THE VIKING AND THE COURTESAN

by Shehanne Moore

  “I’m sorry, Sin.” Ari folded his arms. “My advice is to throw the damned—”

  “If I want your advice I’ll ask for it. Now, these good men are asking for a sacrifice. This is it. She’s my slave, isn’t she?” He caught her jabbing elbow. “Hand me that whip.”

  Silence fell as completely as if someone in that howling sea of faces had thrown a blanket over them. As if the boat had sunk washing them all away. A simple pulling of a plug and they’d gone and everything was fine. Except it wasn’t fine. She was like a stopped clock, unable to even tick for what raked her scalp.

  He pushed her against the prow. Haggersly Hall. At least Cyril, for all his faults, had never taken a whip to her. Anyway, she did not belong in this world with savages like these. A kiss was all it would take. Of course it couldn’t just be any old kiss. There would have to be some modicum of passion.

  She turned her head and found his eyes primed on her like pistols.

  “Let me save you the trouble of trying to worm your way out of this, sweeting.”

  “Me?”

  God, in that boiling heaven above, did he know what she was thinking? There was a cold glitter in his eyes and his voice was a grit.

  “Your dress.”

  “What about my dress?” She asked hopefully.

  “Lower it.”

  She would sooner swallow the Raven, the sea that boiled around it in heaving waves. How could she possibly expose herself here? For a start there was that stupid piece of padding. What if that fell on the deck?

  How the blazes was she going to explain to him it was the baby she wasn’t having with her husband?

  “If you will just not stand there like this, I will consider it.”

  “And I will consider feeding you piece by piece to the sea serpents if you make one wrong move.”

  Well, at least she knew where she stood. To think she had once believed that if you slept with a man, they liked you afterwards.

  “I said the dress. Unfasten it. Now.”

  Over Aunt Carter’s dead body and her missing teapot. Over everything including her own stupidity a second ago. If she refused though what was he going to do? Rip the dress off her? That would certainly be interesting when it was plain he could not take his eyes off it. “I must protest. This is my dress and I am not, for all the coal in Newcastle . . .”

  “Ari. Draw the sail.”

  Unfastening it for anyone, neither are you, was what she’d been about to say but he cut through that. Certainly the plan had merits when her desire was to get back to Haggersly Hall.

  “I don’t want the men looking at a witch. It’s been bad enough I’ve had to do that. Believe me, it’s not a pretty sight.”

  She jerked her chin higher, trying to swallow her burning ire. Why give him her hurt, her pain? He already had enough of her really, standing there with his hair plastered to his forehead, his eyes suddenly haunting the deck and, after all, she had never been pretty.

  Although, in reality, no more than a moment passed, an eternity dragged while the sail was draped and they stood in the privacy of the small, triangular space it created.

  “Now.” His eyes, like pieces of scorched earth, returned to her. “The dress.”

  She would sooner swallow the sail. Unless he had created this small, triangular space for a reason? And all this talk of whips was to appease the men?

  “Malice, I don’t have all night. I told you what the punishment was for a disobedient slave. You ran away. And then, as if that’s not bad enough . . .”

  He reached towards her. His fingers grasped the shoulder of her gown, then they gripped the back. They gripped the back because he’d propelled her around. Salty timber grazed her cheek.

  “The dress . . .”

  “Yes.” She swallowed a gulp, undid the ribbon beneath her breasts. “I am going to take it off. If you will just . . . just give me a moment . . .”

  She was left grasping the very end of the ribbon as he fisted the back of the bodice. He paused and horrible expectation lathered her skin, stood in her armpits, ran down her spine. The horrible expectation was replaced by stinging cold air. Her shoulders were being exposed, weren’t they? Her breath tore. And not just her shoulders. Rivulets of icy rain trickled down her back. When he hit her would that make it worse, or better, for him?

  His fingers marked out his territory. Left shoulder blade. Right. Measured. Methodical. If he was going to do it, would he do it so she did not cling to her bodice ribbons like this? Her cheek pressed to the rough wood? Tiny bubbles of air rising in her throat, sticking there, bursting, when she most needed to put her chin up? He wanted to heighten her fear. And he wanted to touch her. Was that why he leaned right up against her, so his breath fanned her cheek and contrary to everything her heart gave the stupidest flutter. Actually, was she mistaken about the dress? Did it infuriate him because he hadn’t given her it? Because he was wondering how she’d come by this very different to anything in his time, piece of satin and lace, that exposed a fair bit of her cleavage?

  “I’m going to hit you, Malice.” His voice was so low. The miracle was she heard it, above the howling wind and the storm raging in her heart. Now that she did, she wasn’t surprised it was quietly furious. “So you better make a noise. A good one.”

  Her throat contracted. Her shoulders tensed. Not this time. Not for anything. The tea in Aunt Carter’s teapot she didn’t possess. The tea neither. She bit her tongue. Anything to smother the noise that rose from the pit of her chest. His footsteps sounded behind her, stepping back. She braced. Any minute. Any minute now . . .

  Wood sizzled right beside her.

  “Troll’s teeth, Malice, do it.”

  What? Another crack. Another miss.

  “Make a noise.”

  Dear God. Really? Her eyes widened. Her heart stuttered. Why had he asked her to bare her back so she stood shivering in the freezing cold, if he hadn’t meant to hit it? He didn’t want to see her half naked did he? And if he did, could she turn around? Could she kiss him? Because really it was what was left to her, all that was now.

  “Do it, or I’ll have to hit you.” His voice growled so close to her ear, it resonated at the foot of her spine. “It’s not as if you’re exactly noted for shutting up.”

  Or had he had a change of heart? When? Why?

  “Yes.”

  She parted her lips. What was that crack, louder than any whip, or scream of hers? That shouting that didn’t come from her lips? Her body tensed. Even as it did the pitch of the deck beneath her feet left her hanging in midair for one horrible second. She did scream. She screamed louder than she’d ever screamed in her whole, entire life. Not only had the ship pitched, now it spun as a giant wave rose like a fist and crashed into the side. How many times had she read it in Aunt Carter’s book? The lightness of the boats meant they weren’t destined to withstand such a pounding.

  “Malice . . .”

  No. She wasn’t spinning, going back, back to where she belonged. If only she was.

  That was his voice still. But the roll of the ship was so sudden, the creak and spilt of timbers, so deafening, she lost her balance. Icy water knifed her flesh, a thousand cuts that dragged her down so the air left her lungs in a swoosh. She saw it bubbling from her mouth. To break the surface, when it was something she’d never done, was impossible. She flailed her arms and sunk lower.

  “Malice . . .”

  She couldn’t answer him either. She tried and all that happened was that a ton of water, bitter, freezing seared all the way to her lungs. Her nose, her ears filled. Swallow the ocean? It was what she was doing.

  In God’s name, why hadn’t she kissed him? He had dived into the foaming black water. It wasn’t going to make any difference to her. Now she was going to die.

  Chapter 12
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  “Thor’s toes. Stop trying to drown me, will you?”

  Why hadn’t he beaten her when he had the chance? The men were absolutely right. A witch? They had sailed into that storm and done their best to row their way out of it again. Was it co-incidence that within minutes of her materializing out of thin air the Raven had, sunk clean from under them? And now, not content with that, she was trying her best to drown him. Well, he wouldn’t be so soft again. The next chance the gods gave him, he wasn’t sparing the stick.

  Provided there was one. Provided she didn’t drown him first. In water so perishing damned icy, every bit of him chattered, bits he didn’t know he had. And, as if that wasn’t bad enough, that there wasn’t an inch of skin his clothes weren’t welded to, he had a ton weight around his neck. A shrieking, kicking weight. He swore again and tried threshing on through the foaming waves.

  “You should be so unlucky after you nearly hit me with that whip.”

  “Hit you?”

  Actually he probably wasn’t going to have hit her. He might as well face it, although her leaving after they’d spent the night together was an affront to his pride. Was he so useless at bedding a woman they’d sooner run away?

  “Help me. I’m going to drown. I can’t . . . I can’t swim,”

  “Will you shut up?” He tightened his arm around her water logged waist. “I heard you the first Frigga damned time.”

  Snotra now . . . Snotra preferred anything to him. As for this damned witch who had his skull in a headlock, one night had obviously been enough. And still, all he could think of was how damned fetching she’d looked after he’d got over his shock and fury at seeing her on that deck. So much so one thought filled his mind after the sail was drawn. How the hell was he meant to hurt that, despite what she’d done? Anyway he’d never hurt a woman physically.

  “Put your feet down, damn you for an underwater troll.” Cursed at them maybe, but never that.

  “I’ll drown.”

  “Not in twelve inches of water you won’t.”

  “I—”

  “And where did you get that dress?” A stupid thing to ask with ice-cold water swirling round his knees and his boots sinking so deep into the sludge, he could barely yank them free but that dress was worse than that bodice she’d had on under the tunic. It had clung to every inch of her, outlining her swelling breasts, her slender waist and the material was like chilled stars. No Viking woman possessed a dress like that. No Saxon woman either. It made his balls itch. It would make any man’s balls itch. He swore again and dragged harder.

  “Did he give it to you?”

  She sank down.

  “He?”

  “You know damn fine who.”

  “This is my dress. I bought it.”

  His feet sank further into the muddy sand, so far down he almost toppled on top of her where she sprawled on her hands and knees. Using his last ounce of strength he hooked his arm around her waist. “Your dress?” He dragged her back to her feet. “Well, I’ve news for you seeing as I own you—”

  “You put a finger on my dress and I’ll scream. After all, you were a slave yourself.”

  Her voice was a shriek above the tearing gale plucking at his tunic, the water spraying his face. She thudded away from him on the soaking sand and bent down. Even with her hair all over her face in the moonlight and her chest rising and falling, she was pretty. In fact she was especially pretty with her chest heaving.

  “My . . . my . . . bustle.” She tore some strange length of material that was caught around her knees. Then she sank to the sand. “But I m-mean it.”

  “Well, you may scream, Malice, but there’s not a lot of people going to hear you.”

  The only thing he could think about wasn’t just kissing her. How the hell could he want that right now? All right, he was a man and men did want things like that—he certainly did anyway—but when she’d left him? Damned to it all as he was, the woman was sensuous as hell. She had no idea of her effect on a man. By degrees and inches he’d tried holding her off. Threats. Collars. She infuriated him. By degrees and inches, he’d failed.

  Maybe it was the fact they’d been pitched off the ship, the fact he couldn’t hear a thing above the pounding waves, the fact they could be in hell, that she’d said these damnable words about him being a slave, for that matter, but his groin throbbed with painful longing. He’d never wanted anything so much.

  Any woman certainly. Everything else, gold, food, clothes, slaves, position—the things he lost himself in, because yes, he had once worn that collar to get his mother the money to go to Juggesland, didn’t matter a damn. Snotra didn’t matter a damn. Always Miss Perfect Hearth Goddess. Never a hair out of place. Whereas this damned business owning hussy with her stark white face and eyes like midnight pools, those lips with hair plastered to them, sent desire raging through his blood.

  He couldn’t let it. Hadn’t he been happy she’d cleared off to wherever the hell she’d cleared off to? Yes. Because it got him off the hook with Snotra. He might as well face it. With her gone, his choice was clear. The fact was he never should have allowed what overwhelmed him that night to do that.

  He hooked his arm around her panting figure to drag her to her feet. She didn’t lift. Except her head. Odin in places he never should have been, those damned lips of hers, raven hair fronds covering them, those lips were so succulent, his own were on them before he could stop himself. Nor did he want to. The tang of sea water on her mouth was delicious.

  Everything he’d loved since he could remember. He thrust his tongue further wanting to taste more. His whole body electrified with currents. If he didn’t have her he was going to embarrass himself. He wasn’t going to embarrass himself. But it wasn’t just that. Her fingers tangled in his hair. If she didn’t want him, want him as perhaps no woman ever really had, why would they do that?

  The moan wasn’t a refusal. Her turquoise eyes, haunting beneath the fine brows looked into his. Was it possible her need was as great? The thought increased his. He might be marooned here for long enough. He might never see Snotra again. Who gave a troll toothed toss about Snotra anyway? This was what he knew and this drove him on.

  He reached down, grasped her skirt, the material so wet he could have wrung drips from it. Delicious. As for her lips, her fingers tugging at his belt, even as he brought his lips back on hers, they drugged and beguiled. But most of all, they drove him. Of all the women he’d had, he couldn’t think of one who did this to him. Cost him his restraint. Made him just want to have her at any cost. He had to be inside her whatever the insanity.

  The frantic fumbling, the way her fingers tugged his clothes, yanking his tunic free of his breeches, then working inside the tight waist, drove him to the edge. Her skirt was around her hips so his hand clasped naked thigh. She hooked her leg over his hip. He hoped she was ready for him because he couldn’t hold off. Heart, blood, breath pounded. So did he. Her eyes stared with a wantonness, a desperation, that increased his. Although she was cold and shivering he had never known a woman so hot.

  As she took him full length, his breath clogged the back of his throat. Forget the finding shelter, the getting dried, forget everything—this abandon was all he wanted. One that drove the last particle of air from his lungs and all conscious thought from his mind. The wind, the rain could obliterate them both. This night, and her was all that mattered. And he really didn’t care as he rode that wave if he went to hell at the end of it. After all, it wasn’t any place he hadn’t already been.

  “Loki’s lips.”

  Malice flicked an eye open, no mean feat when everything was filmy and she felt as if she balanced the world on her eyelid and the other was full of sand. Then she opened her mouth, drier than a skeleton’s thigh bone. As she leapt to her feet, no doubt broken in several places and pounded along the beach despite that f
act, she also opened her mouth. Opened her mouth and screeched. Screeched to match him pounding through the sand diagonally across from her. God in the sunlit sky above, why not?

  She paused. And what was this? Where were the things that would bring her solace, not just in this terrible, shocking situation in which she found herself, but when she returned to London, for God’s sake? Where were the only things to make life worth living? Her shoes?

  “Believe me.” Dear God, not just a slut, not just a slut who couldn’t contain herself, a slut with no shoes. “This is every bit as odious to me as it is to you.”

  “Finally we agree on something, sweeting.”

  Agree?

  She clenched her fists. “Why am I not with Cyril? Well?” As if she cared. All she knew was if this worked the way she thought it did, she could not possibly be here, marooned on a beach with a man who didn’t want her. “I’m meant to be back with Cyril.”

  “Syrl?” His jaw was hard enough to make mountains look soft. “Who the hell is Syrl? That damned husband of yours?”

  “Yes. Who you took me away from, you slave owning dog.”

  “What? You mean some snaggle-toothed Saxon dog who doesn’t know how to futter a woman? Pardon me for not sailing the Raven into his harbour, sweeting.”

  Futter? She fought to stop her jaw dropping. Was she correct about what he meant, standing there like that with that horribly attractive stubble beading his jaw, his eyes like knowing ice-picks and a smile that wasn’t, curving his lips?

  “Because wherever you learned to be a woman, Malice, it wasn’t from him.”

  She nearly sank to the ground. It just must be that the thought she was saying goodbye had increased her ardour last night. It might be she hadn’t even been saying goodbye. The fact was she’d woken up on this alien stretch of sand instead of the bedroom at Haggersly Hall with a man whose voice left finger-marks on the base of her spine. “How would you know?”