THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “I don’t care what you want,” he gritted. “Shoes are what you can have. And jewels and whatever . . .”

  Actually tipping her back onto the mattress so her flailing body was underneath him, wasn’t the smartest, although if Snotra had crept up the ladder and was staring through the drape, this tussle with the troll would certainly look convincing. On the surface anyway. He didn’t know how much muster it would pass if Snotra looked closer. He could and would make this Saxon she-wolf obey him now.

  “Do you understand?” He seized her wrists, dragging them above her head so she couldn’t move. “You’re in no position to bargain here. If you can’t moan, I’ll get someone who can.”

  She stuck her chin in the air. “So you say.”

  “And they can have the damned dress, the troll toothed shoes too.”

  “Viking shoes. Oh fortunate them.”

  “Start doing it now.”

  “So Snotra can tear my eyes out?” Her face was set in the blandest lines. “You know? I think not.”

  “Well I do.”

  His breath tore. Freya’s wig, what was wrong with him? That this Saxon serpent had him on the verge of smacking her off the mattress and silencing those pouting carmine lips of hers with his own? Seeing just how much of her boredom was feigned? He never lost control like this but he was helpless in the candlelight.

  He couldn’t kiss her because he wasn’t going to stop at a kiss, was he? Not the way his heart hammered in his chest and his breath tore in his lungs and she lay there stiff as a hearth poker, yet somehow completely inviting. Actually he could kiss her. The warmth that licked into his bones like a lazy flame was too hot to ignore.

  “She touches you, sweeting, and I swear it will be the last thing she does here. Now . . .”

  He lowered his head.

  “Hmmmm. Hmmm. Hmmmmmmmmmmmm.”

  He froze. A noise had risen from her parted lips. Not a very great one. In fact so damned awful, he wondered if he might conceivably have been better fetching a seal up here. Pardon him but she had said England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland when it came to what she could moan for? And what the hell was she playing at doing it now for, when he was fired up enough to kiss her? Afraid of Snotra? This wench? Reindeers would fly around the Raven first, using their antlers as wings. Didn’t she want him to kiss her?

  She broke off. “What, Drottin?”

  He looked away. The faintest semi-rueful smile cinched his lips as she continued. Whatever had changed her mind, it was probably as well.

  Only now that noise assaulted his eardrums, he’d never wanted anything so much.

  That was for her to stop.

  “So? How was it then? How did you get on with his lordship last night?”

  As she stood in the far corner of the yard, scattering grain from the bag that hung from her shoulder, Malice could barely bring herself to glance round. But, Gentle was persistent. All morning she’d hung about, when Malice came down to the breakfast table, when Snotra sent her out here. Feed hens when he’d promised her shoes? The cheek of it.

  “You certainly made enough noise to waken the dead.”

  Malice drew a deep breath, filling her lungs with warm, sea-sprayed air. Yes. And then was told to shut up. In no uncertain terms. At least there were consolations in only being wanted to make a noise. At least she had been allowed to occupy the bit of the bed between him and the wall, although she was uncertain she wanted to occupy that bit. The space was cramped and it meant being horribly aware of him lying inches from her all night in a darkness occupied by hot, unbreathable air and snores, snorts, sighs and creaks from the room below. Of course she had done her best to wriggle away and he had decorously presented his back. It had still been a scarifying experience. The soft mattress, the shut doors. Herself lying ram-rod straight till dawn.

  Imagine? He didn’t want her. Just like Cyril. So now she stood beneath a baking sun, feeling no mercy in its rays. Probably developing eye-strain and a squint in fact. What was wrong that men didn’t want her? They wanted only the fairy-tale princess? Snotra? Lady Grace? These damned whores? Was she so utterly repulsive? Was that it? She threw another handful of grain. “Some things are private.”

  “Private?” Gentle chuckled. “Try telling that to them folks in that cottage over there. They don’t look like they slept a wink.”

  Malice dug her hand in the grain sack. Mortifying. And for what? This scratchy grey skirt he’d found for her this morning, out of that same trunk that had held the nightdress. The skirt he’d told her to wear with her own bodice. After he’d promised her shoes. Well, he had hadn’t he? And look at what was on her feet. Shapeless, leather sacks.

  Not that she wanted his shoes. Oh, all right, there was the second when she had considered them. A lie to deny it. But as they would in no way resemble anything Madam Faro had on offer, why on earth would she trade her desire to go back to England, for them?

  As for threatening her—if she wouldn’t moan he’d get someone who would—how damned dare he, threaten her, Malice Mallender, owner of Strictly.

  “You!” Snotra. Had Malice really thought last night when he spread out in the bed beside her she could feel no more indignant, that things could get no worse? “Yes, you, the fat troll there . . . Get back to work. I did not send you out here to gossip with her.”

  “Well, I know what I’m good for, unlike some.” Gentle muttered beneath her breath. “Yes, Madam. Sorry, your chiefshit.”

  “And you . . . Yes, you. Come in here with me.”

  You? What did Snotra think she was exactly? A sheep ewe? Malice sighed. This was where Snotra now struck Malice, called her a troll, or otherwise ripped what remained of Malice’s hair from her head, wasn’t it? Malice knew it even as she padded dutifully across the stony yard, that suddenly seemed big as a turnip field, as smelly too, and followed the other woman into the darkened house.

  Malice paused beneath the lintel and peered around, adjusting her eyes to the gloom. No butter being thumped in the churn over there. No carrots being diced on the table. No. Because Malice was about to be thumped in the churn and diced on the table instead.

  For all she felt raw and broken inside by everything that had happened, last night especially, she was not going to cower in her shoes, especially such hideous ones that did nothing for her feet. Wasn’t that men for you? Promise things like shoes and how they would protect each and every hair on your head when they had you in their bed, even if it was just so you would make a noise? Then leave you to face their witch of a betrothed the next morning. To think she’d determined not to make these noises. Then she’d done it. Well, she wouldn’t do it again. She would sooner swallow that butter churn cut into fine pieces and smeared in jam.

  Snotra glided to the far side of the table, large as several doors, positioning herself in front of the window, so the light christened her hair gold.

  “Please. Come. We have got off wrong. I have no wish to be your enemy when we share so very much. Sit down. Drink.”

  Malice swallowed. Did Snotra think she’d never heard of the story of Snow White? The butter churn in tiny pieces? She’d sooner swallow that and the table.

  “Yes.” Snotra reached for the stone flagon. To brain her with? No. Something liquid, something amber, frothed into two roughly carved goblets. “Sinarr and I have been betrothed for many weeks now. And even before that we have been acquainted.”

  Lucky him. Imagine greater happiness existing for any man.

  “Since we were children in fact. That is why I want you to tell me - - what is he like?”

  Like? Snotra’s translucent eyes held no trace of mockery. Like? Well, surely if they had been many years acquainted, she knew what he was like? Gilt hair, iced-blue eyes, dark eyebrows and some very strange ideas, except the spider that crawled across Malice’s senses, the wal
king, talking one, told her that wasn’t quite what Snotra meant. Her heart skipped a beat. A tiny one it bypassed before she could stop it.

  “Like?” She made herself speak. After all, it might be she was mistaken. Many strange things had happened lately. This might simply be one more.

  “Yes. I want you to tell me.” Snotra slid the goblet across the table. Then she eased onto a stool. “I want you to tell me everything. A woman likes to know how to please a man, especially when she is so ignorant.”

  It wasn’t one more strange thing. At least Snotra didn’t say, especially when it is by one who is so ignorant. Wasn’t it bad enough he only wanted Malice to make a noise, to make this pallid-faced crow jealous? Now that same crow expected to hear the details of it? The butter churn, the table? Malice would sooner swallow the stew pot bubbling in the hearth too. She was too raw to do this. Ridiculous when she’d no desire to be a bed slave to feel this way. But there it was. Because she did have a desire for a man to want her. And they never did.

  Snotra patted the stool beside her. “Please. I only want to know what he likes. That mark on your mouth, for example . . . is he rough? Did he want you to—well—you know.”

  Mark on her mouth? What mark on her mouth? Unless it was where he’d clasped it. “Excuse me?”

  “You know. What men sometimes like. And not just sometimes.”

  Did they? Despite having run Strictly, ignorance swamped. Of course Strictly wasn’t in the business of salaciously pleasuring men. Actually neither was she really for all she passed herself off as a retired courtesan. Did she really want Snotra knowing nothing had happened—that he didn’t want Malice? Did she want Snotra laughing her Viking horns off at her? Would it not be better to accept this drink? Look knowing and bold?

  It was a lot better than having chickens peck her to bits. Smelly chickens, she no doubt reeked of, being broiled like a lobster too in the scorching sun. What were a few lies? He’d want Snotra to know of his prowess. Think of the birds she killed with stones here. Think of making herself so useful she got him to drop all that talk about her doing what she was told and made him do as he was told instead.

  She slipped onto the stool. She even managed a sort of smile. Snotra didn’t have a hair out of place. And hers? Well, she didn’t need to look in a mirror to know the wind tearing up the river had played such havoc with it, a bird might think itself at home.

  “Well, he has his demands, yes.”

  “He is a wolf, yes?”

  “A what?”

  “You know . . . .”

  Snotra certainly did. The horse riding parody was grotesque. Malice fought not to hang her jaw open. Wasn’t she meant to know something about this after all?

  “Well, he . . . he . . .”

  She toyed with the rim of the goblet. Then she ran her tongue over her lips. What should she say without giving away the fact she’d no idea when this was her chance? How about that his body was what? Wonderful? Divine? Sculpted like a god’s by the gods? Especially in that second when he’d got in the blue water that matched his eyes, in the bath-house yesterday and such a longing to smooth her hand over it, over his chest, over the hard outline of his buttocks, had flooded. Why on earth had she done the unimaginable and looked at the floor? Was she silly?

  No. This was silly. If she was going to slaver like a madwoman talking about his body, she should stay away from that. What about that little smile that sometimes edged his lips? She parted her own. Could she speak of that? Of how, after he kissed her lips, his very sensuous lips, cinched? And then there was the tang of his breath, the tang of him? No, actually. She couldn’t. She snapped her mouth shut.

  Aware Snotra watched her like a hawk, Malice lifted the goblet and took a sip, trying not to wrinkle her nose at the smell of hops. Plainly the woman wanted something and she needed to come up with that something, or face losing an opportunity so golden, it dazzled. What about his eyes? Sadly she must acknowledge that the eyes touched her where she could not afford to be touched, especially when he fingered his mouth and stared as if to ask God to get him out of here. But really, she could talk of being touched. Would she mind being touched? Being touched by him? Touched in places that someone was needing to touch? To touch right now? With their nice, masculine hands?

  Actually, that feeling of needing out of a place wasn’t just a feeling she understood—how many times had she felt that way in life—it was a feeling she could not afford to acknowledge in this nightmare situation. So perhaps she should stay away from his eyes?

  Paradoxically what she’d finally wanted last night was to stop him kissing her—there was no point denying it, his mouth had been inches from hers all of a sudden.

  Silly, when her indignation at not wanting her had been boundless, she had yet sought that place to hide. So she had made these noises. What she should have done was let him kiss her and then made her silence about it her price for getting back to England. Too late now.

  Snotra leaned forward. Was that a guffaw? Or did a horse snort in Malice’s face?

  “But he knows how to pleasure a woman, without too much trouble. Yes? You made plenty of noise. For the longest time too. I heard you. You see, it is what I look forward to. That and all the babies such a wolf will give me.”

  Malice’s scalp heated. Babies? Precisely what had landed her in this mess. A pity Sin Gudrunsson was so bent on being faithful. What a solving of everything that would be, if she somehow managed to return to Regency England with that proverbial bun in her oven. Knowing her luck though it would probably be born with a blood axe in its hand, have his Nordic cheekbones and deep blue eyes. So perhaps it was for the best.

  Look at the trouble she’d always had because she plainly didn’t resemble her mother and no-one had ever said who her father was. Well, her mother had once. So had Grandmother Brittany. Malice just didn’t know if she believed them. What would her mother be doing with the king of the Hungarian gypsies?

  The manner in which Snotra downed her drink in one and wiped her mouth, showed a different side of her. “You see, these noises you made tell me he will give me enough babies to crew a longship. Is he—”

  Tactfully Snotra left what she meant unfinished although it was clear from her gesture what she wanted to know was if he had a big one. After Malice’s failure to command this situation? She set the goblet down, drew her hands apart.

  “Bigger.”

  Snotra’s eyes bulged. Her mouth opened so wide it nearly swallowed them. “What?”

  Indeed Snotra’s mouth opened so far, Malice thought she’d have no difficulty swallowing something else as well.

  “Yes. You have no idea. And so strong, so powerful with it, what you were doing a moment ago . . . You know.” It was her turn to make the horsy gesture.

  “Then by Freya, Malice, I shall be blessed.” Snotra’s eyes lit with fire. She clasped her hands together. “By all the stars above, I shall be blessed. I knew it.”

  “Oh indeed.” In fact, Snotra seemed so ecstatic, why not continue, in a nice, matey manner? “Now let me tell you about this mark on my—”

  “Do you mind telling me what the hell you’re talking about?”

  A shadow fell across the table. A sort of long, icy one, with a low, deep voice. Malice’s scalp prickled but briefly. Was the man a complete fool? What had he told her to do, so what did he think they were talking about? The size of his longboat? How large his money sack was? It was perfectly obvious what they were talking about. Him, of course and how wonderful he was in bed so she might turn this to her advantage. So him ambling in here like this wasn’t going to stop her. Was it? Even if he did look almost too handsome standing there in a blue tunic to match his eyes, the trousers seeming even tighter than yesterday?

  “Sinarr.”

  Snotra leapt out of the stool and flung her arms around his neck as if th
ey were a fur wrap and he was badly in need of warming.

  “Sinarr, don’t be angry with her. She was telling me all about you, my dearest, my darling. Singing your praises.” Snotra walked her fingertips up his blue-clad chest. “To the skies above at that. Telling me all the things I can expect from you when we are man and wife. You have no idea of the things she said.”

  “Really?”

  Malice rubbed the back of her neck. When she was here where she perhaps should not be, the trick was not to look too assuming, although Snotra’s words about not being angry, raised prickles of annoyance on her skin.

  “Oh yes Sinarr. I cannot wait. When will it be? When? When will you marry me, my darling? This month? Only I do not think I can bear to wait till the one after. Not after what I have just heard.”

  “And what was that?”

  Did he think the beans she had spilt had been the truthful beans about him only wanting her to make a noise? Obviously. Or that strange hard smile wouldn’t play about his mouth as he perused her. The one that was an ocean away from his eyes. Well, she supposed she was many things. But woman who messed up her own nest was not one of them.

  She shrugged. “Oh . . . This and that.”

  “Sinarr, when, when? This week even? Why do we wait when the time has come for us to be together? Hmm?”

  What was going on here? Surely Malice singing his praises to the stars, would have garnered more than that tight huff of breath? Than his face darkening into saturnine lines? His brows knitting and this awkward silence? Snotra’s face was turned imploringly upwards. She clung to him. As if that much registered, he lowered his eyelashes.

  “Well, we’ll see, Snotra. You know how I feel about building my fortune first.”