After tossing a leftover gallette to the pack of hungry-eyed dogs and watching as they fought over it, Ivar sat back with a belch. “Where are the damned women in this place? A man wants a lusty wench to warm his bed after a battle.” Ivar the Red was a big man whose appetites matched his great size.
“What battle?” Bjorn asked dryly. “Valdrik was the only one who put his sword to any use.”
“Aye, and by the look, he’ll be the only one using it this night,” Ivar grumbled. “Are you going to take her?” He pointedly asked Valdrik.
“The duchess?” Valdrik asked. “Aye. But I intend to wed her before I bed her.”
Ivar sputtered his drink all over his tunic. “Wed her? Why? She’s yours for the taking.”
Bjorn leaned in and asked. “You’ve never spoken of marriage. Why now?”
Valdrik stared into his cup. “If I want to keep these lands I must have a Breton noblewoman to bear my sons. Once I wed and bed her, we will take the rest of this land piece by piece. You will be well rewarded for your trouble, my brothers.” Once they were under his control, he intended to grant the county of Poher to Bjorn and the lands of Cornouailles to Ivar. The sons of Viggo Vargr would soon rule over the very land that he’d died in.
“I hope there are better women in those parts. I have seen none here worth taking,” Ivar grumbled. “The only ones I’ve seen in this wretched place either have no teeth or teats that hang to their knees.”
“They are hiding from you Ivar. Your reputation has scared them away.” Valdrik laughed.
“Mayhap if you bring one of the hags into your bed tonight you’ll have the luck of Helgi,” Bjorn taunted. “The ugly crone who went into his bed turned into a beautiful elvish woman.” Bjorn continued with a shrug. “Then again, you could awaken instead with the toothless hag and a withered prick.”
Valdrik grinned. They’d all grown up on such legends.
“You only wish,” Ivar rejoined. “Even withered ’twould be twice the size of your—” Ivar’s gaze suddenly riveted to a place beyond Valdriks’ shoulder. “Damn! But what have we here?”
Valdrik turned to discover a voluptuous young woman standing at the foot of the staircase. Her hair was dark and hung loosely, and her tunic was made of indecently thin, almost translucent linen. Her state of dress decreed she was no noblewoman. Who was she?
Ivar stood, almost toppling his chair. “Surely ’tis a whore after my own heart! Come to me wench,” he urged with a broad grin and open arms. “We are in great need of entertainment.”
She approached the four men boldly, wearing the look of a woman who knows a man’s desires and is more than willing to fulfill them. The duchess had mentioned Rudalt’s many bastards. Was this woman one of his whores?
“I am Gisela,” she introduced herself. “I wish to know which of you will come to me in the duke’s bed tonight. Duke Rudalt was called the battering ram for good reason.” She came to Ivar, brazenly taking hold of his belt buckle with one hand, while she slid the other down to his crotch. “I wish to know the siege machine of the man who slew him.”
“’Twas not me who slew the duke,” Ivar confessed and then looked to Valdrik with a scowl. Gisela tracked the direction of his gaze. Letting loose of Ivar, she eyed Valdrik appraisingly, hands on her shapely hips.
“I don’t seek a whore for my bed,” Valdrik answered before she could turn her attention to him. “I seek a duchess.”
She arched a sable brow. “I would argue that even a whore may become a duchess if the duke only decrees it so.”
“Why would I wish to do such a thing?” he asked.
“Because the high-and-mighty duchess is cold as stone. Why else would her husband never go near her?”
“Never?” Valdrik asked. “The duke did not bed his own wife?”
“He lost interest in her long ago,” Gisela replied. “I have warmed his bed these four years.” Her black gaze flickered from Valdrik back to Ivar. “I can do things you only dreamed of. Indeed, if you wish it, I would pleasure you both.” She looked to Bjorn with a lascivious curl of her lips. “Upon occasion, I have even taken three men at once.”
Valdrik instantly lost any interest he might have had in her. He enjoyed women and had bedded many, but had never taken to common whores, and this one was as common as a street wench. His thoughts moved back to the duchess’s deception. She’d purposely misled him in hope of putting him off. He was not about to let her deceit go unanswered. He pushed himself out of his chair. His legs were a bit unsteady, but his mind was clear…or clear enough.
“Where are you going?” Gisela demanded with a pout.
“To bed,” he answered.
“Take me with you,” she said. “Make me your duchess and I will do anything you desire.”
“Since you have such a great talent, there is no point wasting it,” he replied blandly. “You will remain here and pleasure my men.” He nodded to a grinning Ivar. “She is yours. I leave you now to enjoy her.”
After nibbling a small amount of bread and cheese, Adèle bolted her door and packed the remains of her meal along with her few jewels into a sack. Gazing out her window, her heart sank in dismay. It was a moonless night. She wasn’t certain if she could find her way to Carhaix unguided in the light of day, let alone in utter darkness. Even if she made the attempt, how would she ever be able to raise the gate undetected with three hundred Norsemen camped outside these walls? The more she considered the details of her escape plan, the more flawed it appeared.
She threw herself onto her bed with a sigh of defeat. She was far safer within her fortress. At least until the other devil arrived. Rudalt was right that Cornouaille coveted the crown of Brittany. The crafty count might not come specifically to save them, but if he’d learned of Rudalt’s death, he would very likely come to try to claim the duchy of Vannes for himself. At least he was the devil she knew. Her only chance of escape was to delay the nuptials in hope that Cornouaille or Mateudoi would come to their rescue, though she put little faith in the latter. Her brother was no warrior which was why he’d been so dependent on Rudalt.
But how to put off the Norseman? She was still puzzling over this when her latch rattled. Was it Mathilda come to check on her? The old woman had been her nursemaid and still acted like a mother hen. Adèle rose and padded barefoot to the door. “Mathilda?” she inquired softly. “Is it you?”
“’Tis Valdrik,” answered an ominous baritone voice. “Open the door.”
“I am abed, sir,” she replied. “What do you want with me?” Had he changed his mind? Did he come to rape her?
He gave the door a loud thump. “Open the door before I get an ax and hack through it. If I must destroy it to enter, I will not deal kindly with you.”
“Kindly?” She released a humorless laugh. “You speak as if invading my home is an act of benevolence.”
“Open. The. Door. This is your last chance.”
Adèle sucked in a breath knowing it was no idle threat. She raised the latch. Hugging her arms about herself, she stepped back just as the Norseman flung the door open. His huge, angry form filled the doorway. “I dealt justly with you and you repay me with deception?”
“Deception?” she whispered. “What do mean, deception?”
“You lied to me. You told me you were barren.”
“I have been wed four years and have never conceived a child,” she insisted.
His icy stare speared hers. “When was the last time your husband bedded you?”
She swallowed hard and looked away. “I don’t remember.”
He advanced toward her. “How long has it been?” he demanded again, his iron fingers boring into her shoulders.
“A long time,” she croaked.
“How long?” he pressed. “Weeks? Months?”
She licked her lips and rasped. “At least two years.”
“Two years?” he repeated with a harsh laugh. “Many women whose husbands fuck them frequently do not conceive in two years. How often did he
fuck you?”
She winced at his vulgarity, but the word applied. There was no love or tenderness with Rudalt. He rutted like an animal. “Not often. He had a concubine.”
“Gisela,” he replied.
Adèle’s stomach knotted. “How do you know?”
“The faithless slut didn’t even wait for her master’s burial before seeking a place in my bed. Norse custom honors fallen warriors by sending their concubines to the hereafter with their masters. Luckily for her, my men and I are now baptized Christians.”
“You would kill her?”
He smirked. “It is not a Christian custom.”
“Yet you spoke earlier of making a fertility sacrifice. You contradict yourself,” she accused.
He dipped his head to murmur in her ear. “Or mayhap I was willing to risk the wrath of your God to have you.” His grip loosened slightly as he pulled back, his pale blue eyes holding hers. “And I will have you. The choice is no longer yours. Had you not deceived me, I would have waited, but now I see little point.”
“You intend to force yourself on me?” she asked.
“Don’t look so horrified. You are a widow, not a virgin.”
“Please just let me go,” she pleaded.
“I will not. Then again, I have no wish to sleep with one eye open. Mayhap I will treat with you after all.”
“Treat? You don’t know the meaning,” she snapped. “Treaties involve an exchange of benefits. All you do is bully and coerce.”
“My ends always justify my means,” he replied. He considered her, rubbing his chin. “I would make a bargain with you.”
“What kind of bargain?” she asked warily.
“Consider it a wager of sorts. I am willing to stake my Ulfbehrt on your ability to conceive my child.” He withdrew the weapon from its scabbard. It was like none she had ever seen. “It is my most prized possession,” he declared.
“Then why would you risk losing it?” Adèle studied this bewildering man in perplexity. He’d come to her in anger, but would now make wagers with her?
“I would prove a point,” he said. “The Norse believe that sexual pleasure opens a woman’s womb, making it more receptive to a man’s seed. You have not conceived because you have never known pleasure.”
She snorted. “That’s ridiculous! There are many women who dread the act of copulation yet still bear children.”
“I didn’t say it was impossible,” he argued. “But pleasure facilitates the process. Indeed, I am so confident, that I am even willing to give you what you most desire if I prove wrong.”
“You will release me?” she asked.
“Aye. You will submit to me as your husband in every way. If after six months you are not carrying my child, I will release you along with any other women and children who wish to leave here.”
She stared at him, pulse racing. Could she stand the attentions of her enemy if it meant ultimate freedom? Yes. She could. She’d withstood Rudalt’s battering and this man had already proven more considerate than her own husband had been. “What of the men?” she asked.
“I am not a fool. I would not augment the army of my enemy.”
She nodded, knowing it was as much concession as she was going to get from him.
“You swear you will do this?” she asked.
He inclined his head. “As Allfather is my witness. But you must come willingly to my bed. Know that if you lie beneath me like a corpse, the deal is broken.”
“If I agree to do this thing, I would ask one more boon.”
“What is that?” he asked.
“You will not publicly dishonor me.”
His brows furrowed. “Dishonor how?”
“I know men are faithless by nature, but I would not be humiliated again. I ask for discretion with other women,” she replied.
“If you please me there will be little need for such a promise,” he replied. “I vow that I will not humiliate you for as long as you are my wife, but if you break faith with me in any way, I am free to deal with you as I will.”
“How long do I have to give you my answer?” she asked.
“You will answer me now,” he said. “If you accept my bargain, we will wed on the morrow.”
“It is too soon,” she protested. “I have lost my husband. Will you not even allow me a period of mourning?”
“Mourning?” He laughed out loud, a full throaty sound that vibrated through her. “Are you such a hypocrite, duchess?”
“Perhaps I don’t mourn him,” she confessed with chagrin. “But might I at least have time to give him a proper Christian burial? His station demands that show of respect.”
“How much time?” he demanded.
“A se’nnight,” she responded, hoping that by then aid would be forthcoming from Cornouaille.
“Nay,” Valdrik answered. “The duke’s men have already prepared the body. They will attend to the burial in the morn and we will proceed with this marriage at noontide.”
“On the very same day?” she asked. Cornouaille would never arrive to prevent this travesty. “It is not decent!”
He smirked. “Dead men don’t protest too loudly, Duchess. I, on the other hand, grow impatient. I am a man of action. Forbearance has never been my strong suit. We will wed on the morrow,” he repeated coldly. “Let us now seal this bargain.”
“Seal it how?” she asked, gaze narrowed.
He took her face in his hands. They were large and heavily calloused, but his hold was surprisingly gentle. “A kiss is considered a token of good faith.”
“Not always,” she said. “Our Lord was betrayed with a kiss.”
“Do you seek to betray me, Duchess?” he asked softly. For the first time, she looked deeply into his eyes. She was shocked to discover wariness that matched her own. “To take you as my wife requires a great deal of trust on my part, far more than on yours,” he said. “Had I wished to harm you, I would already have done so.”
She realized it was true. “But I am safe only as long as you think you need me,” she argued. “And you already threatened to sell me as a slave if I don’t please you.”
His mouth twitched in one corner. Was he suppressing a laugh? “Perhaps I also spoke rashly,” he said, stroking the pad of his thumb along her cheekbone. “But you would do well to ensure that you do please me. You can begin with a kiss.”
“A kiss? You want me to kiss you?”
He cocked a brow. “I desire to know that you accept the terms of our bargain.”
“The terms were that I would accept you,” she argued. “I will not pull away from your kiss.”
“But that is not what I want,” he said. “A slab of marble can accept a kiss without pulling away. I told you I want more than that from you.”
Her gaze dropped reluctantly from his eyes to his mouth. If she were to allow herself to forget who he was, she would consider it a very attractive mouth. Firm lips, the lower slightly fuller than the upper. He had pressed them to hers once before. Though she hadn’t been willing, it wasn’t repulsive like Rudalt’s wet slobbering had been. She reminded herself that this was the path to her freedom if only she could trust his word. Something told her she could. His men would not be so loyal to him were he a liar. She rose up on her toes and briefly pressed her mouth to his.
He responded with a slow shake of his head. “Not good enough.”
She frowned back at him. “You asked for a kiss and I gave you one.”
“Then I think you need lessons in kissing,” he countered. “Mayhap I should send you Gisela?”
“Gisela! Whatever for?” she snapped.
“Gisela is well schooled in how to stir a man’s passions.”
“And just how would you know?” she asked, peevishly. Had he been with her already?
“She was most eager to demonstrate her talents when I left her in the great hall with my men. Ivar was quite enthralled by her.”
“But not you?” she asked. Would the slut worm her way into this man’s bed just as
she had the duke’s? Perhaps she would keep him occupied and away from her just as she had with Rudalt? The idea should have pleased her, but strangely it didn’t. Perhaps it was just vanity that any man would prefer such a low creature over a woman of virtue and breeding.
“Nay,” he answered. “I am captivated by quite another. I am becoming a fool for a pair of sea green eyes.” She drew in a tiny gasp as his face came slowly toward hers. “If you would not have Gisela teach you about kissing, I suppose I will have to do.”
One of his hands lifted her chin while the other cupped the back of her head. As before, his actions were firm but still gentle. She shut her eyes and braced herself for it, but the kiss didn’t come. She opened her eyes in a silent question.
His brows met in a frown. “I will not kiss a block of ice. Part your lips,” he commanded.
Adèle complied, willing herself to breathe and her body to relax. Her heart raced with anticipation as he moved in by slow inches. His mouth closed over hers, warm, firm, and confident. She was overwhelmingly aware of his taste, his scent, of the heat of his hard warrior’s body inches from hers. He sucked on her lower lip, then pulled it gently between his teeth. Her knees buckled at the warm wet touch of his tongue to hers. It was the briefest contact, yet incited an instant answering echo in the hollow place deep in her belly.
Was this a lover’s kiss? The kind that incited sinful acts? She began to understand why. This kiss was not the least repulsive. On the contrary, she wanted more. Adèle was immediately besieged with guilt. She’d been repulsed by her own husband, how could she feel this desire for an enemy? Just as she thought he would deepen the kiss, he released her.
“Now it is your turn to kiss me,” he murmured with a glimmer in his eyes and a subtle half-smile playing about his sensuous mouth.
For the first time in her life, she began to understand the power of lust. Lust was not rational. If given free rein, it ruled supreme over all other emotions, even weakening the strongest of men. She thought of David with Bathsheba, Samson and Delilah, Paris, the Prince of Troy and Helen of Sparta. Even Rudalt, a notorious philanderer, had kept Gisela in his bed these four years.
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