Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 05] (17 page)

Aha!
Maire must have been engaged in some ritual or other. Could she have been trying once again to remove his mark? Could it perchance already be gone?

Rushing to the side chest, Rurik picked up her polished brass mirror and checked his face. Immediately, his shoulders slumped with disappointment. The mark remained. Well, either she’d failed once again, or it was another spell she was working on. Hah! If that were the case, no doubt it was a spell to make him disappear.

As he walked about the chamber, blowing out candles to lessen the heat, he glanced toward the bed where Maire slept soundly. Although she wore only a thin shift, he could tell that she must have fallen asleep practically on her feet because she still wore her hose and shoes. In fact, one leg dangled over the edge of the mattress, and there was a brush in her hand. She was snoring softly. Grinning, he made a mental note to remind her of that less-than-feminine
habit. He was sure she would appreciate knowing she made sleep sounds not unlike a snuffling piglet.

She’d better not think she was going to escape him by falling asleep. He fully intended to exact his pound of flesh from her this night. He put a hand to his groin as a reminder of what was to come. He continued to be half hard for the wench, despite having been gone from her presence an hour or more. Perchance it was a lingering effect from Maire’s levitating demonstration.

After he’d finished with the candles, he sat on the edge of the bed on the same side as Maire, and began to remove her shoes and thin hose. It was not that he was being especially considerate of her comfort, he told himself. Nay, ’twas just that he wanted naked flesh next to his when he brought her to orgasm… as he most certainly would, or forever give up his word-fame as a lover. As he began peeling her hose down her legs, which were very long and very well shaped, he imagined where those legs might be when she screamed out her first ecstasy. Wrapped around his waist? Or over his shoulders? Better yet, she could be kneeling on said legs, on all fours, and he could be taking her from behind like a stallion with a mare. That ought to shock the secret of the blue mark from her.

He smiled wickedly to himself at all the possibilities as he resumed undressing her.

He was not touched he told himself, by the numerous darn marks in her stockings, or the blisters at the back of her heels from the heavy, utilitarian brogues that she wore. Leastways, not very much.

With a jaw-cracking yawn, he removed his own
boots, then stood to unbuckle his sword belt. As he yawned again, Rurik walked to the other side of the chamber—it was still sweltering—and dropped one item of apparel after another till he was naked as the day he was born. But not as weak and puny as he was as a babe, Rurik reminded himself, gazing down at the work-honed muscles that defined his abdomen and stomach and arms and thighs. He was in perfect physical condition, and he knew it.
Except for the blue mark
.

Troubling thoughts swirled within Rurik as he eased down onto the mattress. Was there a sickness inside of him that made physical appearance so important? He didn’t judge his friends on how they looked. Far from it. And, although he admired a beautiful woman, he did not consider a flawless form or face to be necessary in a mate. Consider Tykir’s wife, Alinor. She was covered with freckles from head to toe, but in Tykir’s eyes, she was a goddess. And Rurik barely noticed her plainness anymore, either. Nay, it was only himself he was so harsh with. And he knew why. It all stemmed back to his childhood and the mockery and brutality inflicted on him because he was not superior in physical attributes. Rurik recognized it was unreasonable to carry over all these old insecurities, but in some ways he had good reason. He was a man with no family name … no home … though that latter should change soon with his marriage. He had wealth enough, but treasures could be as easily lost as won. Nay, his self-identity was wrapped up in his strength as a warrior and his bodily appeal. In essence, all he had was who he was, physically.

Ah, such deep thoughts when I am so weary
. He shifted restlessly on the bed, trying to ease his aching bones. It had been a long, long day, and this was not an overlarge bed. He had to nestle up against Maire, who faced away from him. A real hardship, that. He smiled with pleasure at the way they fitted together. His still painful left arm rested on the pillow, his right hand cupping a deliciously full breast, his erection cradled dead center in the crease of her buttocks. He tried but was unable to stifle another yawn. He was going to awaken Maire in a moment and show her just how well they fitted together… in all ways. For now, he was gaining immense satisfaction just holding her and anticipating what was to come. Here in the dark, in this moment frozen in time, it mattered not how he looked, or what he had to prove. He was merely a man … with his woman. And it felt so very right.

Just before he floated off to sleep, he heard the oddest sound.

Cackling.

“Oh, Maaiirre.”

Maire came instantly awake at the sound of the male voice crooning hot, breathy words against her ear. In the semidarkness, she sensed it was probably close to dawn, but she knew exactly where she was and who was plastered against her back. With the fingers of one hand playing with her nipple and his “Lance” poking her behind, the toad from Norway was clearly identifiable.

“Oh, Maaiirre.”

Perhaps she could pretend to be asleep.

“I know you’re not asleep, witchling. When you sleep, you snore, and you’re not snoring now.”

I do not snore
, she wanted to tell the brute, but she was still faking slumber, lying motionless, which was a really hard thing to do when he was rolling her nipple between a thumb and forefinger, causing the most peculiar sensations to ripple through her body. And it hardly seemed possible, but his thick male member was growing thicker. She’d like to whack his wicked fingers and his member. Pretending to be asleep was getting harder and harder.

“Guess what, Maire?”

Guessing games now? She could only imagine what silly amusement he was planning, especially with the deviltry that rang in his voice.

“It’s raining,” he announced.

It was not at all what Maire had expected him to say. She hoped someone belowstairs had exercised the foresight to place a few strategic buckets about the great hall where the roof leaked.

“In fact, this storm should prove to be a real fjord-filler … the kind of incessant, hard-driving summer rain that could go on for … oh, let’s say, all day, and perhaps even tonight.”

Maire’s eyelids flew open.

He chuckled. “You do remember, don’t you?”

He couldn ’t possibly mean
…

“I promised that every day I continued to bear your mark, you would bear mine … except mine would be the mark a man makes on a woman in the bed furs. Dost recall my words now, sweetling?”

He did
.

“Methinks you do. I can tell by the stiffness of your
spine. Here is a reminder anyway, just in case you are a mite dull in the head as most women are wont to be in the face of the superior male intellect.”

The man is a dunderhead, pure and simple
.

“I told you that on rainy days, there would be more time to devote to your marking, and we might just spent day and night in bed because I have so much to teach you … so many ways to mark you.”

She shoved aside the hand caressing her breast, sat up, then jumped off the bed. With hands on hips, she glared at him in the dreary half-light. “I have had more than enough of your talk of sex markings and punishments and or-gaz-hims and bed fits and whatnot. If you intend to force me to couple with you, just do the deed and be done. Do not honey-coat it with all these other descriptions.”

He just stared at her, with eyes that she could now see were smoldering, like blue fire. He had changed his position on the bed and lay with his arms folded behind his neck on the pillow, his ankles crossed.

“Well, answer me,” she demanded, stamping her foot.

“Your nipples are hard,” he observed irrelevantly.

She gasped. “They are not.”

He arched a brow. “One of them is. Come here, and let me work the other one to equal arousal.”

“A-rous-al,” she sputtered out and spun on her feet so he could not see her breasts through the thin shift she wore.

“I can see your buttocks, Maire,” he informed her with a laugh. “Very nice, indeed.”

She spun back around, about to tell him what she thought of his perverted observations, but a flash of
lightning cracked, fully illuminating the chamber, and Maire got her first good look at the Viking reclining in all his naked splendor. The man truly was the embodiment of male masculinity, with perfectly proportioned muscles in all the right places … right down to that… that…
thing
standing at attention betwixt his legs. He certainly had been telling no lies lately, as far as she could see.

She caught herself gaping and snapped her mouth shut. “Have you no shame?”

“Nay.”

“Cover yourself.”

“Why?”

“Because you look ridiculous, that’s why.”

“I do not,” he said, but there was a twinge of hurt in his voice. The foolish lout was ever sensitive about his appearance, Maire knew that, but this was carrying vanity too far. She noticed that he turned onto his side, as if to hide himself, because of her criticism. He didn’t droop, though, as some men might.

She turned away from him and tried to get her emotions under control. Maire couldn’t abide the overbearing rogue, but there was a part of him that touched her, too. That was the part she had to protect herself from. She had to.

“Maire,” Rurik said, “come here.”

“Why?” What a half-brained question that was! Really, it was debatable who was the idiot in this room … she or Rurik.

She thought then that he would tell her to come to him so that he could initiate her punishment, or put his male mark on her, or make her have bed fits. She thought he might smirk, or even laugh out loud at
her. But when Maire turned back to the man in her bed, his gaze was stone-cold serious. And he said the worst possible thing to her, considering her vulnerable mood.

“Because,” he told her huskily, beckoning with the long fingers of one hand, “I want, with all my heart, to make love with you.”

Maire moaned.

It was the softest of sounds, accompanied by a whispery exhalation, but Rurik heard it, and he recognized it for what it was … the reluctant arousal of a woman on the edge of surrender. Inwardly, he smiled with satisfaction. He was a master of seduction. The signs were clear. Just the tiniest push and she would be his.

He beckoned her forward with his fingertips in the way of man with woman through the ages. And he gave her his most sultry look as an added incentive … the one involving hooded eyes and flared nostrils. ’Twas a favorite ploy that never failed to tempt even the most proper maids.

Unfortunately, Maire was apparently neither proper nor a maid. Instead of doing his bidding, the stubborn wench took a step backward—
backward!
—away
from the bed where he still reclined, and said, “Rurik, I do not want to make love with you.”

Huh?
Had he read the body signals wrong? Was she not interested in sharing the bed furs with him?
Impossible!
He jumped from the bed and stood directly in front of her before she had a chance to bunk… or run for the door.

He saw a single nervous twitch of her lips, though she immediately masked it by pressing her lips together and raising her chin bravely. She was obviously agitated by his closeness, which had to be a good omen. He would wager great odds that she was, indeed, interested in love play, despite her words to the contrary.

They were so close he could swear he smelled the feminine musk of her excitement. In truth, she was as skittish as a mare in heat… though he did not think she would relish that comparison … leastways, not at this stage of their relationship.

He put a hand to her chin and stroked his thumb across her closed lips. The twitch did not recur, but he could sense her tension at his mere touch.

“Explain yourself, m’lady.” His voice came out husky and low, betraying his own masculine need. His thumb was continuing its caress of her exceedingly luscious mouth.

“I do not want to make love with you,” she repeated.

“Liar!”

She appeared shocked by his accusation, at first. But Maire was at heart an honest woman, and so she amended her statement, “Making love with you is a bad idea.”

Bad idea! ’Tis the best idea I’ve ever had
.

He merely arched a brow in question. But while he waited for her response, he moved his hand from her chin down to her neck and curled his fingers around the nape, under her heavy swath of hair, and drew her closer. As she gazed up at him, he felt her breasts under the thin shift press against his bare chest, and his shaft press into her flat stomach. Sexual awareness swirled between them… and for just a second an overpowering dizziness assailed him. Surely, she felt it, too.

She licked her lips—a gesture so innocently carnal that his member lurched against her belly.

A rush of scarlet stained her cheeks as she perceived what had happened, and what she’d done to provoke it.

She tried to explain her unwillingness to couple with him. “Rurik, I have lain with only two men in my life … you and my husband, Kenneth. Both of you betrayed me in one way or another.” She put a halting hand up to his mouth when he would have contradicted her. He nipped at her fingertips, but permitted her to go on. “I have too many responsibilities now to risk such illicit behavior for my own selfish needs. I need my wits about me, and—”

Ah! Illicit behavior? Selfish needs? So, she does want me
.

“—groveling in self-pity when I am hurt once again could be the undoing of my clan, which needs my full attention.”

“Maire, I misdoubt you have ever groveled a day in your life. And as to being hurt… how can you feel great passion unless you risk pain?” That last
statement sounded pompous even to his own ears.