smoothness of her flesh, the lingering softness of her thighs and her belly.

  He watched her as she closed her eyes. Very slowly, she pressed upward.

  Rorik groaned, fell on her and kissed her until both of them were panting for breath. It shouldn’t be possible, but it was. He wanted her so badly, he knew he’d spill his seed if he didn’t have her, now, at this very instant. “Mirana, I must have you now. Will you accept me?”

  She stared up at him, knowing what he would do, but still just looking at him, at his beautiful eyes that were glazed with his need, at the flush on his cheeks. She stroked her hands down his back to his buttocks. Very slowly, she opened her thighs wider.

  “Aye, Rorik,” she said, nothing more, and he went wild with her acceptance of him, rearing back, pressing her thighs wider apart, and then he was staring at her woman’s flesh, his fingers there, parting her, and he was breathing so hard he thought his heart would burst within his chest, but he didn’t care, he only wanted to come inside her and stay there until he . . .

  “Mirana,” he moaned, and slowly came into her. “By all the gods, it is too much.” Coming into her was more than he’d thought it could possibly be, though what he’d thought, if anything reasonable, he didn’t remember. Her warmth, the smallness of her, made gaining entrance difficult and this tightness chaffed his flesh, making him mad with lust, but he held himself in control, going very slowly, now watching her face, seeing her begin to feel the pain he couldn’t prevent, seeing her want to pull away from him even though she didn’t move, and he tried to draw back just a bit, but she lifted her hips, now biting her lower lip in her pain, but he came in more deeply and he couldn’t have pulled out of her had the longhouse been afire. Slowly, he repeated to himself over and over, he must go slowly. He mustn’t savage her. He finally felt her maidenhead, and he shoved against it, going out of his mind now, lust pounding through him, shoving at him, making him want to thrust deep into her, so deep he would be at her womb and he would feel all of her and know her, actually be a part of her for a few precious moments. By the gods, it was impossible not to thrust with all his strength now, to breach that barrier that kept her from him, that kept him from his ultimate knowledge of her. And so he did, throwing his head back, thrusting deep, hearing her cry above the pounding of his heart, above the mad swirling of his blood throughout his body, hard and driving and hot, and he was deep inside her, pressing frantically against her womb, and he knew he couldn’t wait, simply couldn’t hold back for another moment, another instant.

  She felt him tensing over her and opened her eyes. He was arched back, all his weight on his hands, the muscles bulging and knotting in his arms, and the cords in his throat strong and working wildly, and he was moaning, deep raw moans, and then he was tearing into her and crying out as if he were dying. She felt the wet of his seed then, felt him stiffen with the power of his release.

  He almost fell on top of her, but managed at the last moment to keep some of his weight from her. He was breathing heavily, his body sweating and limp against her.

  A man’s pleasure, she thought, but didn’t begrudge him his short eternity of madness. The pain had lessened, it was nearly nothing now. Only a weak fool would bemoan the discomfort. He wasn’t so full inside her now and there was his wetness to ease her. She felt herself begin to relax beneath him, though his weight flattened her into the feather mattress. She lightly touched her palms to his back and his shoulders. She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, and tugged.

  He raised his head and looked down at her, his eyes beautiful and quite vague.

  “I want you to kiss me,” she said.

  He smiled and did. For a very long time. Until she realized that he wasn’t inside her any longer, that he seemed oblivious of what he was doing.

  She gently shoved at him. He gave her another vague look and rolled onto his side. His arm fell over her belly, his fingertips lightly stroking her pelvic bone. In the next moment, he was deeply asleep. Mirana moved his arm to his side, then came up on her elbow to stare down at him, this time enjoying her freedom to study him, without him watching her, without him knowing she was
looking her fill at him. His member was flaccid, wet from himself and from her, and now nestled in the thick golden hair at his groin. She saw blood on herself and on him and knew it was from the rending of her maidenhead. She felt no fear. She continued to stare at him. Strange that he could change and grow so very much in such a short time.

  Lightly, she splayed her palm on his belly. The feeling of the crisp golden hair, the dampness of his flesh, the unconscious clenching of his muscles beneath her fingers, it all delighted her. Very lightly, her fingers touched him, gently encircled him, but when he suddenly moaned, deep in his throat, his hips coming up, she released him. He quieted again.

  She leaned down and lightly kissed his mouth. She was quite pleased that she’d married him. This part of it hadn’t been so very bad, aye, the kissing she had much enjoyed and, too, his strength. She admired strength. But to have his strength bring her pleasure was beyond what she’d ever imagined. The rest of it was interesting, and she accepted it. She also knew there wouldn’t be the rending pain the next time they came together. He had gained much pleasure, of that she had no doubt.

  She was glad she had pleased him. She was glad she had pleased him so much he’d fallen off her and dropped into a deep sleep. She’d brought a mighty warrior low with his lust, and she was a female of no experience.

  She felt somewhat proud of herself. She’d never before imagined this sort of power a woman could wield over a man. She wondered if it would always be so. She thought of Einar’s two mistresses, silly sheep, both of them. She doubted that he thought of them beyond the pleasure they gave him. She doubted they had ever held any power over him.

  Mirana looked down at her husband again. She wished he would wake up. She wanted to kiss him again.

  When she woke again, Mirana was sprawled on her back, her legs spread, and he was between them, staring down at himself and at her, as he pushed inside her. The sleeping chamber was dim with early morning light. She stared up at him, not understanding for a moment, then she realized that he was scarcely awake himself, his eyes closed, his body full on her now, his sex hard inside her, moving in and out, until before she even had a chance of bringing his head down so she could kiss him, he was arching, his head thrown back, and his seed was deep inside her once again. Nothing more than that and it was done. So little warning, no kisses at all, just him over her, deep inside her, and it was done.

  She frowned, tightening her hands on his shoulders.

  He awoke completely from one instant to the next. He stared down at himself, now pulling out of her body, feeling the profound lethargy that followed release. Then he looked at his wife, saw her frowning in confusion, and shook his head at himself, trying to clear away the sleep from his mind, the pleasant dreams that had brought him to take her again, trying to understand the pleasure that had been so intense he’d lost himself completely in it and failed her of course, falling asleep like a dolt. And now he’d done it again, not even fully awake, he’d come into her. He’d never done that in his life.

  He’d taken her again without giving her anything in return. It wasn’t well done of him.

  Rorik swung over to the side of the bed. He stood and stretched. He saw the wet of his seed on his member and her virgin’s blood. He said, “I hurt you last night and I’m sorry for it. Did I hurt you again now?”

  He had, but not that much. “I was asleep,” she said. “You woke me but then you were through with me. It seems to be a very fast thing, Rorik. Is it always so speedily accomplished?”

  “Nay. I’m sorry for it. It was strange. A man normally knows what he is doing, enjoys looking forward to doing it, for it involves all of him, not just his sex. Nay, a good man, one with control and experience, can pleasure his wife for hours, not just the minutes I gave to myself. Come, let’s go to the bathing hut. I’ll bathe you and you can steam away the soreness.”

  Even as she lay on her back on the warm oak bench, sweating in the steam-filled hut, she knew he wanted her yet again, for his sex was jutting outward, and he seemed in pain, the flesh of his cheekbones drawn tight, but he was controlling himself. He’d even moved to the other side of the chamber, and lay there on his belly, not looking at her.

  When he caught her by surprise, dumping a bucket of cold water on her, she bounded up, shrieking, then laughing, for it felt wonderful. She returned the favor, and he yelled just as loudly as she had, shaking himself like a mongrel.

  Asta had prepared porridge for breakfast. Entti had made fresh bread. Utta had churned butter. Erna was spinning, using only her one whole arm, her motions smooth and graceful. Kerzog had slept atop Raki the entire night, snoring in his face, and Erna had just laughed and bade her husband not to complain, for he was the only warrior strong enough to bear Kerzog’s weight.

  All this was told to Mirana by Old Alna the moment she and Rorik stepped out of the bathing hut. All the men were still within, waiting, it seemed, for Lord Rorik to show himself. Thus, when Rorik and Mirana came into the longhouse from their bath, there was a moment of silence, then knowing looks and some laughter, and more of the seemingly endless advice.

  Rorik looked momentarily annoyed, then he shrugged and smiled. He wrapped a long tress of her damp hair around his fingers. “So very black,” he said. “Rich and deep as the night.” He raised the tress to his mouth, stroking it over his lips. He inhaled the scent. “Sweet,” he said. “I dislike the braids. Leave your hair long and free.”

  She smiled up at him. “Very well.”

  “Ah, she becomes easier than a babe in arms,” Gurd said, chewing on a piece of warm bread. “But be careful of her, Rorik, do not forget that she is capable of killing a man after she bestows a smile upon him.”

  “Rorik always tames his women,” Sculla said, looking down at them from his nearly seven-foot height. “This one would be no different.”

  “You men,” Amma said, standing on her tiptoes to cuff her husband’s head. “I prefer—all the women do—to think it’s Lord Rorik who is tamed.”

  “Nay,” said Aslak, “ ’tis Lord Rorik who understands where the power lies here, and he will teach his wife obedience even as he gives her smiles.”

  “All of you will hold your tongues,” Rorik said. “She is at ease at the moment, but if you needle her pride, she will stick a knife in my gullet. Show her respect else I’ll be the one to suffer for it.”

  There was more good-natured laughter. Rorik joined his men. Old Alna filled a wooden bowl with porridge, poured honey over it, and took it to the master. She cackled when she gave him the bowl. “Aye, a fine time you had last night! The little mistress made you into a limp fish, didn’t she?”

  “How would you know? I saw you snoring in the corner yesterday, your mouth on its hinges so wide flies were buzzing about your remaining teeth. You didn’t even awaken when Kerzog barked in your face.”

  But Old Alna just laughed and laughed, then spat on the packed earth.

  Mirana stood there by the fire pit, the heat pouring off the burning embers making her sweat, uncertain what to do. She was the mistress here, but all had been taken care of. She looked for Entti, finding her at last by Asta, who was standing next to Erna, winding the warp on the upright loom. Entti stood on her other side, loading a shuttle with thread from a distaff. Rorik was with his men. Even Kerzog was at his place at Rorik’s feet, his big head resting on his paws. Should she join him? Aye, she thought. She was his wife and mistress of Hawkfell. She belonged here. She belonged next to her husband.

  He was seated in his ornately carved chair, his bowl settled on his thigh. She sat next to him on the wide bench that lined the wall of the longhouse, and listened to him speaking with Kron, the man who’d come from King Sitric’s court in Dublin, the man who’d told him of Einar’s treachery, the man who had probably, with his news, been responsible for Rorik wedding her. She accepted that. She wasn’t silly or a lovestruck maiden. She respected Rorik, even found his body—ungoverned though it be—quite to her liking, and it was enough.

&
nbsp; Kron shut his mouth when he saw her.

  17

  RORIK FROWNED AT him. “Come, Kron, I wish the details. Tell me.”

  Kron merely nodded toward Mirana.

  “I wish to hear them as well,” she said, her chin going up. “Since it is my brother’s treachery, it is my right.”

  “He is your half-brother,” Rorik said. “Do not taint yourself overly with his blood. Tell us both, Kron.”

  Kron still looked uncertain. “With her gone, and once the king learns of it, he will kill Einar, or rather his advisor, Hormuze, will have Einar killed. From all I saw, it is Hormuze who decides who is to do what and when, the king included. His influence is very strong, this foreigner with his strange name and his long gray beard and his mystic’s eyes.”

  “No!” Rorik’s anger was clear and bright. He slammed his fist against his thigh. “No, he cannot. Einar is mine. By all the gods, I will have him. I must have him.”

  Kron sat forward, his voice pitched low. “Nonetheless, what I have said is true. My lord, I do not believe that Hormuze or the king will accept any excuses from Einar. Sitric grows old and he is greedy, and he is desperate for sons. He is desperate for the renewed youth Hormuze promises him. Hormuze is more a mystic than an advisor, and he’s convinced the king that he will have renewed youth. He has convinced the king that he must have the woman—this woman, Mirana, daughter of Audun—by the first day of the fall, so that her youth and her purity will cleanse him, make him healthy again, restore his vigor. He prophesied that September was the month to wed her. The woman had to be her—Mirana, daughter of Audun—no other virgin would do. He promised the king she would bear him sons, proud and strong and brave. The king believes him, doubt it not, and thus, when you were at Clontarf hoping to find Einar, Einar was in Dublin, at the king’s behest, making his contracts and his agreements.

  “I chanced to overhear this old man, Hormuze, talking to one of his private guard. He said that he would pay a visit at the end of the summer to Einar and take her then. He doesn’t trust Einar either, though he gave no reasons for his distrust. He said he knew she would be safe until the fall. He said he knew Einar could have no overweening desire for her, after all.