Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 04] (25 page)

What does it mean?

It was probably the kiss. Just because she’d succumbed to a wave of sentimentality…just because she’d waxed under the beauty of Dragonstead and imagined how her life at Graycote could be without her brothers’ interference…just because she’d allowed the lout one kiss…or two…or five…that melted her bones and caused her eyeballs to go up into her head like a mad woman…well, now he must think she’d developed round heels and was anxious to leap into the bed furs with him.

Hah!

Well, he may think himself the mighty hunter and me just small game in the sights of his bow, but I do not intend to be any man’s victim. Not anymore.

She slammed her tray of stuffed pigeons on a table, causing one soldier to jump and spill his ale. Then, walk
ing to the side of the hall, she made direct eye contact with the watching Tykir, jerked her head to the right repeatedly, indicating she wanted him to follow her into the corridor leading to the storerooms.

Tykir put his cup down and frowned as if he did not understand. Well, mayhap she did appear as if she had developed a neck tic. So she tried crooking her forefinger at him.

He grinned.

Lord, spare me from a man with an overblown conceit. He must think I am inviting him for some lascivious play. If he thought she was going to let him kiss her again, she would clear his head in that regard, quickly.

She continued to crook her finger.

Tykir stood so abruptly he knocked his chair over. Which caused Adam and Rurik, sitting on either side of him, to notice the target of Tykir’s attention. Understanding—or rather, misunderstanding—immediately, Adam smiled and gave her a little salute, while Rurik looked as if he’d swallowed a pigeon whole.

Red-faced, Alinor scooted down the hallway toward the food storage rooms, Tykir following. When she glanced over her shoulder, Alinor saw that the lout was staring at her backside.

Oh, Lord! This is not going to be easy.

She clucked her tongue in disgust, a sound that usually annoyed him. Now he just grinned.

Oh, Lord! This is not going to be easy.

She was just about to set him straight on a few important facts when he stepped up close to her, forcing her back against the wall. The smells of smoked meats, honey, fresh ground flour and spices surrounded them. Without warning, he asked, “Wouldst thou like to visit the bathing house with me?”

“Huh?”

He stepped even closer, so that his chest, under his heavy woolen tunic, touched her breasts, under her heavy woolen gown. But it was as if they wore nothing at all, the way her breasts swelled and her nipples peaked. She’d never felt that way before, except maybe in the days just before her monthly flux. Never in the presence of a man.

“Wouldst thou like to visit the bathing house with me?” he repeated.

“Why?”

“To bathe.” His eyes danced mischievously at some secret he was not sharing with her.

“Together?”

He laughed aloud then.

She was not so naive that she did not understand the lecherous lout’s intent. Scooting under an outstretched arm that was aimed, unbelievably, for one of her breasts, she folded her arms across her chest, tapped a foot impatiently and said in the sternest voice she could muster, which was really difficult when her breasts were throbbing under her forearms, “I did not beckon you here to satisfy your lewd inclinations.”

“You didn’t?” He folded his arms across his chest, too, and leaned against the wall. Lazily. Like a wild beast stalking his mark, biding his time to ambush his unsuspecting victim. Well, she was not unsuspecting.

“Nay, I called you here because I could see by your manner that you suffer from a misunderstanding.”

“Me?” he said with exaggerated horror, eyebrows lifted dramatically.

“I let you kiss me this afternoon because—”

“Forgive the interruption, my lady. A small clarification is called for here. Methought you were kissing me back.”

“Well, be that as it may, what I am trying to say is that
you should not put too much meaning into a mere kiss.”

“Mere? There was nothing
mere
about the enthusiasm of your lips pressing on mine. There was nothing
mere
about the feel of your tongue in my mouth. There was nothing
mere
about—”

“Enough!” She stamped her foot on the stone floor. “You are deliberately teasing me when I am trying to be serious.”

“’Tis hard to be serious when I am thinking of you naked,” he said ruefully.

She followed the direction of his stare and saw that even under the heavy fabric of her bodice the outline of her distended nipples was evident. She moaned softly, then caught herself.

“God, I love it when you moan. Wouldst thou do it again?”

“You’re impossible.”

“Please.”

“Listen to me, and listen well, you thick-headed fool. The kiss”—she saw that he was going to correct her—“the
kisses
were nice, but that is the end of it.”

“Nice? You call my kisses
nice?”
He raised his chin with consternation, causing the light from the kitchen fire in the next room to glitter on his long golden hair, which was braided off to one side. “I am deeply offended. Come here, my lady, and let me try again. I promise you, this time I will do better than nice.”

She put her hands out, barring his approach. “Stop harping on irrelevant details, Viking.”

“I do not consider
nice
kissing irrelevant. A milksop gives nice kisses. A mother gives nice kisses. A lover does not give nice kisses, that I know for a certainty.”

“You are not my lover,” she declared hotly.

“Nay, I am not,” he said. “Yet.”

“Wake up, witchling,” a voice said cheerily the next morning.

Alinor burrowed deeper into her bed furs. Girta probably wanted her to help with the soap making she’d planned for today. Apparently, it took a massive amount of soap to keep these huge Vikings clean.

“’Tis time for all slug-a-beds to be up and about,” the voice continued with maddening brightness. The
male
voice.

’Tis Tykir the Troll.

He must be up to some mischief to address me in such a syrupy tone. Either that, or he wants some favor of me. Well, he can’t have it…no matter what it may be.

Then another alarming fact crept into her sleepy head.
Good Lord! Is it possible the troll is actually blowing in my ear?

Alinor’s eyes shot wide open to see a cleanly shaven,
freshly bathed Tykir leaning over her. His shiny hair, almost dry, stood out in a halo of burnished gold about his head, down to his wide shoulders, which were covered in a newly laundered tunic.
God, what a sight to awaken to! St. Michael the Archangel couldn’t look any better! Or Lucifer on a mission of devilment.

“Go away!” she said, and pulled the bed furs up to her chin, wondering how long the man had been watching her. The room was chill, the fire in the small hearth having burned down to embers. Thank the Lord she had decided to wear a linen chemise to bed, or the lout would have gotten more of a view of her endowments—or lack of endowments—than he’d wagered for.

Or was that what he’d intended?

Alinor shuffled to a sitting position, maintaining her full coverage of bed furs. She’d been sleeping soundly in a small bedchamber on the second floor of the keep. She usually awakened at dawn, by habit, especially with the roosters crowing their wakeup calls—but all the roosters seemed to have disappeared or been hidden away at Dragonstead. Besides, she hadn’t been able to sleep much last night after all of Tykir’s sexual teasing. As she yawned now, she realized that it was much later than usual…mayhap even late morning. It was hard to tell with the way Norway lost its sun for most of the winter hours.

“What are you doing up so early? And in my bedchamber?” she grumbled.

“We have a big day ahead of us.”

“
We?
” Alinor’s sleepy head suddenly became unsleepy.

“Yea,
we.
” He chuckled. “Now, get up, Alinor. Time is a-wasting.”

“What? You are going to help me and Girta make soap?”

He laughed, an ominous, deep-throated sound of mirth.

If she were a loose woman, inclined toward men with deep-throated, sensual laughs, she might be feeling a little tingle in the pit of her stomach now. Good thing she was far from loose. In fact, suddenly she was coiled tighter than a seaman’s rope.

“Nay, we will be making something, but it won’t be soap.”

“Stop talking in riddles. I am tired to death of your constant teasing. And, frankly, whilst on the subject of teasing, I do not much appreciate your slick kisses either.”

“Methinks slick is good when it comes to kissing. And you seemed to appreciate my kisses yestereve in the corridor and out in the snow, and back in Hedeby.” He tapped his chin pensively. “Or was it some other wench licking my back teeth?”

“You are unchivalrous to remind me of my slips in sanity, but I will tell you—”

“Slips in sanity?” he hooted. “That is the first time I have heard arousal termed thus.”

“Arousal? Ooooh, now you have gone too far. I was merely…um, curious. Yea, I was curious as to what all the fuss is regarding kissing. Maids and young men do make much ado about what amounts to naught, in my opinion. But now that I know, I have decided that I want no more.”

“Oh-ho!
You
have decided? Be forewarned, my lady, there will be more kisses in your life. And you will like them, too.”

Alinor inhaled and exhaled deeply for patience. “Listen, I am not such a muddlehead that I do not understand what this is all about. You have been insinuating for some time that you intend to punish me. It is apparent to me that your form of punishment involves coupling. Well, let us
make a bargain then. I will lay back and spread my legs for you, and by the time I am done saying my Pater Noster, you will be done rutting and I can be about my soap-making chores.”

He went slack-jawed at her offer. Most men were unaccustomed to women being straightforward with them.

“What say you? Is it a bargain?” she asked. “Then can I expect a halt to the veiled innuendos and sly threats?”

He snapped his mouth shut. “Alinor, Alinor. What an innocent you are for such a long-in-the-tooth female! When we make love, you will be too involved to be saying your prayers. And I guarantee it will last more than a few moments.” He flipped the bed furs aside and prepared to drag her from the bed.

“Wait! Tell me what it is you want from me. What is all this gibberish about?”

“Your punishment,” he said and lifted her by the waist from the mattress, setting her on her feet.

She scrunched up her bare toes against the cold of the rush-covered floor. “There you go again with that punishment nonsense.”

“’Tis necessary, Alinor. Your discipline has been put off far too long…first due to our trip to Norway, then to my illness.”

“Why is it necessary?”

“A man must be a man in his own house and before his followers. You poisoned me, woman. My soldiers, even my cotters and house carls, will not respect me if I let you go without punishment.”

“That’s absurd. Dost not matter that
you
kidnapped
me
with no good cause…that I helped minister to you in your sickness?”

“Yea, it does. That is why you will not taste the lash.
Nor die. But…” His words trailed off, and he studied her, as if weighing how much to reveal.

“But?” she prodded.

“But you must become my slave until that time when I release you to go home to Northumbria.”

“Slave?” She was astonished. “You would have me scrub your floors and launder your clothing and carry firewood and such? I already do my fair share.”

“Not
that
kind of slave.” He grinned and leaned an elbow lazily against the mantel. Then he just stared at her, grinning.

“Well, are you going to share the jest?” she snapped. “What kind of slave did you have in mind?”

“A love slave.”

Tykir had been holding his hands over his ears for a very long time—at least a minute—but still he was unable to screen out the sound of Alinor’s shrieking. And the names she was calling him…well, a crusty old seaman might appreciate her repertoire of expletives, but he was not impressed.

“Enough!” he shouted finally. In one seamless motion, he picked up the shrew and tossed her over his shoulder like a bag of barley flour.

“Oomph!” she said as he knocked the air from her gullet. Good. Mayhap she would quiet down a bit.

“Where’s that rose hair salve?” he asked, spinning in a circle, with her kicking, flailing body slung upside down, as he scanned the small bedchamber.

“Why?” She was addressing his rump.

“Because I am taking you to the bathhouse, and I want to make sure you slather plenty of that cream on whilst you are bathing. I do favor a sweet-smelling woman.”

She made a low, growling noise that probably indicated
that she did not care what he favored, but what she said was, “I took a bath yesternoon. I do not need to take another this morn.”

“Yea, you do,” he assured her. Having found the cream on a corner shelf, he walked through the open doorway. Meanwhile, Alinor was back to shrieking and struggling. “When will you understand that you have no choice in this matter?”

She continued to struggle.

“If you insist on extreme measures…” he said with an exaggerated sigh, and reached under the hem of her long chemise, clamping a hand on her bare buttocks.

She immediately stilled.

And so did he.

Holy Thor! She was round and smooth and warm to the touch there. He was going to enjoy this “punishment” even more than he’d thought.

“Checking for tails again, Viking?” she remarked sarcastically.

His own overanxious “tail” wilted. Alinor did have a way of cutting off a man’s lust at the quick. “Nay, I’m looking for a place to plant one,” he said with a laugh.

“Put me down. Right this instant. I’m going to put a curse on you. Do you hear?”

“The whole of Trondelag can hear.”

“I mean it. If you don’t let me go, I’ll make your manpart shrivel. I’ll turn your teeth blue. I’ll make hair grow on your rump. I’ll turn all your food stores into chicken broth. I’ll—”

“I thought you said you weren’t a witch.”

“Mayhap I am, and mayhap I’m not. Dost thou want to take that chance?”

He didn’t have to think for more than an instant. “Yea.”

She gasped then, and he looked over his shoulder to see her peering to the side through the open doorway of his bedchamber. “Why are those housemaids cleaning the rushes from your room today? And putting juniper tops in the fresh rushes? That is a springtime chore. And they are putting clean linens on your bed. Today is not Girta’s laundry day. And, blessed Lord, the fire in your hearth is big enough to roast a boar. What are you planning to do in your bedchamber, Viking?”

He could tell by the stiffening of her body that she immediately regretted her question.

“Use your imagination, my lady.” He was already down the stairway, stomping through the great hall toward the bathhouse.

“Where are all the men?” she asked. There were only a handful of his soldiers about and a scattering of servants performing their duties.

“They have gone on a hunting trip, to add to the supply of fresh meat for the winter.”

“Why did you not go?”

“I have more important things to do here at Dragonstead.”

There was blessed silence for a moment as she pondered that news, and he proceeded through the kitchen and into the roofed outdoor passageway leading to the bathhouse. Girta and Bodhil and the other kitchen maids, who had been chattering as they worked to prepare the day’s meals, looked up, their conversations suspended. Then they burst into a giggling fit.

“I’m going to kill you for this humiliation,” Alinor swore.

“I’m shivering in my braies,” he said, dropping her to her feet in the steam chamber, where he already had a strong fire going and the rocks heated to red-hotness.

She glanced about her, then stabbed him with a glare. “How long did you say your men would be gone?”

“Two days,” he said.

And he did not even try to hide his smile.

“I love combing your hair,” Tykir said as she sat on a stool before his bedchamber fire. He sat on a chair behind her, running an ivory comb through the thick strands of her wet waist-length hair.

Alinor rolled her eyes up into her head at his words, which he intended to be seductive. Hah! She was unseducable.

“’Tis a sensual experience, do you not agree?” he continued in a husky voice, unaware of her eyes rolling.

Sensual? Huh?
“Oh, certainly,” she said. Then, “Do you comb women’s hair often?”

He laughed…a low, masculine rumble, which was not entirely unattractive. “Nay, this is a first for me.”

“How fortunate for me,” she remarked drolly.
Next he will want to pare my toenails, and deem it ecstasy.

“You could say I’m a virgin of sorts,” he chortled.

“
Of sorts
being the key words, I presume.”

He rapped her on the shoulder with the comb. “Sarcasm ill becomes you, my lady.” Then he placed one hand on top of her head and with the other hand continued to run the comb ever so slowly down the length of her hair. “Does the hair combing arouse you as much as it does me, witchling?”

This time she did not roll her eyes. Her eyes nigh popped out of her head.

The Viking had gone mad. And he would find a way to blame her for this latest calamity once he came to his senses. Start harping on the witchcraft nonsense again. But
she refused to take responsibility for his present bizarre actions.

Mayhap it was a long life of some pain that had been eating away at his brain. Mayhap it was an excess of lust in his bloodstream. Mayhap it was the fever that had pushed him over the dividing line from sanity to insanity. Mayhap it was just too much damn
gammelost.

Hair combing!
The man had requested that she comb her hair afore the fire in his bedchamber…
naked.
Now, if that was not mad, she did not know what was.

She had refused, of course

To which he had offered a compromise. He would comb her hair for her and she could wear the linen chemise, which was near transparent from the wetness of her recent bath.

Bathing and hair combing as the first installment of a punishment plan? Yea, the man was demented.

Being no fool, she’d acquiesced. After a lifetime of trying to argue with her dunderhead brothers, she knew how to pick her battles and when it was the wiser choice to yield.

Not that she intended to surrender to the brute’s lascivious demands, unquestionably the next step in his punishment plan. Had he not mentioned his outrageous plan to make her his love slave? Blessed St. Beatrice! She was not even certain she knew what being a love slave entailed.

Well, that was not her immediate concern. Nay, she bided her time till the right moment. Then she would make a dash for the door and a hiding place she’d discovered these past few days at Dragonstead. She figured this madness that had overcome Tykir would pass, as surely as his fever had. Then she would be able to negotiate a more just “punishment,” more in the line of reparations. Some logical arguments…a little groveling…a few coins…
mayhap an ell or two of her prized woolen fabrics thrown in for good measure…and everyone would be happy.

She inhaled deeply for patience, screening out the droning sound of Tykir’s chatter—something half-witted about punishment sometimes being sweet—and the surprisingly pleasant rhythm of the comb passing through her drying hair.
Concentrate, Alinor. You must come up with a plan for escape…how to get out of this bedchamber without the big oaf lumbering after you.