The Pirate Bride

by Sandra Hill

  Alinor cut her husband with a glare.

  “With her pretty damn sheep,” Tykir amended.

  “You cannot stay here,” Medana told Thork.

  “Why not?”

  “Because you . . .” She realized that he was just waiting for her to give him an opening about the possible pregnancy. “Because you must go to Hedeby and complete your betrothal to the fair Berla, daughter of Jarl Ingolf Bersson.”

  “You are promised?” His mother clapped her hands with joy.

  “To Bersson’s daughter?” his father exclaimed at the same time.

  “Promised to be promised,” Thork told them, “but I have changed my mind.” He smiled at Medana.

  “Oh gods, now I will have Bersson coming to Dragonstead demanding you honor your agreement,” Tykir said.

  “Nay, you will not. I did not agree to a formal betrothal. I was waiting for your approval.”

  “I approve,” his father said quickly.

  “I do not,” his mother added. “Do you love Berla?”

  “Of course not.”

  His mother rolled her eyes. “Dumb as dirt my sons are.”

  “Hey, what did I do?” his three brothers asked.

  “Why does he say ‘of course not’?” Tykir asked Alinor, as if Thork were not just standing there like a grinning stump.

  Alinor shrugged. “I want a love match for my firstborn,” she said.

  Thork groaned.

  Thork should not be groaning. He was the one who had started this conversation. Well, not about Berla, but about his staying on Thrudr.

  “We had a love match, husband,” Alinor was chattering on. “Would you not want the same for Thork?”

  “Not if I have to wait ’til he is a graybeard for it to happen.”

  Thork grinned as if he’d won some argument.

  But it was just a postponement. Medana knew that neither Tykir nor Alinor would let the matter rest until they discovered what Thork was up to.

  They found out soon enough.

  During the feast that night, when the great hall of the biggest longhouse was loud with conversation and laughter, Brokk asked Thork a question. Unfortunately, Brokk’s question came at just that moment when there was a lull in the noise.

  “Why are you always staring at Medana’s belly?”

  Everyone turned to stare at Thork, and then at Medana’s belly.

  Medana stood and stormed out the door, leaving Thork to answer all the questions that were sure to come. Served him right!

  Oops! He did it again! . . .

  “It’s not what you think,” Thork told his parents.

  “Pfff!” his father said.

  “You were staring at the lady pirate’s belly?” Starri asked from his other side. “Well, I do not blame you, but, with the men’s braies these women wear, it is their arses that draw a man’s attention more, in my opinion.”

  “Shut your teeth, lackbrain,” Thork said.

  “I thought it was a woman’s breasts that men admired most.” This from Selik, who had seen sixteen winters but sounded like an untried youthling. Mayhap their mother had tied him to her apron strings overlong, though he could not imagine his father condoning that. When Thork had been sixteen, his father had shown him his collection of feathers, and explained their carnal purposes. By then, Thork could have explained a thing or two to his father about sex.

  Guthrom, who was still brooding over being shot by an arrow from a woman’s quiver, had his barely wounded leg propped on a barrel. He advised Thork, “ ’Tis past time for you to leave this barmy place, lest you find yourself trapped by the women’s wiles.”

  Several women seated nearby gasped with outrage. One of them, probably Elida, who had been subjected to Guthrom’s constant scorn, looked at his brother and said, “Do not fear, Lord Full-of-Himself Viking. No wiles will be directed your way.”

  Lady Alinor pounded her fist on the table and stood suddenly. Addressing Thork with narrowed eyes, she asked, “Is Medana with child or is she not?” She had on her do-not-fool-with-me-son! expression.

  “I do not know.”

  “Pfff!” his father said again.

  “Could Medana be with child?” his mother persisted.

  “Mayhap.”

  “Wiles, I tell you. Beware of the wily traps,” Guthrom warned.

  Tykir, standing to his full impressive height, glared down at Guthrom. “Go walk off your miserable, mead-sodden state.”

  “I cannot walk with this gimpy leg,” Guthrom complained.

  “Then limp it off,” his father said in a roar that brooked no argument.

  His mother gave his father a little smile of thanks for his intervention. Then they all turned back again to Thork, who had the good sense to stand as well, preparing to go after Medana and make amends, if he could.

  “Mayhap?” His mother tilted her head at him. If possible, the freckles stood out even more on her pale face, a sure sign that she was not happy with him. “Explain yourself, son.”

  Thork shook his head. “This is a matter for Medana and myself to resolve. You will get an explanation only if, and when, Medana deems it wise.”

  On those unexpected words and five gaping mouths, he stormed off to find the pirate maid who might or might not be carrying his child. He found her leaning against the back wall of the cow byre, chomping away on a carrot.

  A carrot?

  Uh-oh!

  Women had odd cravings for food when they were pregnant, didn’t they? He seemed to recall his mother saying that she ate so many blueberries when she was carrying Selik, it was a wonder he wasn’t born blue.

  Should he remark on that fact to Medana?

  Not if he valued his skin!

  She put the carrot in her mouth and glanced sideways at him through half-lidded eyes.

  He almost swallowed his tongue. Thus, it was in a choked voice that he said, “Please accept my apology, Medana.” And would you mind if I replace that carrot with something else?

  She took a huge bite off the end of the carrot and crunched away.

  Ouch!

  “Go away.”

  Instead, he walked up and leaned against the byre wall beside her. “I really am sorry.”

  “For what? Ruining my life?”

  I would not go that far. “For embarrassing you.”

  “I told you to stop staring at my belly.”

  “I cannot help myself.” Eat some more carrot, sweetling.

  “Because you are suddenly anxious to be a father?”

  How many times do I have to tell her that sarcasm ill suits a lady?

  Mayhap now is not the time to remind her of that fact.

  “Nay, I am not anxious to be a father. Not at this time, leastways.”

  “At least you are honest. About that.”

  The implication being that he was dishonest in other regards. He would overlook that insult for now. “You did not let me finish. I would not choose to have planted my seed in you—”

  “Me? That is what riles you most, is it not? That your first child might be born of a lowly female pirate?”

  There is naught lowly about you, Medana. If you only knew!

  “Your mother told me about your blood ties to the Norse royal family.”

  He laughed. “Medana! Those ties are so long and twisted and broken. I do not consider myself of that status and, truth to tell, I would not want to be. What a family of vipers! Now, if you would stop interrupting me, wench,” he growled with mock ferocity, “I could finish what I started to say.”

  “Go on.”

  “While this is not the best of times to be contemplating fatherhood, or motherhood, I find myself more and more fascinated by the prospect. That is why my eyes are drawn to your stomach so often. Is it possible that a tiny son, or daughter, is already growing in there?”

  “Well, drawing attention to my belly is not going to make it true, or untrue,” she sniped, then put a hand to her face before commenting, “Your mother must consider me a harlot.”


  “Are you serious? Rumor is that my mother and father rutted like rabbits before they were married, and I know for a fact that I was already a growing seed afore the wedding.”

  That seemed to make her feel better. So he took a chance and linked his hand with hers, the one not still clutching a carrot. Raising the double fist to his mouth, he kissed the back of her hand and said, “I know you are worried about being with child. Nay, let me finish. And I know you are worried about your island and how your secret location is now vulnerable to attacks. But I want to assure you that I will not abandon you.”

  “You mean, if I am increasing?”

  He shook his head. “Either way, I will find a way to protect you.”

  She remained dubious.

  He unlinked their hands and moved in front of her. Bending his knees so he was on eye level with her, he tipped her chin and entreated, “Trust me, Medana. Can you do that?”

  “I have trusted only myself for a long time. I do not think I could place my fate in another’s hands.”

  “My family then. My parents. They are outrageous and betimes a bit barmy, but they treasure honor above all else. Do you think they would leave you here without protection?”

  “Well, I could probably trust your mother,” she said, “but only because she now thinks I might be carrying her grandchild.”

  “You do not know my mother. Yea, she yearns for grandchildren and fears none of her four witless sons will ever produce any for her afore she is feeble and unable to lift a tiny squalling body. But she cares very much about the abuse of women. Ask her sometime about the three husbands she was forced to take, and buried, afore she wed my father. Ask her about her brothers, if you think you are the only one with greedy, grab-land, vicious siblings.”

  “Really?” She tried to smile.

  He took that for a good sign. Putting his fingertips to the pulse beating in her neck, he gave her a soft kiss to seal his pledge of protection. Then he kissed her a little harder, to show he was sincere. Finally, he gripped her head, tunneling his fingers in her hair, and kissed her deeply, because he could. And because she was not shoving him away.

  Her skin carried the aroma of roses, from the soap she’d used to bathe, no doubt. He had used the pine-scented one. Together they would complement each other. Evergreen roses, he thought with an inward smile. He would have to tell Medana, later, to try that combination in soap making. It could be their signature soap.

  Good gods! My brain must be melting if I am fantasizing about soaps when my cock is having altogether different fantasies.

  He took the carrot that still dangled from one hand and tossed it over his shoulder. Then he hitched her body up so that her feet were off the ground, and her legs must needs wrap around his hips for balance. Placing her arms around his shoulders, he settled his open mouth over hers and kissed her for a totally different reason. Because he was hungry for her.

  “You are a troll,” she murmured at one point, and nipped at his bottom lip.

  “Kiss me hard enough, my dear pirate, and I will turn into a glorious god.”

  She tried to laugh but his tongue got in the way.

  A madness of sorts overtook him then as his mouth seduced hers with wicked intentions he hadn’t even known he harbored. Leastways, sex had not been his intention when he’d come after Medana. Well, there were different kinds of apologies, he supposed.

  His hands roamed everywhere, reacquainting him with all her parts . . . her breasts, her back and shoulders, her hips and buttocks.

  When she moaned into his mouth, he moaned back into hers. They anticipated each other’s needs and wants in ways he had not imagined were possible. Sometimes she mirrored his actions, sometimes she initiated delicious ones of her own.

  Somehow, and he would swear later that he didn’t know how it happened, he found his braies at his ankles, and her braies at her ankles. He put his fingers to her cleft and she anointed him with her woman-dew. That was all the encouragement he needed to place himself at her slick entrance.

  With eyes half blinded with the glaze of arousal, he begged in a voice so husky he scarce recognized himself, “Let me, Medana.”

  Her eyes, too, seemed unfocused. But she must have heard him because she nodded, and took his phallus in hand guiding him inside her, bit by agonizing bit. The whole time her inner folds were clenching and rippling around him in welcome.

  It was short and incredibly satisfying. One, two, three thrusts and it was over. But in the process she bit his shoulder to hold back her cries, and he murmured incoherent sex words against her neck.

  Once they had reached their mutual peaks and were sated, he slipped out of her body, and they both drew their breeches back up. As they were trying to relace themselves, Medana said, “Now you have really done it.”

  “We did it,” he corrected.

  “It matters not who did the doing. You did not pull out. Again.”

  That shocked Thork. He was meticulous about spilling his seed outside his partner’s body. Fifteen long years he’d practiced that kind of control. Now he’d failed to do so. Not once, but twice. “Well, I guess it does not matter if you are already pregnant.”

  “You idiot! What if I wasn’t pregnant? What if you made me pregnant this time?”

  Oops! he said to himself, but would not dare to say aloud.

  “ ’Tis obvious that I am unable to resist your charms. Your kisses obviously bestir my passions. One touch of your calloused fingertips, and it is like spark to tinder,” she admitted. “So, in future, you must stay away from me.”

  A wash of inordinately intense pleasure swept over him at her words. “Sweetling! You should not tell me that. Now I will be unable to stay away.” Not that he could, anyway.

  There was no time to say more because his mother was looking for them. “Thork, where are you? Medana, we must talk.”

  He put a forefinger to his lips to warn Medana to remain silent. Into her ear, he whispered, “Stay here while I distract my mother.”

  She nodded.

  He kissed her quickly then and murmured, “Remember. Trust.”

  Sauntering around the corner of the byre, he called out, “Mother, have you found Medana? I cannot imagine where she might be hiding.”

  “Tsk, tsk, tsk!” She sniffed the air, and Thork winced. His mother could pick out the musky scent of sex at twenty paces when her sons had been boys. Why would it be any different now? “What have you done, Thork?”

  He was not going to discuss that with his mother. “Trust me, Mother. I will make everything aright.”

  “I am not the one you need to convince.”

  He knew that.

  “Do you love her?”

  Thork flinched. It was a question he hadn’t expected and truthfully hadn’t even considered. Tentatively, he replied, “I do not know.”

  “You should come back to Dragonstead with us, or go to Hedeby. Just leave the poor woman alone.”

  “I cannot.”

  “Well, that is your answer then.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Did the Brady Bunch have family meetings like this? . . .

  Medana thought she couldn’t be any more embarrassed, but sitting in a meeting with Tykir, Alinor, and Thork to discuss her intimate condition was beyond humiliating. Medana had agreed to sit down with them in the rush of exhilaration on learning that Thork’s parents would be leaving Thrudr that evening . . . and hopefully Thork would accompany them.

  They were sitting on benches at the far end of the hall of one of the smaller longhouses, sipping at wooden cups of Lady Eadyth’s delicious mead. Thork sat beside her, and his mother and father faced them from the other side of the table. His father wore war braids intertwined with crystals in his dark blond and gray hair. A beautiful star-shaped amber pendant on a gold chain hung down over his leather tunic. Alinor looked equally impressive in a deep green gunna. Her bright red hair with a small smattering of silver threads was held off her face with a twisted silver fillet in the s
hape of writhing dragons. They made a handsome couple and their affection for each other was a palpable thing. How could Thork have avoided such a loving family for so long?

  And speaking of . . . well, thinking of Thork, he looked more than presentable himself. He, too, was wearing war braids today, interspersed with amber beads. He had a thunderbolt earring in one ear only, giving him a rascally look. He was close-shaven and smelled of pine soap. Nigh irresistible, she had to admit.

  “These cups are remarkable,” Alinor said, examining the fine carving on the one in her hands. This particular set had animals on them with a forest background. Deer, squirrels, birds, and such.

  “Tofa, our mistress of woodcarving, makes those. Aren’t they incredible? You should see the work she does on chair backs. We can sell as many as she makes in Hedeby.”

  “I think I met her yesterday. The woman with long black hair worn in a coronet about her head?”

  Medana nodded.

  “She had the most adorable little girl with her.”

  “That would be Rikva. She is four years old. Mistress of turnips, we call her. ’Tis her job to pull out neeps in the garden.”

  Everyone smiled at that.

  “There is not one single person here who does not have a job and a title,” Thork bragged, as if he had a proprietary interest in the island.

  Medana looked at Thork with surprise.

  “Now, let us be forthright here, Medana,” Tykir said. “Are you or are you not with child?”

  Medana looked to Thork for help. He just shrugged.

  “As I have told Thork repeatedly, I will not know for days yet, mayhap as much as a sennight. I ne’er had reason to keep exact track of such things in the past.” Medana didn’t think her face could get any hotter.

  She was wrong.

  “There are early signs betimes,” Alinor mused. “Do your breasts feel overly full and overly sensitive?”

  “How would I know, with all the handling by calloused fingers they have been subjected to of late?” Immediately, Medana regretted her impulsive outburst. But it was too late, of course.

  Thork was grinning like a preening peacock as he turned his hands over to expose his calloused palms and fingers. His father was chuckling with pride. His mother was eyeing the two of them speculatively.