by Sandra Hill
As if sensing that she could not take much more, Selik skimmed the smooth planes from her breasts to the vee between her thighs. Placing the heel of his palm against the silk brief, with his long fingers between her legs, he pressed once, then again, and again, in rhythm, until her body exploded in a million shattering explosions of the purest, most intense climax she had ever experienced.
When her breathing finally calmed, Rain confessed in a whisper of awe to the man whose face no longer shifted but was Selik, only Selik, “I have been waiting for you all my life. Now I know why I was sent here.”
Selik’s eyes suddenly filled with a fierce longing. “I never expected to see you again, Astrid.”
At first, Rain’s mind refused to register the significance of Selik’s words. But then, through the roaring in her ears, she heard one single word, repeated over and over, echoing through her passion-sluggish brain, “Astrid! Astrid! Astrid!”
His wife.
Selik stood and dropped his loin cloth, supremely confident of his masculinity. He was preparing to join her in the bed furs, to make love to her. No, not her, Rain realized—his wife.
The shimmering glaze in his cloudy gray eyes caught her attention, and she recognized the disorientation, almost like yesterday when she had seen him in the battlefield after his berserk bout of violence.
Oh, no! Rain came instantly awake and quickly realized that this was no dream.
Her eyes skimmed the tent area and saw the reason for his strange behavior. His bloody tunic and sword lay where he had dropped them on the ground, still wet with the life fluid of those he had undoubtedly killed that day. It was bloodlust that drove him to her, not lust for her body. And certainly not love. That was apparently reserved for the wife who held his heart.
She had surrendered completely to Selik’s masterful seduction, yielding all her defenses as she never had before, but he didn’t want her. He had thought she was his wife. Her throat ached with defeat, and she could not speak over her acute sense of loss.
Abruptly, Rain stood and backed away from Selik. Her face flamed hotly with shame over her easy capitulation. Humiliatingly aware of Selik’s scrutiny, she knew the instant that violence and rage replaced his smoldering arousal.
“Is this the kind of game you played with those other men you mentioned yestereve—those of the bad ruttings? Do you turn hot, then cold, with all your men? Or just me? Are you one of those women who enjoy teasing men?”
“No,” she denied, finally finding her voice. “I was sleeping…dreaming. You took advantage of me.”
He snorted rudely, pulling on a pair of loose leggings, and raised an eyebrow mockingly. “Lady, your woman heat practically singed the fine hairs all over my body.”
Rain raised her chin defiantly, never one to fabricate or hide behind false modesty. “You’re right. I did want you. For one moment of insanity. Until I remembered.”
“Remembered what?”
“That you’re married, you cheating bastard,” she snapped, having reached her breaking point. “That you have a wife, Astrid, who’s probably sitting at home somewhere surrounded by a bunch of kids. That you didn’t want to make love with me. You thought I was your wife.”
Rain swiped at the tears that smarted her eyes and turned away, not wanting Selik to witness her further humiliation. “Go away. Just leave me alone.”
A long silence followed, during which Rain heard no rustling of cloth which would indicate that Selik had left the tent. Finally, she turned slightly to see what he was doing.
He stood in the same spot as before, just staring at her in horror. “How do you know about Astrid?”
Selik was confused and disoriented. He had been gone all day. So much blood. And killing. Captives. Screaming. His brain buzzed with the horror of it all, the violence with which he was still not comfortable, even after all these years.
He tunneled the fingers of both hands through his hair and pulled, hard, to clear his head.
The tall blond woman stood before him like a majestic goddess, her golden hair in wild disarray, flowing down her back, over her shoulders, caressing the mounds of her flesh-colored undergarment. And the matching wisp of material that barely concealed her womanhood clearly delineated the gentle curve of her narrow waist and hips and drew the eye to legs that were exceedingly long and comely.
This was not Astrid, his petite wife with her fine bones and dainty, shy ways. No, Astrid had died, and this woman, this messenger from the gods, or so she said, was statuesque, hard-muscled, willful—a woman to stand at a man’s side, not behind his shield. She was magnificent.
“Nay, you are not Astrid,” he said, realizing too late that he had spoken the words aloud.
The hurt which had clouded her beautiful honey eyes turned instantly to outrage. Angrily, she reached down for a tunic of his which lay near her feet, giving him a better view of her enticing breasts as they hung suspended in their lacy cups for a brief moment before she straightened. And he felt his manhood grow harder.
“Don’t look at me like that, you horny toad.”
His mouth snapped shut, and she jerkily pulled the tunic over her head. Without a belt, the short-sleeved wool garment hung to her elbows and down to midcalf. For some odd reason, he liked the idea of her wearing his tunic. Could she smell his scent in the fabric? Did she like the notion of wearing something which had touched his skin as well?
Thor’s Blood! Where do these notions come from? I care naught for this strange wench, or any other.
“I see you’ve been out raping and pillaging again,” she snarled, pointing to his bloody sword and garments on the ground near the tent entrance.
“No raping.” He grinned mockingly.
“And you think that excuses your violence? You damned warmonger! You murderer! You—”
“How dare you condemn me? I have just cause to kill. I do naught that has not been done over and over to my people.”
“Oh, how I hate war and fighting and men who perpetuate the principle of might makes right!”
Selik could not fail to see the tears misting her luminous eyes, even though she blinked repeatedly, trying to hide them from his scrutiny, as if weeping in a woman was a sign of weakness. What a strange wench!
“Go to sleep. Your shrewish tongue makes my head ache,” he said finally. It had been a long day, and his head did, in fact, feel like a hammer pounded inside it. A death knell, no doubt, he thought ruefully. For him, or those he had killed that day? He wiped his hand across his brow. Thor’s hammer! The wench is getting to me with her waspish talk.
“I’m not sleeping in the same bed with you,” she declared vehemently, raising her chin in defiance. “Just forget it, buster, if you think you’re going to pick up where you left off.”
“What makes you think I want you?” he said in a steely voice. Her willfulness was no longer amusing.
“Go to hell. Better yet, go to your wife, you—you adulterer.”
The wench pushed him too far. He did not like talking about his wife. “I asked you afore, who told you about Astrid?”
“You did.”
He raised an eyebrow in disbelief.
Her face flushed a becoming pink. “You said her name when—when—oh, you know very well when.” The pink of her cheeks now darkened to a deep rose.
“But I never mentioned she was…my wife.”
“Oh, what difference does it make? Ubbi told me.”
Selik stiffened with anger. “He had no right,” he said in an icy voice that promised retribution.
Realizing that she might have brought his ire down on Ubbi, she immediately added, “It wasn’t his fault. I kind of blackmailed him into telling me. And don’t get on your high horse with me—or Ubbi. You’re the one cheating on your wife.”
“I have never cheated on my wife.”
“Hah! You have a weird definition of cheating then. I call what you did with me cheating, and I definitely call what you intended to do cheating. Where do you draw the line, mis
ter?”
“Right now I draw the line with your shrewish tongue,” he said, tired of her foolhardy reminders of his beloved wife. “Lie down in the bed furs. Now.”
Once again, she foolishly defied him. Even as he moved closer, she backed away, around the edge of the small tent. He grinned ferally, stalking her like the helpless, trapped animal she was. When she was near the tent entrance, about to jump through, he pounced, grabbing her by the waist and lifting her easily into his arms.
For a moment, she did not struggle as her mouth dropped open in amazement. “You picked me up.”
“How wise of you to notice.”
“But I’m too big. No one has ever picked me up.”
“Look again, Sweetling. Your feet are tickling my thighs.”
She fought against him then, kicking, scratching, pushing, to no avail. With one arm under her long legs, he pulled her against his body in an iron clasp. The other arm was wrapped around her shoulders, pinning her against his chest with her face firmly tucked in his neck. He inhaled sharply at the seductive floral scent that emanated from her neck, the same odor he had noticed the day before when he had chased her through the forest.
With three long strides, he walked to the bed furs, dropped down lithely without releasing her, then forced her to lie down with her back to him. He covered them both with the bed furs.
With a grunt, he threw one leg over both of hers. Forcing her head to rest in the cradle of his left arm, he wrapped his right arm heavily over her chest.
When she finally stopped struggling after calling him an odd name, “Jerk!”, which he suspected was not a compliment, he began to savor the sweetness of just holding a warm woman in his arms once again.
“What is that scent?” he whispered, nuzzling her neck.
“Probably your body odor,” she snapped.
He chuckled. “Nay, ’tis a sweet odor. Like flowers. ’Tis especially strong right here.” He ran the tip of his tongue along the sensitive, pulse-beating spot at the base of her neck.
She inhaled sharply, and Selik smiled against her neck, recognizing her involuntary sensual response. How could this woman have said that she had no particular liking for mating with men when she responded so quickly to a man’s touch?
“Passion.”
“What?”
“It’s Passion, you fool.”
“Aah, now I understand. Some women exude a musk of passion when their bodies make ready for the mating. ’Tis just that I have never heard of it being a floral scent.”
“Oh, you dolt! You really are an egotist. Passion is the name of my perfume.”
For a moment, Selik didn’t understand. Then he laughed. “Truly, you are amazing. You mock me for naming my sword, and you give a name to your perfume.”
Rain elbowed him in the ribs and burrowed into the bed furs, yawning widely. “All perfumes have names in my ti—country. It’s not the same thing as naming a gun or a bomb—or a stupid sword,” she explained, yawning.
“Stop squirming so much.” He smiled, knowing she would be outraged at the wonderful things she was doing to his hardened manhood. “And I will try not to bother you with my snoring. That is what you told Ubbi, is it not?”
“Ubbi talks too much.”
“Yea, that he does.”
When she was quiet for a long time, Selik said softly, “Rain?”
“Hmmm?”
“Are you awake?”
“Barely.”
“Astrid is dead.”
At first, her body just lay stiff and silent. He was not sure she had even heard him. In truth, he did not know why he had felt the need to tell her the truth, to redeem himself in her eyes.
Finally, she turned in his arms and looked up at him through the flickering candlelight. She seemed to be searching his face for answers he could not give.
“Oh, Selik,” she whispered in a voice so soft he barely heard her. Then she laid her face against his chest and wrapped her arms around him. “Oh, Selik.”
For the first time in twelve years, he felt tears mist his eyes, and he drifted off to sleep, oddly comforted.
Chapter Five
Any soft feelings Rain may have been entertaining toward Selik after his disclosure that his wife was dead vanished the second she emerged from his tent the next morning. Fifteen captives sat shivering on the ground near the large cooking fire, hands and feet bound, each connected to the other by one long lead rope, like beads on a necklace.
Several of Selik’s retainers stood guard nearby with lethal swords at the ready. Not that any of the captives looked capable of putting up a fight. They were filthy, underdressed for the cool autumn morning, bruised, and even wounded. No wonder blood had stained Selik’s sword and clothing last night. Apparently, food was not the only thing he’d been hunting.
And—oh, my God—there were three women bound in the rope chain as well.
I’ll kill him. I swear, I have never had a violent thought in my life, but I will kill that damn Viking for this.
Rain scanned the entire campsite, but there was no sign of Selik or the soldiers he had taken with him yesterday on his “hunting” expedition. Rain’s lips curled with contempt, and she clenched her fists angrily at her sides.
“Ubbi, where is your master?” Rain demanded to know as she stormed up to the faithful servant, who was stirring the most ungodly smelling concoction over the cooking fire. Whatever it was smelled as if it had burned on the bottom of the cauldron, and a great deal of fat floated on the top. Great! Roadkill fricasse.
Ubbi looked up and asked pleasantly, “Did ye sleep well yestereve, my lady?”
Rain growled with impatience at his failure to answer her question.
“He went back to the battlefield,” he disclosed reluctantly.
That was not the answer Rain had expected. “Why?”
“To bury his dead.”
Rain exhaled loudly with exasperation. “Is he totally, off-the-wall insane? His men are dead. There’s nothing he can do for them now.”
Ubbi shrugged. “The master blames himself fer takin’ men into battle when he saw no ravens aforehand.”
Rain forced herself to remain calm. “Ubbi, what are you talking about?”
“Well, ’tis a well-known fact that when ravens be about, it portends a Norse victory. And there was not a raven to be seen the entire day afore or during the Great Battle.” He puffed out his chest, as if imparting some great wisdom.
Rain clucked scornfully. “What a bunch of superstitious nonsense!”
“’Tis the truth,” he insisted stubbornly.
“Never mind about that. How could you let Selik return to the battlefield? Aren’t you worried about him? The Saxons surely still guard that site. He could be killed.” Rain wasn’t sure why she even cared at this point. After all, she had certainly been looking for him with a killing instinct herself a moment ago.
“’Tis dishonorable fer a Norseman to let the vultures feast on the entrails of his fallen comrades,” he asserted.
“And it’s honorable to take prisoners? And mistreat them so horribly?” Rain snarled, waving a hand at the nearby captives, who stared dumbly at her across the fire.
Ubbi’s cloudy eyes looked up at her in surprise. “’Tis no dishonor to take slaves after a battle. The Saxons, for a certainty, took their fair share of Scots and Norsemen after the Great Battle. You can be sure of that.”
“But what will he do with them?”
Ubbi hunched his lumpy shoulders. “Mayhap they might be worth some ransom to the Saxons, ’though I misdoubt that. They be a sorry lot.”
Rain threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, just give me your knife so I can release the captives myself.”
Ubbi backed away, holding out of her reach the sharp blade he had been using to cut up what appeared to be several skinned rabbits. “Nay, I cannot.”
One red-haired guard—a huge, barrel-chested man wearing a leather tunic and a scruffy fur mantle—started toward her menacingly.
> “What is your name?” she demanded to know with more self-confidence than she felt.
“Gorm,” he snarled, towering over her ominously, a very sharp sword in one hand. The fetid odor of unwashed flesh and bad breath assailed Rain, but she refused to back down.
“Release those people at once.”
The bearish giant smirked. “Not bloody likely.”
“I tell you, Worm—”
“Not worm, Gorm,” he corrected in an icy voice and moved one step closer, fingering the blade in his hand.
“Yes, well, Gorm, I want those captives released. And I want it done right now.”
He chuckled derisively and gave her a rude shove. “Get back to yer master’s tent and keep his bed furs warm fer him. Ye be little more than a slave yerself. ’Tis only yer talents in the bed sport that keep you from the same lot as this bunch.”
Rain looked to Ubbi for assistance. “Tell this lout that I am not a slave.”
To her chagrin, Ubbi ducked his head guiltily and muttered, “Well, ye be more like a hostage than a slave.”
“Ubbi! I thought you were my friend.”
His eyes widened as if wondering where she ever got that idea. After all, he had only met her yesterday.
“Slave or hostage, it matters not to me,” Gorm declared with contempt, giving her another shove, this time harder. “I may just plow yer skinny arse myself.”
“You wouldn’t dare.”
“Would I not? Best ye stay out of me way or ye will find out. Leastways, go to the master’s tent, or I will bind ye with the other captives ’til our lord returns.”
“That won’t be necessary,” Rain countered defiantly. “I’ll do it myself.”
Rain walked proudly over to the line of prisoners and sat down at the end, tying the end of the rope about her ankles in a symbolic knot of captivity. Ubbi gasped and Gorm’s mouth dropped open, revealing one missing front tooth. Rain couldn’t help herself from feeling noble; this was like the time she and her fellow pacifists had tied themselves to the White House fence to protest increased military spending.