Lord of Hawkfell Island (16 page)

It was indeed done, and now he would have her, surely an excellent consequence of this marriage.

“I have only one other gown,” Mirana said, fingering the fine cream wool of her overtunic. “This beautiful tunic and gown I will pack in your trunk. I was careful not to stain it.”

“Aye, you were,” he said. “Let me remove the brooches for you. It is one of Asta's gowns, from many years ago. She told me she'd been saving it, for what she didn't know, just that she was far too stout to wear it now.”

“The women have all been more than kind to me.”

“Aye. I didn't understand it. Perhaps someday one of you will explain it to me. But it is good now that you are my wife and their mistress.”

As he unfastened the brooches, Mirana said, “I have no weapons.”

“No, you don't. But I do.”

“I always had my own knife, since I came to Clontarf. Gunleik gave it to me.”

“Ah, the one you used to prick my throat?”

She nodded.

“If you don't wish to use it to torment me or to flay the flesh from me, then what is your reason for having it?”

He laid the brooches on top of his chest, and stepped back to watch her as she eased the tunic down over her hips, stepped out of it, and carefully folded it. He watched her lay it gently in his chest, placing the brooches on top of it.

She straightened then and turned to say very seriously, “It was just a part of what I wore every day, like my gown or my shoes.”

“You're a woman.”

“Aye,” she said, standing very close to him now, her gown very much still in place. “This is very strange, Rorik. Are you certain about the king? Would Einar truly have dishonored me by selling me to him?”

“That is what Kron said.” He waited, wishing she would tell him that her fear of that hadn't pushed her into marriage with him. She said nothing. Well, he'd given her an excellent reason for accepting him, and if it had been her reason, why then, it was his own fault, his own doing. She slipped off her shoes and toed them across the floor until they were lying against the trunk.

She looked up at him then. “Many girls are sold in marriage, their consent unimportant. Perhaps Einar thinks he honors me. The man is, after all, a king. Perhaps—”

“Don't weave a false thread, Mirana. Einar had no more notion of honoring you than would a bear.”

“You're right. If he believed it would honor me, why then, he would have told me, bragged of his negotiations to me, of his brilliance. He kept silent.”

“Enough of your half-brother. There are other things I wish you to consider this night.”

She started to pull off her gown, then stopped. She looked at him straightly. “When you brought me here you stripped down my gown and looked at me. You played with me, but there was no enjoyment, either for you or for me. It was awful. Will you do that again?”

He gave her a fascinated look. He was remembering her breasts, their softness, their weight. “Aye, but it will be different this time. There will be play between us, but it will give you much pleasure.”

She was silent for a long moment, standing motionless. Then she waved her hand about her, toward the bed, toward the clothing trunk that stood at the foot of the box bed. “You have been married before. You had a wife and babes. You know what all this is about. You slept with a woman every night and awoke with her every morning. You must have known her habits and everything else about her. You understand things that I don't yet even comprehend. It makes me nervous, Rorik. It makes me feel as helpless as a warrior who has no weapons.”

He saw Inga in that moment, her hair a rich golden blond, shining as brightly as ripe barley in the bright sunlight. She was frowning at him, her pale blue eyes narrowed fiercely, angry at something he'd done or something he'd said. He couldn't remember. Odd that he would remember a frown and not a smile, but the gods and men knew that life was filled with both. Should he tell Mirana that? They would fight, but they would hopefully find pleasure and joy in each other as well. No, she would discover it for herself. She'd already known rage at him. If he gave her joy with him now, it would balance the scales. And he wanted those scales balanced. He wanted them well tilted.

“What did you say? Oh, you speak of intimacy between a man and a woman. You worry about my
experience and your inexperience. It will not matter in a little while, for we will begin that intimacy right now, Mirana. Come here and I will help you off with that gown. It is lovely and you are lovely wearing it. I do not remember Asta ever being so slender, but I suppose she was when she was a girl.”

Mirana didn't want to be naked in front of him but she didn't see there was a choice. Too, since he'd already had a wife, he knew what was to be done and when it was to be done. She would have to trust him. Once the gown was neatly folded in his trunk, once she stood there wearing only a soft cotton shift, he smiled down at her. “Sit on the bed and I'll free your hair from the ribbons and braids.”

She did as she was bid. His fingers were gentle, and when he splayed his fingers to comb them through the braids, smoothing her hair into loose ripples down her back, she smiled up at him.

“That feels better. My head feels lighter.”

“Now your shift.”

“I would prefer it if you would take off your clothes first, Rorik.”

He grinned at her, stepped back, and stripped off his clothes very very quickly. He stood there naked, letting her look her fill at him. “You've already seen me,” he said, when she remained quiet and staring for a very long time. He began to fidget. Did she find him repellent? He drew himself up straighter. He was a man and his body was very different from hers. He was large and hairy and his rod, swelled now and jutting toward her, might frighten a maid.

“But it is different now,” she said, still staring at his belly and his groin.

“I suppose it is,” he agreed, and kept his arms at his sides, but it was difficult to remain still with her just
looking and looking at him, unmoving. His member swelled more, he couldn't help that, and seeing her looking at him so intently, so very absorbed in what she was seeing, made him only bigger. “Your shift, Mirana,” he said at last.

“Could you please douse the rush light?”

He shook his head. “Nay. A husband has rights. One of them is to see his wife, to see all of her, in every fine detail, to study her and her endowments, so that he will have no questions, no doubts, about his acquisition.”

“Just as you're letting me see if my acquisition pleases me?”

“If you will, though the comparison isn't much to my liking.”

“Nor to mine.”

“Then neither of us will be acquisitive this night,” he said, and walked to the bed. “We will be a man and a woman coming together for the first time. There is magic in that, Mirana, and in the future if we are fortunate.”

“I think it is good fortune that brought you to me,” she said, and held out her arms to her husband.

For an instant, he thought of the misery that had been responsible for bringing him to Clontarf. But that was over now and he wouldn't let the past touch them.

He smiled at her, at his wife.

R
ORIK KNEW WHAT
he should do. She was right, he was a man who'd had his share of women, enjoying them as he trusted they'd enjoyed him as well, and much more than that, he'd had a wife, and she'd been a virgin when they'd first come together, so he should be completely confident in himself. He should know when he should do what and how he should do it and for how long. Aye, this night was the beginning of their life together. He'd spoken smoothly to her; he'd spoken with sincerity, and gently. He was scared to death.

He wasn't ready for it, not for any of it. With all her strength, Mirana was still helpless against him. She knew naught of what was to come. Thus, he thought, he would simply try to enjoy himself and her and hope that she would come to him willingly. He didn't want to hurt her.

He pulled the shift over her head, then took a step back to look at her. He'd seen her naked in the bathing hut, and he'd looked his fill at her then. He'd fondled her breasts, to torment her, to punish her, but not for pleasure, she'd been right about that. But this, by all the gods, this was different. This was his wife and there was no anger in him now, and none, he prayed, in her toward him.

But she was hesitant, she had misgivings about him and his body and what would happen, and he saw it. He would go slowly. That was the only thing he could make his mind comprehend at this moment.

His eyes fell from her face to her breasts to her belly. He was, he realized, staring at her as intensely as she had stared at him. He was the one who knew what would happen so it wasn't well done of him to scare her now by looking at her like a hungry wolf.

“You are very nice,” he said, forcing his eyes back to her face. “You are pleasing to me.”

“Thank you,” she managed. “You are too, Rorik. You're very different from me.”

That made him laugh. He crossed the few feet between them and pulled her into his arms, pressing his hands against her buttocks to bring her firmly against him. “Ah,” he whispered, feeling all of her, and knowing deep inside that it was good, beyond good, and that it was right. His hands came up her back, and he felt the suppleness of her, the narrowness of her waist, as he stroked the soft flesh, feeling the lithe muscles. He hugged her, kissing her ear. Then he took her face between his hands, drawing her up, and he kissed her, very gently, light nipping kisses.

“You feel very strange to me, Rorik,” she said, her breath warm in his mouth and very sweet from the wine she'd drunk. “I like your mouth especially.”

He laughed. “A woman who knows her own mind. That pleases me too. Now, kiss me. That's right, open your mouth and give me your tongue.”

Mirana was glad she didn't hesitate, for the feelings that stormed through her when his tongue touched hers made every uncertain thought flee her mind. She gave herself to him in that moment, gave him herself and her trust, and Rorik felt her acceptance. It amazed
him and astounded him and made him want to fall to his knees and thank Thor and Odin All-Father and especially Frey, who would surely bless their union with many children.

He kissed her, holding her head in his hands, feeling her soft hair, stroking through the deep ripples, and growing harder by the instant.

He pressed against her, never releasing her, until she fell back onto the box bed. He came over her, his knees gently opening her thighs. He came down between her legs, felt her breasts soft against his chest, felt his member pressing hot and hard against her woman's flesh.

He dimly realized that she was lying very still beneath him. He was going too rapidly for her. She was a woman, slower to peak in her desires than a man, and more than that, she was a virgin, untried in the ways of men and women. He forced himself to draw up onto his elbows. He looked down at her breasts, soft and white as her belly, and closed his eyes against the intense pleasure as he pushed himself against her. He felt the warmth of her, the smoothness of her flesh, the lingering softness of her thighs and her belly.

He watched her as she closed her eyes. Very slowly, she pressed upward.

Rorik groaned, fell on her and kissed her until both of them were panting for breath. It shouldn't be possible, but it was. He wanted her so badly, he knew he'd spill his seed if he didn't have her, now, at this very instant. “Mirana, I must have you now. Will you accept me?”

She stared up at him, knowing what he would do, but still just looking at him, at his beautiful eyes that were glazed with his need, at the flush on his cheeks. She stroked her hands down his back to his buttocks.
Very slowly, she opened her thighs wider.

“Aye, Rorik,” she said, nothing more, and he went wild with her acceptance of him, rearing back, pressing her thighs wider apart, and then he was staring at her woman's flesh, his fingers there, parting her, and he was breathing so hard he thought his heart would burst within his chest, but he didn't care, he only wanted to come inside her and stay there until he . . .

“Mirana,” he moaned, and slowly came into her. “By all the gods, it is too much.” Coming into her was more than he'd thought it could possibly be, though what he'd thought, if anything reasonable, he didn't remember. Her warmth, the smallness of her, made gaining entrance difficult and this tightness chaffed his flesh, making him mad with lust, but he held himself in control, going very slowly, now watching her face, seeing her begin to feel the pain he couldn't prevent, seeing her want to pull away from him even though she didn't move, and he tried to draw back just a bit, but she lifted her hips, now biting her lower lip in her pain, but he came in more deeply and he couldn't have pulled out of her had the longhouse been afire.
Slowly,
he repeated to himself over and over, he must go slowly. He mustn't savage her. He finally felt her maidenhead, and he shoved against it, going out of his mind now, lust pounding through him, shoving at him, making him want to thrust deep into her, so deep he would be at her womb and he would feel all of her and
know
her, actually be a part of her for a few precious moments. By the gods, it was impossible not to thrust with all his strength now, to breach that barrier that kept her from him, that kept him from his ultimate knowledge of her. And so he did, throwing his head back, thrusting deep, hearing her cry above the pounding of his heart, above the mad swirling of his blood
throughout his body, hard and driving and hot, and he was deep inside her, pressing frantically against her womb, and he knew he couldn't wait, simply couldn't hold back for another moment, another instant.

She felt him tensing over her and opened her eyes. He was arched back, all his weight on his hands, the muscles bulging and knotting in his arms, and the cords in his throat strong and working wildly, and he was moaning, deep raw moans, and then he was tearing into her and crying out as if he were dying. She felt the wet of his seed then, felt him stiffen with the power of his release.

He almost fell on top of her, but managed at the last moment to keep some of his weight from her. He was breathing heavily, his body sweating and limp against her.

A man's pleasure,
she thought, but didn't begrudge him his short eternity of madness. The pain had lessened, it was nearly nothing now. Only a weak fool would bemoan the discomfort. He wasn't so full inside her now and there was his wetness to ease her. She felt herself begin to relax beneath him, though his weight flattened her into the feather mattress. She lightly touched her palms to his back and his shoulders. She threaded her fingers through his thick hair, and tugged.

He raised his head and looked down at her, his eyes beautiful and quite vague.

“I want you to kiss me,” she said.

He smiled and did. For a very long time. Until she realized that he wasn't inside her any longer, that he seemed oblivious of what he was doing.

She gently shoved at him. He gave her another vague look and rolled onto his side. His arm fell over her belly,
his fingertips lightly stroking her pelvic bone. In the next moment, he was deeply asleep. Mirana moved his arm to his side, then came up on her elbow to stare down at him, this time enjoying her freedom to study him, without him watching her, without him knowing she was looking her fill at him. His member was flaccid, wet from himself and from her, and now nestled in the thick golden hair at his groin. She saw blood on herself and on him and knew it was from the rending of her maidenhead. She felt no fear. She continued to stare at him. Strange that he could change and grow so very much in such a short time.

Lightly, she splayed her palm on his belly. The feeling of the crisp golden hair, the dampness of his flesh, the unconscious clenching of his muscles beneath her fingers, it all delighted her. Very lightly, her fingers touched him, gently encircled him, but when he suddenly moaned, deep in his throat, his hips coming up, she released him. He quieted again.

She leaned down and lightly kissed his mouth. She was quite pleased that she'd married him. This part of it hadn't been so very bad, aye, the kissing she had much enjoyed and, too, his strength. She admired strength. But to have his strength bring her pleasure was beyond what she'd ever imagined. The rest of it was interesting, and she accepted it. She also knew there wouldn't be the rending pain the next time they came together. He had gained much pleasure, of that she had no doubt.

She was glad she had pleased him. She was glad she had pleased him so much he'd fallen off her and dropped into a deep sleep. She'd brought a mighty warrior low with his lust, and she was a female of no experience.

She felt somewhat proud of herself. She'd never before imagined this sort of power a woman could wield over a man. She wondered if it would always be so. She thought of Einar's two mistresses, silly sheep, both of them. She doubted that he thought of them beyond the pleasure they gave him. She doubted they had ever held any power over him.

Mirana looked down at her husband again. She wished he would wake up. She wanted to kiss him again.

 

When she woke again, Mirana was sprawled on her back, her legs spread, and he was between them, staring down at himself and at her, as he pushed inside her. The sleeping chamber was dim with early morning light. She stared up at him, not understanding for a moment, then she realized that he was scarcely awake himself, his eyes closed, his body full on her now, his sex hard inside her, moving in and out, until before she even had a chance of bringing his head down so she could kiss him, he was arching, his head thrown back, and his seed was deep inside her once again. Nothing more than that and it was done. So little warning, no kisses at all, just him over her, deep inside her, and it was done.

She frowned, tightening her hands on his shoulders.

He awoke completely from one instant to the next. He stared down at himself, now pulling out of her body, feeling the profound lethargy that followed release. Then he looked at his wife, saw her frowning in confusion, and shook his head at himself, trying to clear away the sleep from his mind, the pleasant dreams that had brought him to take her again, trying to understand the pleasure that had been so intense he'd lost himself completely in it and failed her of course,
falling asleep like a dolt. And now he'd done it again, not even fully awake, he'd come into her. He'd never done that in his life.

He'd taken her again without giving her anything in return. It wasn't well done of him.

Rorik swung over to the side of the bed. He stood and stretched. He saw the wet of his seed on his member and her virgin's blood. He said, “I hurt you last night and I'm sorry for it. Did I hurt you again now?”

He had, but not that much. “I was asleep,” she said. “You woke me but then you were through with me. It seems to be a very fast thing, Rorik. Is it always so speedily accomplished?”

“Nay. I'm sorry for it. It was strange. A man normally knows what he is doing, enjoys looking forward to doing it, for it involves all of him, not just his sex. Nay, a good man, one with control and experience, can pleasure his wife for hours, not just the minutes I gave to myself. Come, let's go to the bathing hut. I'll bathe you and you can steam away the soreness.”

Even as she lay on her back on the warm oak bench, sweating in the steam-filled hut, she knew he wanted her yet again, for his sex was jutting outward, and he seemed in pain, the flesh of his cheekbones drawn tight, but he was controlling himself. He'd even moved to the other side of the chamber, and lay there on his belly, not looking at her.

When he caught her by surprise, dumping a bucket of cold water on her, she bounded up, shrieking, then laughing, for it felt wonderful. She returned the favor, and he yelled just as loudly as she had, shaking himself like a mongrel.

Asta had prepared porridge for breakfast. Entti had made fresh bread. Utta had churned butter. Erna was spinning, using only her one whole arm, her motions
smooth and graceful. Kerzog had slept atop Raki the entire night, snoring in his face, and Erna had just laughed and bade her husband not to complain, for he was the only warrior strong enough to bear Kerzog's weight.

All this was told to Mirana by Old Alna the moment she and Rorik stepped out of the bathing hut. All the men were still within, waiting, it seemed, for Lord Rorik to show himself. Thus, when Rorik and Mirana came into the longhouse from their bath, there was a moment of silence, then knowing looks and some laughter, and more of the seemingly endless advice.