by Sandra Hill
“Nay, I feel it in my missing eyeball.”
Thork did not know if Bolthor was jesting or not. No one liked to question him about his missing eyeball.
“Well, should we go back now or go on to Small Island to explore more?”
They turned as one to look at the two women standing at the end of the narrow connecting lane. They’d been aware of them all along. An old crone with hair like a gray haystack, with a dog the size of a small bear barking at her side. And a somewhat younger crone who was brandishing a large wooden pitchfork.
“Not tonight,” Thork decided. He was not in the mood for killing women, and those two looked like they were geared up to fight to the end.
When they returned to the pond and then used the water trough he’d built for the new shipbuilding project to wash off their mud, Thork said, “We will take turns guarding the hunters’ longhut, two at a time. Alrek and Jamie, you two go first. In a few hours, Jostein and Finn can take over. Bolthor, you can rest after all the woodcutting you did today. We will make plans in the morning for how to proceed.”
“And where are you off to now?” Jamie asked Thork.
“To bed.”
There wasn’t one single person who thought he had sleep in mind.
Where’s a prince when Sleeping Beauty needs a wake-up call? . . .
Medana knew she’d shocked Thork when she’d agreed so quickly to his proposal that she share his bed furs in return for saving their longship. What he didn’t realize was that she’d had time to ponder their dilemma the whole time the men had been on her island, knowing that eventually the men would take back the reins of power and with it the women’s only means of survival, their only connection to the outside world. A longship.
And, really, it was no great sacrifice to Medana. She’d been tupped before. There would probably be pain, but only for a short time, if her experience with Ulfr was any indication. She’d suffered worse when she cut her thumb nigh to the bone with an axe the first winter they were in exile.
An invasion of her body. A sharp, piercing pinch. A grunt. And it would be over.
More difficult to endure would be the indignity of the act. But then she’d swum in the nude with Thork a short time ago, and that was not so bad. In fact, she’d rather enjoyed herself. The rogue could be charming when he set his mind to it. Not that she was taken in by that false seduction. She was no feckless maid easily swayed by false wooing.
But where was he now? She lay stiff as a board on the rush-filled mattress, waiting for him to come. But he did not. What if he’d changed his mind? Would she care? Of course she would care. It would mean that he was backing out of their arrangement. And the longship would be lost.
Medana yawned and rolled over, then back again, the straw rustling under her. She tossed off the linen blanket and stared up at the crude ceiling. Now that the men had added on to the hunters’ hut, mayhap she could find a better use for this region of Thrudr. She could set up one of the women as a goatherder here. Goats liked mountainous terrain and needed little care. They could subsist on forest pannage, like acorns and wild fruits. Plus their milk made wonderful cheese, as Olga had already demonstrated.
Or the boys, as they grew older, might make a place apart from the women, but that was another problem altogether . . . what to do with the boylings as they grew into youthlings and then adult men. Would they stay on the island or want to move away? She could send them to Agnis, she supposed, to be trained as merchants.
Or mayhap she could use the longhut as her own private retreat. Nay, that would be selfish of her. Why should she have the luxury of her own home, apart from the others?
How about making the place into a romantic spot where the women could bring men to couple. Oh, good gods! A breeding hut? That would be encouraging the women to capture more men. Soon the island would be overrun with children . . . and men. Goats would be better.
Then, too, Bolthor had noticed a problem with some of the laying hens. Apparently, aside from being a warrior and a skald, he was also a chicken farmer. Before he’d married his wife, Katherine, she had an estate, Wickshire Manor in Northumbria, that was noted for its poultry. Chickens still flourished there today. Hard to picture a big, brawny Viking tending chickens, but then Norsemen were known to adapt to all circumstances. Even being stranded on an island by female pirates. In Bolthor’s opinion, they should kill all the existing poultry for food and start anew with a new flock come autumn. Which would mean going a-Viking sometime soon, or going to market to purchase the stock.
So many decisions to be made!
Eventually, Medana fell asleep under the weight of her roiling thoughts. And her dreams were troubled, too. They took her back to a time long ago before fear and caution became her everyday bywords. She was a girling, sitting in a field of wildflowers, watching the dancing of various butterflies when a tall figure approached. Instead of being afraid, she rose to her feet and then ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, jumping up into a pair of warm arms that held her close. It wasn’t her father, surely, or one of her older brothers. Nay, must be a stranger.
It was no wonder then that she awakened slowly to realize that she was pressed willingly up against a warm body that held her close, her face nuzzling the crook of his neck. One of her hands rested on the fine hairs of his chest, under which his heart beat strongly.
She should have been intimidated, but she was not. How odd! Mayhap this was still a dream.
“Wake up, my beautiful slugabed,” he murmured, and kissed the top of her head.
Not a dream!
“Is it time to get up?” She barely restrained herself from pressing her lips against his neck. Or worse yet, to lick his skin. To see if it carried the salt flavor of the pond, she told herself. “Is it morning already?” With no windows, the room was very dark. Still, through the rough chinking in the walls, a grayish light appeared.
“Almost dawn. In about an hour. But, nay, ’tis not time to get up yet. ’Tis time for . . . something else.”
Ah, the coupling I agreed to. She rolled over on her back. “Shall I lift my chemise so you can do it?”
“Do what?” He was leaning over her. She could feel his breath against her face, coated with the not-unpleasant scent of mead.
“The swiving.”
He leaned forward and buried his face on the pillow beside her head. She could feel his chest heaving.
“Are you laughing at me?”
“ ’Tis hard not to. Have you resigned yourself to being the mistress of martyrdom tonight?”
“What if I have?” she asked, not liking to be the subject of his mirth. When she attempted to shove him away, he just levered his elbows to either side of her shoulders and settled his heavy body atop hers.
Oddly, he did not feel too heavy. And, despite the night air that was cool, he was warm. Even hot. Like an erotic blanket, she thought, and almost giggled at her fancifulness.
“Are you smiling, Medana?”
Surely, he could not see in the darkness. She immediately forced her lips into a tight line. “Of course not. What have I to smile about, you big oaf? You are crushing me.”
“Am I?” he asked, but did not move.
It was then that she realized he was nude. Completely. Not that she wore much clothing. Just the thin chemise he’d handed her down at the pond. She wouldn’t move then if he paid her a king’s treasure, not wanting to call attention to any particular body parts, especially the one jabbing at her thigh.
“Just so you know, Medana, no martyrdom will I allow you. You will enjoy the bedsport as much as I will.”
She rolled her eyes. How like a man! “Get on with it then. Much work awaits me in the morn.”
“I have news for you, sweetling. The only thing you will be doing in the morning is what I allow you to do.”
Sweetling? He calls me sweetling? Is this another ploy on his part? “But I thought . . . you clodpole! We had a bargain.”
“And it is time you fulfill your
part of that bargain.”
Must I? Mayhap if I scrunch my eyes closed tight and think of fresh honey on warm oatcakes, or the smell of new-mown hay, or a warm longhouse on a cold winter’s night, it will not be so bad. “What should I do?”
“Stop talking, for one thing.” When she stiffened with affront, he added, “For now. I have other plans for your mouth.”
She was about to speak, despite his admonition not to, when he laid his lips over her, turning this way and that until they were perfectly aligned. The most disconcerting thing was that his mouth was open. And wet. And he spread that wetness to her lips, especially when he dipped his tongue inside her mouth, then used her moistness combined with his to lick a path over her lips.
Lick, press, thrust, suck, lick, press, thrust, suck . . .
Suck? When did I open her mouth so wide that he could engage my tongue?
She tried to focus on any one enticing thing he did, but he kept changing tactics. Hard to concentrate when so much was happening at once. “Wait, wait, wait,” she tried to say.
But he was thrusting his tongue deep into her mouth. Then drawing back. In again. Then back. Over and over. It should have been revolting to her. She should be gagging. Instead, her arms crept about his bare, broad shoulders, attempting to draw him closer. She sensed his muscles flexing at her touch. Was that good or bad? Her breasts felt fuller and needful of touch . . . not an itch exactly, more like a yearning, which she attempted to assuage by arching her body. It was not enough. Nor did it satisfy the private place between her legs that seemed to throb.
But wait. He was doing something else now. The slyboots! His mouth was at her ear, where he was blowing, for Asgard’s sake! Blowing, and sticking the tip of his wet tongue inside. Every fine hair on her body stood up and waved. ’Twas as if there was a direct line between her ear, her nipples, and the nether throbbing.
She moaned, she could not help herself.
He chuckled and said against her sensitized ear, “Like that, do you, Medana?” She would have been irritated at his question, except his voice was huskier than usual, as if he, too, were aroused.
Before she knew what he was about, he rolled over onto his back with her atop him. She struggled to maintain her balance and found herself arched on extended arms with her breasts nestled against his chest and she was half kneeling, half reclining over him, her woman place spread wide against his belly. This position gave him freedom to let his hands roam, and roam they did while he tried to distract her with more deep kisses. Actually, she might have been the one deep kissing him. Hard to tell when she was trying to keep track of where his hands strayed.
His palms caressed her back from shoulders to thighs, long sweeping forays, followed by deep massages of muscles. Despite the darkness, he was learning her body by touch alone. A carnal exploration, that’s what it was.
But then his hands were between them, lifting her breasts from underneath, his thumbs strumming the nipples into hard points. Where they had been aching before, they were now throbbing with the same rhythm going on down below in her woman place. The whole time he was kissing her mindless. And she could swear he was smiling as he kissed her. Smile kisses.
She drew back slightly, and although she could not see his face clearly, she asked, “Are you smiling whilst you stick your tongue down my throat?”
“Yes. Because I am happy? Because I am enjoying myself? You should be smiling, too, or else I am not doing my part well enough.”
“That is the most ridiculous thing I have ever heard.” But inside she was beginning to wonder. Her women yearned for bedsport, mostly for the getting of children. Leastways, that’s what she’d always thought. Except for the few with wanton tendencies, sex was a duty, not a sport to be enjoyed. But now . . .
“You were smiling before. I know you were.” He was back to the long caresses of her back and shoulders and breasts.
“That’s because I was likening you to a warm blanket when you plopped your body over me like a big horse.”
He chuckled. “Most men would not mind being likened to a horse, especially certain parts.”
“Oh, you! That is not what I meant.” She tugged at his wrists then because his fingers were playing a new game with her breasts. Tugging on the nipples, even pinching them, and twirling them between a thumb and forefinger. “Stop that!”
“Why?” His big palms were squeezing her breasts now, almost like Cook when she kneaded bread.
Do not smile, Medana. Whatever you do, do not smile. “Because it makes me feel tingly, all over,” she said before she could bite her fool tongue.
“Tingly is good.” He chuckled.
“See. You are laughing again. Laughter and sex do not go together. Must be this is a perversion.”
“If it is, it is a good perversion. You are thinking too much, Medana.”
But then she could not think anymore because he cupped her buttocks with his big hands and moved her body upward so that her breasts dangled above his face. She had not even known her breasts could dangle, small as they were. Before she could question what he was about, he took one breast into his mouth, cloth and all, and began to suckle her. Deep, hard, rhythmic.
To her mortification, if she’d been capable of such coherent thought, her lower body began to buck against his belly, and she let out a long, keening moan. Blood drained from her head and shot to all her extremities and various intriguing spots in between. Was it pleasure or was it pain? She was not sure. Pleasure-pain, she decided.
When it was over, whatever it was, she found herself splatted out over his body—a body whose manpart was still hard and pressed against her . . . whilst dawn light had emerged, giving the room a hazy, gray light. She raised her head to look down at Thork.
The loathsome lout was smiling.
Chapter Fourteen
He’d like to needle her . . . pine needle, that is . . .
If Medana could see herself the way he did right now, she would have a screaming fit.
Her blonde hair had come loosened from its braid during the night and was mussed and tossed into wanton waves that would do the king’s harlot proud. Her lips, especially full to begin with, were swollen and rose-tinted from his kisses. Her chemise had slipped off one shoulder, half exposing all of one breast with its small, taut nipple. And her woman’s nest had deposited a swath of wetness on his belly as clear evidence of her peaking.
She was a pleasure to look at and a pleasure he intended to enjoy in every wicked, carnal way imaginable, but not right now. Especially since Brokk had been knocking at the door intermittently for some time now. He figured that if it had been an urgent matter, the boy would have stormed in. The door could not be locked from inside.
“Medana, sweetling,” he said, leaning up to kiss her startled lips, “you will have to wait to have your way with me. Brokk is at the door.”
She blinked several times in confusion and then groaned when she realized her position, straddling his body with her chemise hiked up to her hips, her arse no doubt a sight that would delight Brokk, even if he was just a boyling, especially because he was a boyling.
“My way? My way? If I had my way—” Before she could berate him, as she was sure to do, he rolled her over on her back toward the wall and pulled the linen up over them both. “Come in, Brokk.”
“Sorry I am, Master . . . I mean . . . Jarl . . . I mean . . . oh, bloody hell! Jostein said to ask if he should go deer hunting today or not.”
Jostein was clearly wondering if it would be a wasted effort considering that they would be leaving tonight. Actually, since Thork had had time to ponder things, he realized that even if they got the longboat through the tunnel tonight, they might not be able to leave immediately. Supplies would have to be gathered and a crew, even a reluctant one, would have to be put together.
“Yea, tell him to hunt today, as planned.” Even if they were able to leave right away, the women left behind could use the excess meat.
After Brokk left, Thork turned to
Medana, who was backed up against the wall, putting as much distance between them as was possible, which wasn’t much. “Do not say one word,” she ordered. “Do not smile. Do not do one single thing to make me feel worse than I already do.”
He tilted his head to one side. “Why would you feel bad? I would think you would be feeling mighty good about now. Relaxed and all squishy inside. ’Tis the way of love play.”
She put both hands over her ears and squealed. “I told you not to talk about it.”
He laughed and stood, stretching to get the kinks out of his body. It was a small bed, not made for a man his size.
At first, she gaped at his cockstand—impressive, if he did say so himself—but then she squeezed her eyes shut tight. “I wish there was a crack in the floor that I could fall through.”
“Why? I am the one who should be embarrassed. Not you.”
She opened one eye a slit and watched as he drew on a pair of braies, carefully, considering the size of his enthusiasm. “Your mother would be upset that you are wearing braies with no smallclothes,” she observed.
He chuckled that she would bring up his mother at a time like this. “I suggest you do not tell her. If you should ever have the pleasure of meeting her.”
“Gods! I hope not!”
He chuckled and drew a clean tunic over his head and belted it, inserting a knife into a side sheath. “I have work to do for the next few hours. After you are garbed, I trust that you will stay here and not run off.”
He waited for her nod of agreement.
“You will find water for your morning ablutions and cold fare to eat, if you are hungry.” He sat on the edge of the bed and drew on one boot, then the other. When he stood again, he told her, “Later this morning, I want you to accompany me to the top of the mountain so that I can get a better look at the sea on the Small Island side.”
“You went through the tunnel last night, didn’t you?”
He nodded. “We can discuss that and other things later. Oh, and Medana, there are two things I would like to say to you.”
