by Sandra Hill
"I'm not on top of you. You do not bear my weight. And my arm and leg are only resting lightly on you. How can you be suffocating?"
"Your nearness suffocates me." Ah, so she was aware of this strange connection betwixt them. He couldn't quite explain it. It was more than a spark, but less than a flame. Was her body making ready for the bedsport, even as her stubborn mind resisted? He did have that effect on women betimes. He smiled widely with satisfaction.
"Stop smiling," she chastised.
"How can you tell I'm smiling?" The room was dark, but not totally black due to the brightness cast by the banked fire.
"I sensed it."
"You sensed a smile?"
"Aaarrgh! Let us get back to the subject at hand. I will not ask that you release me now—"
"Good thing," he interrupted, "because I would not."
"—not this instant, I mean. I know that you are honor bound to deliver me to King Anlaf's court. Your nephew Adam's safety is important to you, and—"
"Adam? Who told you about Adam? That god Loki must be stirring trouble again in the form of a certain someone who has a loose tongue in my company."
"It does not matter how I found out. The important thing is that you deliver me to King Anlaf's court, and that you offer me your protection there. Most significant, you will promise to return me to my home at Graycote... let us say, by Christmas."
"Let us say... not in my bloody lifetime."
"Now, do not be hasty. Do you not want to know my terms?"
"Nay."
He thought she said something foul in an undertone before speaking aloud. "I can give you three hundred marks of silver, if you will agree to my safe return to Northumbria."
He wondered how she was able to lay her hands on that considerable sum, but he'd been truthful in telling her he had wealth enough. "You would ransom yourself?"
"No one else will."
Any other woman would moan and bewail her misfortune in making that statement, but not Alinor. She just brushed it off as a fact of her life. He did not want to admire the shrew, but sometimes he could not help himself.
"Well?"
He laughed at her persistence. " 'Twould not be worth the aggravation."
"Aggra-aggravation," she sputtered.
He rather enjoyed making her sputter.
"Five hundred marks, then."
Now that surprised him. "Alinor, how in the name of your holy saints would you obtain five hundred marks to give me?"
"You do not need to know the how of it. But if you must know, sheep."
"Sheep," he repeated drolly. "Your familiars would bring the coin here?"
"Familiars? Blessed Lord! You can't be that lackwitted. I have many folds of sheep... just animals. Nothing magical about them, except the fine fabrics to be gleaned from their fur."
"There is that much to be gained from those smelly beasts?"
"My sheep do not smell, I tell you." If she'd been standing up, she would have stamped her foot, Tykir would warrant.
"I don't want money from you," he said.
"Well, what do you want from me?"
Oh, she should not have asked that. She really should not have. "Let's make love," he blurted out in a voice that sounded husky, even to his own ears.
She inhaled sharply with shock, then scoffed, "That is lust speaking."
"Yea."
"Really, what is it about men and sex? Three minutes of bouncing atop a woman—one minute of which is spent in trying to get the wick to stand up properly—and they're hi a swoon."
"Three... three minutes?" he sputtered. "Oh, Alinor, you have been cheated."
"Humph! That's another thing about men. They always deem themselves better than all others in the bedsport. Well, let me tell you, if they think to impress women with such boasts, they are sorely mistaken. Women do not care one whit about the size of the wick, or how long it can burn."
"Do not cast me in the same mold as all men, my lady. As to wicks, I am more like a whole candle. And I assure you, I can burn for a looong time."
"Talk, talk, talk."
"You know what they say, don't you? It's not the size of the stick, but the magic in the wand. Luckily, we Vikings have the size and the magic."
"Oh, really! Wicks, sticks, wands, it matters not to me. I am not impressed, or moved to any great rapture."
"Well, you keep on talking like that and you may find more than you wagered for."
"You wouldst take me without my free consent?"
"Nay, I would arouse you till you begged for my... wick."
"If you are so desperate for a woman, why didn't you go with Rurik and Bolthor?"
"Desperate would be too strong a word. It's been more than a sennight since I have lain betwixt a woman's thighs, and—"
Her body went rigid with alertness. "A sennight? How could that be? You have been nigh plastered to my side every minute of every blessed day for two sennights now. The only time you were out of my sight was the afternoon I went to Gyda's house in Jorvik to bathe... " Her tirade dwindled off as realization struck. Then she punched him in the arm. "The afternoon? You rutted with a woman in daylight? You are a pig."
He had to laugh at that bit of ignorance on her part about the mating habits of men and women. "So, do you want to make love or not?"
The only answer he got was a grinding sound, like the gnashing of teeth, which he took to be a refusal. " 'Tis just that my body is tense and restless. I doubt me I will be able to fall asleep. So, I thought—"
"—you thought to poke at me, to relieve your boredom." Her contemptuous tone didn't bode well for his prospects. "What am I? A receptacle for your seed? I... think... not!"
"You would enjoy the poking, this I guarantee."
"Oh, I swear, you have conceit enough for a dozen men!"
" 'Tis not conceit. 'Tis a fact. I know... secrets." He would have waggled his eyebrows at her, but he misdoubted she would be able to see them.
"Secrets?" She burst out with a light, ripply laugh. "Is it just you who has these secrets, or all Northmen?"
"Well, I cannot speak for every Viking. But, yea, 'tis said all have the knack. I merely polished it to perfection."
This time she didn't even try to hold back her laughter. "Have a caution, Viking. Keep your knack on your side of the furs, or you may find your knack taking a right turn... but not from any witchly spell. 'Twill be from a knock with my fist."
"A knack-knock? I like it when you talk fierce to me. My knack does, too."
"Ooooh, this is the most ridiculous conversation I've ever had in all my life."
"You started it."
"I did not," she declared indignantly. Then, "Did I?"
"You did." He misremembered whether she had or hadn't, but that mattered neither here nor there. It was always good policy to make a woman feel guilty. They did all kinds of delicious things to make amends.
"Are you seriously saying that you would agree to my terms if I would agree to rut with you?"
Rut? He cringed at her vulgar word. "Nay, I am agreeing to nothing. I merely answered your question."
"What question?"
"You asked what I wanted from you, and I said the first thing that popped into my head."
"Well, pop this into your head, my Lord Lech. I will not, now or ever, make love with you. Not for coin. Not for lust. Not for any reason whatsoever."
Tykir grinned. "Is that your final word?"
"Nay, these are my final words... "
He waited expectantly.
"... you are a troll."
Yea, I am. Else why would I be considering what I am considering? 'Tis foolhardy. 'Tis a mistake in the making. 'Tis like jumping off a cliff into a stormy sea.
'Tis bloody damn tempting.
Her lips were a hairsbreadth away from his, close enough for a kiss. His wick knack took particular note of that fact, too, and he had to clench his fists to keep from grabbing for her. Best he change the subject, with all haste. He forced himself to yawn wi
dely. "Well, best we get some sleep. I would like for us to be on our way afore midday."
"Can't we stay at least another day?"
He shook his head. "Nay. The rowing will be hard as it is for my seamen, especially if there is ice on the oars. Winter is truly on the horizon. I can tell by the ache in my leg tonight. When my battle scar throbs, that usually portends cold weather. Methinks there may even be frost on the bracken come morn."
"Would that be the leg that has moved into forbidden territory?" she asked waspishly.
He groaned inwardly. He hadn't realized that his knee had moved instinctively upwards. But what a feckless maid she was to call his attention to the fact. Now, if he moved it, he would appear guilty. But if he did not move it, he would not be able to stop thinking about the heat that seemed to emanate from her there. He chose the latter course. "That would be the leg," he admitted. "And best you watch your tart tongue, my lady, or you may provoke other of my body parts to move into other of your forbidden territories."
"Your crudity knows no bounds." She tried, unsuccessfully, to squirm out of his grasp. "Only you would find a way to bring a discussion of the weather back to... to... "
"Sex?" Oh, that was very intelligent of me. Bring back the unwanted subject.
"Yea, sex, you bloody fool. Sex, sex, sex, that's all you men think about. Mention plowing, you think of sex. Mention weaving, you think of sex. Mention horse riding, you think of sex. Mention sheep, you think of sex—"
He laughed so hard then that he began to choke. "Sheep? Sheep?" he sputtered. "Oh, Alinor, you are unbelievable."
"Don't think that I don't know what you're thinking!"
"There are a goodly number of thinks in there," he quipped. "I'd best think about that for a while."
She slapped at his chest in remonstrance. "You are thinking that I may be mud ugly in the daylight with my brash hair and freckles and other uncomely attributes, but in the dark, one female is the same as any other."
"You have me all figured out, do you?"
"Yea, I do. 'Tis just as Egbert and Hebert used to say when they came home late, after a night of wenching. It matters not the beauty of the sky when you are plowing a field."
"We Vikings have a similar saying," he said. "mo er all katterd." He paused for only a moment before translating with a laugh, "All cats are gray in the dark."
She punched him.
Which was a mistake, because he laughed even harder.
Then she made the biggest mistake of all. She shifted abruptly to confront him, thus causing her breasts and upper legs to abrade his forearm and thighs, but, most alarming, putting her lips within kissing distance of his. And if there was one thing he relished in the lovesport more than any other, it was kissing. Long and deep, short and soft, demanding and persuasive, wet and dry. Good kissing was almost equal to good sex. Not quite, but almost.
So, without considering the consequences, he put a hand to her nape and drew her to him. Her lips parted with surprise, and he took advantage by slanting his mouth over hers in a perfect fit, with her lips forced to remain open.
Then he proceeded to show her, well and true, that all men were not alike.
Chapter Eight
A kiss.
So this is a kiss.
Hmmm.
Ummmmm.
Tykir had caught her unawares, lips parted, about to protest, when first he pulled her to him. Now the gentle pressure of his lips forced hers to remain open for his plundering. Shifting and shaping, he plied an age-old expertise till he won her pliancy.
Then he started over again.
It should have been embarrassing, but it was not.
It should have been an assault, but it was not.
It should have been repulsive, but—oh, sweet Mary!—it was not.
By the time she realized that she lay quiescent, surrendering to the seduction of his kiss, it was too late. Her curiosity was aroused, her senses enflamed.
A kiss is like an exploration, she marveled. Man of woman. Woman of man. And of oneself.
And it is a dance. She smiled inwardly at such uncharacteristic whimsy on her part. But truly it was a dance—a lyrical movement of the body set to the music of the senses. An erotic play of slow rhythms and subtle nuances.
She wanted to know more.
There was a clean, musky fragrance to his skin, contrasting with the lingering scent of the animal furs and the wood fire. His breath tasted of honeyed mead.
But, nay, it was madness to continue on this path. She should push him away now. Stop this insanity before the lout deemed her smitten with him... which she was not. It was the kiss that held her in thrall, of course, not the man. Instead of resisting, she dug her fingers into his shoulders and lay back to give him easier access.
His body stilled. Then he murmured one word and one word only against her lips: "Alinor." There was wonder in his voice, and surprise, and raw, frightening promise.
Blessed St. Jude, patron of hopeless cases, come to my aid. I fear I am becoming the most hopeless case of all.
Leaning over her, he placed one hand to her throat to hold her in place, with his wide thumb resting on the pulse spot on her neck. Could he feel the thundering of her heart? The roaring of her blood?
His kiss changed then, reclaiming hers with a shocking hunger. Before Alinor had a chance to register the significance of this switch and realize that now might be the time to call a halt to this risky game, Tykir forced her lips wider with his own, and his tongue pushed slowly and deeply into her mouth. Stunned, she allowed him this invasion. His tongue withdrew, then plunged again.
Tongue kissing, of which Alinor had heard but never quite believed, was deliciously revolting, she decided. The slickness in her mouth—whether hers or his, she could not tell, to her horror—should be distasteful. The rhythmic thrust and parry of his tongue should have caused her outrage. The command of his lips that she respond should have caused her consternation. But, oh, what a traitor her body proved to be! Her breasts peaked into hard points and ached with the need for... something. Heat curled into a strange knot at the pit of her stomach. In that secret place between her legs a throb started, clenching in slow, progressively stronger counterpoint to the cadence of his tongue's sheathing and unsheathing.
Just when she was starting to discover the intricate steps of the tongue sport, he broke the kiss and whispered against her ear, "Did you like that kind of kiss, witchling?"
She couldn't have answered if her life depended on it, so mortified was she at his guessing her appreciation; so she did something even worse. She moaned.
To her amazement, he didn't laugh, or make some biting remark about lustful widows. What he did was moan back at her—a low, masculine rumble of pure arousal.
She ducked her head against his shoulder to hide her shame.
He tipped her face back up with a forefinger under her chin. "Do not hide from me. Your eagerness excites me."
Before she could deny his ludicrous claim, she saw his head descending. This time his kiss was a gentle act of controlled aggression. He nipped her bottom lip with his front teeth and tugged lightly. He showed her with soft, sexual words of encouragement how to glide her own tongue into his mouth, and how to draw on his tongue when he entered hers. He angled her head and settled his mouth over hers again, murmuring, " 'Tis time to get down to the serious business of kissing."
God's teeth! What had they been doing thus far, if not the serious business of kissing?
He was rapacious then. His mouth closed on hers again and again, entreating, claiming, playing, persuading. His molding, unending kiss changed patterns like rain in a summer storm, alternately rough and tender, harsh and wonderful.
Her breath caught in her throat, then came out in a thready exhalation.
His breath was a hot, ragged reminder that he was male and dangerous.
Alinor never knew a kiss could be so many things.
He tore his mouth from hers and pressed his forehead against hers, panting. "
I want to make love with you," he said in a thickened voice.
Who knew what she might have replied if St. Jude hadn't come to her aid then in the form of the most unlikely angel: Rurik.
Water was dripping down on Alinor's face.
At first she thought it was a leak in the roof where rainfall might have started while her attention had been diverted elsewhere. But, nay, the droplets were coming off Tykir's hair because of the holy water Rurik was drizzling from above.
"Have you lost your bloody mind?" Tykir shouted as he reared up, off of her and out of the furs.
The loudness of his voice awakened Rachelle, Ottar and Karl. Rachelle lit a soapstone lamp and Ottar rushed forth with raised sword, not knowing if there was an intruder.
Rurik was raising a fist, as well as his voice, as he berated his friend. "But I saw you kissing the witch and knew you must be under her spell. Did she give you another potion?"
"Nay, lackbrain, she gave me nothing... no thanks to you."
Rachelle raised her lamp high, took one look at Alinor's kiss-swollen lips and whisker-grazed face and laughed so hard and long that everyone turned to stare at her in question.
No one except Alinor seemed to be aware, or care, that Ottar, Karl and Tykir were nude. Totally. In fact, Alinor couldn't keep her eyes from stealing glance after glance at the hard evidence between Tykir's thighs that bespoke just how much he had wanted to make love with her. Now, that is a magic wand if I ever saw one... which I haven't, of course.
She was glad now that they had been interrupted, but glancing down one last time, she felt the tiniest twinge of regret. And curiosity.
What would it be like to make love with this man?
What would it be like to make love with this woman?
That thought and many others in a similar vein were keeping Tykir awake. At least an hour had passed since he'd called out, "Ga ntt!" to everyone, and they had returned, "Good night!" and gone to their rest, again. From the sounds of snoring and even breathing, he assumed they were all asleep.
Except him.
And Alinor.
What was she thinking that kept her awake? Probably ways to cut off certain of his body parts in retribution for the embarrassment he'd dealt her a short time ago. Who knew she would be so missish over a little exposed male flesh? Or teasing about swollen lips? With the distance she put between them now, he assumed she was not entertaining the same erotic thoughts as he. Nay, she practically hugged the wall so that not a hair on his body could touch a hair on hers.
