Her Lord and Master (6 page)

When he opened the tent, Elizabeth was sitting on the tree stump, waiting for him. He grinned upon seeing her. Tonight was going to be memorable for them both. He would make sure of it.

“I will not be a whore for your men!” she flew at him, clawing at his face and kicking at his shins.

Ragnor deflected her attack easily, despite his momentary surprise. In an instant, she lay flat on her back on the ground, arms pinned above her head. She tried to lash out with her feet, but the weight of his body atop hers pinioned her to the dirt. She shoved with her hips, trying to dislodge him, but the frantic movements were pointless. The little spitfire certainly had spirit, he thought. He was going to enjoy taming her, even if it took a lifetime. He had a feeling it would.

Elizabeth felt his firm manroot stiffen against her thighs. She shoved herself against him with alarm, laboring in vain to free herself. His staff grew again, as solid as granite against her tender feminine flesh.

Ragnor’s eyes bore into hers. His breath grew heavy. He moved over her, spreading her thighs forcefully with his knees. His steely rod drilled down against her womanhood through her skirt. She tried to squeezed her knees together, but he held them apart with his own. The entire length of his battering ram pressed insistently against her gates, despite the meager fabric that separated them.

But he would not take her like this. Not in anger, not in haste. He would bed her leisurely, savoring every moment, awakening her virgin senses. He wanted to see her burgeoning pleasure play across her face, when his tongue lapped up her cream like a contented cat.      

Ragnor leaned closer until his mouth was only a fraction of an inch from hers. Elizabeth tried to loosen her arms from his grip, but he clasped her wrists tightly until she feared her fragile bones would snap like kindling.

His mouth came down upon hers unhurriedly. At first, his lips brushed hers lighter than an angel’s breath. He kissed one corner of her mouth, then the other tenderly. Elizabeth purred and her lips opened to him against her will. His tongue probed her mouth patiently, retreating and returning, thrusting and parrying, until she was panting with need for him and writhing with longing.

He gripped both of her tiny wrists easily in one hand. With his other hand, reached for the new dagger attached to his belt. Elizabeth saw the glint of metal in the waning light and gasped, renewing her efforts to escape. She screamed aloud, shrieking like a banshee and bucked like a madwoman, gnashing her teeth and flailing her legs. With the flick of his wrist, Ragnor cut the rope away from her throat and tossed the cord over his shoulder.

“Elizaveta, stoppe,” he said softly.

She ceased fighting, realizing what he had done. He planted gentle kisses across her neck, licking the line where the rope had been to soothe her and calm her fears.

“Jed er ked af,” he murmured against her neck. “Elizaveta.”

With deliberate slowness, he glided his free hand downward and untied the strays that bound her cloak. She had been genuinely terrified for a moment, and he was truly sorry for that. But he knew the pleasure he would teach her this night would more than make up for the fear she felt right now. Her body had already responded enthusiastically to his touch, and he was confident he had only uncovered the tip of the iceberg of her passions. He would unleash all of the desires he knew she held pent up inside.

Ragnor eased back the lapels of fabric that obscured her body from his hungry eyes. His eyes feasted upon the view for a long moment. Good gods, she was the embodiment of perfection, he thought. Every inch of her body had been created to drive a man insane with the need to burrow himself deep inside of her.

Drinking in every inch of flesh, Ragnor drew a long line down the sensitive swell of the outside of her breast. Elizabeth’s nipples puckered and raised. He repeated the action again, watching with fascination, as pleasure and yearning played across her face. He traced the underside of her fleshy mounds, one after another, lifting them and kneading them, one by one. His greedy eyes never left her as he drew her higher and higher to the heights of wonderment.

He placed his palm flat over her heart, and ran his hand down her belly. Her stomach quivered, and her hips arched instinctively against him.

Ragnor released her wrists, finally, and cupped both of her engorged globes with his hands. His mouth came down upon her breast, latching upon her nipple through her dress. She moaned deep in her throat, and clenched her small fists.

He smiled between her bosoms. Yes, she was a lusty one, just as he had hoped. Ragnor licked her nipple, wetting her dress visibly, and then moved to its partner, lavishing it with equal attention. He squeezed them together, sucking both nipples at once. His hands spanned her ribs, while his hips met hers with gentle gyrations.

Outside, a horn blew.

“Jeg er sulten,” he said, stopping abruptly.

Elizabeth didn’t understand. She looked down at herself, legs splayed, nipples wet, coat unfastened. She was a disgusting tramp. And obviously, Ragnor thought so too. She scrambled to cover herself, horrified. She had never been more ashamed in her life.

Ragnor came to his feet.

“Er du sulten?” he held out his hand to help her rise.

She refused his assistance and tied her cloak hastily, looking away. Ragnor rubbed his hand over his belly and licked his lips, grinning.

“Sulten,” he repeated. His flat stomach growled loudly. “Starving.”

He chuckled, and Elizabeth peeked up out of the corner of her eye. He was almost charming when he smiled, she had to admit.

Yes, she was starving too.

“Kom med mig,” he took her hand, and entwined his fingers reassuringly with hers.

She tried to pull away but he held fast, squeezing tightly. He kissed her mouth kindly, encouragingly. But Elizabeth hesitated when he led her to the door.

“Kom,” he urged gently. “Come.”

Elizabeth looked into his eyes, searching his face for a clue to her fate. His eyes were soft and warm now, and he was not ordering her or commanding her. He was
asking
her to join him. His mouth was smiling. He bore no resemblance to the monster that had looted a convent and kidnapped a nun, all before noon, then paraded her like whore before his men in a dog collar.

Yet, there was no reason for her to trust him.

There was no reason for her not to, either.

Except that he was evil incarnate.

He was a Viking.

E
lizabeth followed Ragnor through the flaps of the tent, out into the crisp night air. The bonfire was a blazing inferno now, and all of the raiders were seated upon fallen logs and flat stones scattered around the beach. Ribbons of indigo, crimson and citrine traversed the sky. The crowd was laughing, singing, and drinking mead from wooden tankards. The stolen barrels of wine and ale had been rolled out to the middle of the circle, and tapped for all to partake.

Some of the men were dancing, accompanied by music made with pan pipes, bone whistles, horn bugles and kettle drums. One man even had a lyre. Elizabeth thought it sounded like the old folk music of the Northumbrian-Scottish borderlands. She liked it instantly.

A red-headed Norsemen, seated near the tent, snickered when Ragnor and Elizabeth emerged. Another patted Ragnor on the back, as if congratulating him. Her face burned. Had all of these people heard her scream? She scanned the faces of the Danish pirates. A few smiled at her, a couple of them winked, one made a lewd gesture at her with his mouth. Every single one of them wore a knowing grin.

They all thought Ragnor had bedded her!

Elizabeth wished she could disappear into a hole in the ground. She had never felt so mortified in all her life. Ragnor squeezed her hand to comfort her, and guided her to a large fallen log just outside the door of the tent. A makeshift highboard had been constructed for them using slabs of wood and a rock. Elizabeth crossed herself when she realized the embroidered mantle covering the table was the tabernacle veil, stolen from the priory during the raid that morning. She ignored the pangs of guilt at the misuse of the sacred cloth, and looked at the feast before her.

The table was laden with bowls of local fruits, pears, cherries and currants, along with fresh mussels and clams from the nearby river. There were even prawns and boiled lobsters, straight from the sea behind them. Trays of other dishes, strange things like dill and vinegar cucumbers, caraway-studded rye bread, and smoked salmon, must have come with them from Vikingland, she thought.

Ragnor gestured politely for Elizabeth to sit on the log, and then took a seat next to her himself. He put his arm protectively around her waist, and held her closely to his side. Just like the Anglo-Saxon custom, there was an empty wooden trencher on the table for them to share as a plate. Ragnor began to eagerly fill the tray with foods. He motioned for her to eat, so she helped herself to fruit and clams.

“My lord,” Jordan approached with a bow to his lord.

“Jordan,” Ragnor greeted him.

They spoke rapidly in Danish, and Elizabeth could comprehend not a word.

While the men talked, Elizabeth ate fruit, and tried to calm her racing heart. She studied Ragnor’s face covertly out of the corner of her eye. His sharp nose was perfectly sculpted, and his strong jaw was angular and masculine. His face had been shaven clean this morning, except for his small, neat goatee, but now dark stubble covered his chiseled cheeks. His prominent Adam’s apple bobbed when he talked, and his deep, rumbling voice sent strange sensations deep into her belly. Even his lips looked attractive, she mused, recalling his tongue in her mouth, and his mouth on her breasts. She closed her cloak tighter to cover them.

Elizabeth forced herself to relax, taking in the festive scene around her. To the left, several men were plucking wild ducks and geese that must have been speared on the trek after the raid.

To her right, a gigantic, one-armed man added humongous hunks of the elk meat to a cauldron of broth, boiling it over a flame. He tossed in potatoes, carrots, beets and turnips, followed by handfuls of barley and oats. The savory smell of the stew mingled with the roasting meat and sea air gave the night a delectable aroma.

A sense of anticipation pervaded the atmosphere, and she could feel it tangibly. Excitement was building, and the men’s enthusiasm was contagious. Elizabeth found herself humming along to the music, and tapping her foot to the beat as she ate.

Jordan presented Ragnor with a large, jewel-studded goblet filled with wine. He passed it politely to Elizabeth for the first drink, smiling. The vessel was so large, that she had to hold it with two hands to drink from it. She recognized the heavy, golden chalice as the sacred
ciborium
from the convent, used for holy communion. For a moment she blanched with guilt. But then she shrugged and took a long sip.

She knew that her parents, along with all of the other noble families, paid a substantial yearly stipend for the maintenance of the sisters of the abbey. Yet she had never seen a single farthing of the money, nor been given so much as a new chemise all the time she had lived there. The tithes had gone straight to the coffers of the bishops, archbishops, cardinals, and to the Pope in the Vatican.

Now that she was gone, kidnapped by Vikings, her family would most certainly double their donations out of guilt.

Besides, if this was the price of her freedom, then so be it. She would consider the goblet her dowry, she decided.

The
paten
would be too, she added, noting Jordan had served them a hefty portion of elk meat on the large, bejeweled disk of gold. It was meant to hold bread at communion. She shrugged again, and dug in to the meat with her fingers, just as Ragnor and everyone else did, sopping up the gravy with bread. At least she was out of the abbey.

Ragnor returned the half-full chalice of wine to Elizabeth to wash down the meat. She closed her eyes and drank her fill, feeling strangely connected to him, knowing her lips touched the same place his lips had been. For some reason, it felt erotic. She looked at him over the rim of the cup. His eyes burned and she knew he felt it, too.

She licked her lips. He groaned, pecking her on the neck. Someone cheered.

Ragnor reached into his pocket, and retrieved a small knife, handing it to her. It was her personal eating knife, the one she had tried to stab him with that morning at the convent. Surprised, Elizabeth mumbled her thanks and an apology at the same time.

Ragnor just smiled. He reached for an earthenware crock of a chunky, whitish condiment. Using his eating knife, he spread it thickly on the rye bread, topping it with pickled cucumbers and dried salmon. He handed it to her to try.

Elizabeth smelled the white sauce cautiously. She recognized the scent of horseradish root and vinegar. Gingerly, she took a nibble of the prickly sauce. It smelled foul, but tasted delicious, she thought, so she gobbled it down.

Ragnor was inexplicably pleased by her enthusiasm for his native foods. He selected a mussel, smoked in its shell, still dripping with warm juices. He put it to his lips. He sucked the meat out of the shell with a loud slurping noise, knowing full well the aphrodisiac affect it would have on his female companion.

Elizabeth’s eyes went wide. She did not know why, but she felt like she had just witness the most lewd and licentious act she had ever seen. The man was simply eating a shellfish, but somehow it seemed he had just performed a lascivious display, too wicked to be viewed by her virgin eyes. It was ridiculous, but it made her tingle.

Satisfied with her reaction, Ragnor ate another one, in just the same manner. He felt her squirm in her seat. She was getting hot.

He chose another one, and held it to Elizabeth’s lips. She looked at him hesitantly. He urged her on playfully with a nudge and a smile. Finally, she slurped it loudly, imitating him. They both laughed. A drop of juice gathered in the corner of her mouth. But before she could dab it away modestly, Ragnor leaned in and licked it.