Sandra Hill (8 page)

“I doubt it, but that is neither here nor there. Do not dishonor me this way, Vagn.”

Talk, talk, talk, talk, talk! Why do women feel the need to discuss everything to death?
“Why is it dishonorable for a man and woman to pleasure each other?”

“Highborn men and women do not tumble in the hay without a marriage commitment.”

They do where I come from
. “Do you want such a commitment from me?”

“Nay!” The hands she placed on his chest to shove him away trembled, but he did not budge.

“Besides, do not be too sure about what highborn men and women do in private. You might be surprised.”

“I do not care one way or another. I care about myself, and I will not allow you to play your games with me. Do not misread me, Vagn. You have the ability to turn me mindless with your touches and kisses, no doubt due to years of womanizing—”

“No doubt.” His voice was droll with amusement, but what he thought was
I make her mindless with my touches and kisses? Very, very interesting!

“—but that does not mean I am willing.”

“You would be willing, believe you me.”

“Spare me your boasts, braggart.”

“Helga, Helga, Helga. There are two things I do ex
ceedingly well. They both begin with the eff-sound. One of them is fighting. Do not force me to tell you what the other is.”

“Crude lout!”

“Open your mouth for me, sweetling. Just so, with the tip of your tongue peeking out.”

Her response was to bite her bottom lip with determination, just as he’d expected.

“I hate being vulnerable,” she admitted then.

“Must you always be in control?”

“Yea, finally you understand.”

“You are wrong, m’lady. I do not understand.”

“You are vulnerable, too, Vagn. Do not frown at me. ’Tis true. You are unsettled by your near-death and the loss of your brother. You are looking for some stable, though temporary, lodestone to latch on to. Well, it will not be me. Someday you will come to your senses again. Then where would I be?”

“You think too much.”
And talk too much
.

“You think too little. I am a challenge to you. Nothing more.”

“Mayhap.”
Probably
.

“Find some wench to relieve yourself with. There are willing maids aplenty about my father’s keep.”

“I do not want them,” he said, leaning in close so that she could feel his breath when he said, “I…want…you.”

She moaned. “I am not to your liking. I am not buxom or beautiful.”

Your lips alone are enough to turn my legs to water
. “You are beautiful to me.”

“Liar. You called me homely.”

“That was my brother.”

“I suspect you and Toste have often traded places over the years. I suspect you called me Helga the Homely on as many occasions as he did.”

He ducked his head sheepishly. “I apologize, Helga, for any hurt we may have caused you.” He meant it, too.

“I do not want your apologies,” she said, stamping her foot over his. Still he did not budge. “And I certainly do not want your self-serving lies.”

Liar? Did the woman just call me a liar? Oh, the injustice of that remark cuts deep
. “Helga, look at me.” He adjusted his stance so that his elbows rested on either side of her head, not his palms, thus bringing him in closer. She was tall, only a few inches shorter than he, so her gaze was nigh level with his. “The desire you see on my face is genuine. You appeal to me.”
If you only knew how much, you would run for your life, sweet virgin
.

He saw the disbelief on her face.

“Your mouth is exquisite, do you know that? The most kiss-some I have ever seen.”
The things that mouth could do!

“Wretch!”

“Your hair is like spun gold.”
I would like to see it spread out on my bed furs
.

“Wretch!”

“I am dying to see your breasts.”
And your navel and your hips and your buttocks and your woman’s fleece
.

“Wretch! Now you have gone too far. You know good and well that I have no breasts to speak of.” She swatted at his immovable chest.

“Aaah, but your nipples are big.”

“How would you know that?” she asked with consternation.

“I know these kinds of things.”
And well I should, with all the years I’ve been practicing wenching
.

“Useless knowledge. The kind of thing a philanderer like you would consider important.”

“Do not judge me, Helga. You do not know me that well.”
Even if you are right
.

“You are right about that, but I do not want to know you better.”

“Aha! Now we get to the crux of the matter. You are afraid that you might like me.” He laughed as he spoke, then hooked a heel behind her knees, twisted her body with expertise and followed her falling body down to the straw at their feet.

“Get off me, you oaf.” She squirmed and flailed, but he just settled himself more comfortably atop her slim body.

“Have you ever made love on fox furs, Helga?” he murmured as he brushed off the fur-lined hood of her cloak and kissed a path along her jaw.

That gave her pause. Her body went stiff as she realized the position she was in.

His body went stiff, too. Leastways, one particular part did. “Just relax, sweetling.”

“Are you mad?”

“Mayhap. Just let me have a little fun with you, Helga. I will not do anything serious.”
Said the wolf to the lamb
.

“I will not be your plaything.”

“Then let me be
your
plaything.”

Before she had a chance to say him nay, he reached inside her cloak and cupped her left breast, whisking his thumb back and forth over the cloth-covered nipple. Her breast was indeed small, but the nipple was invitingly
large, as he’d speculated, and it was growing larger under his ministration.

Her eyes went wide with wonder. No longer flailing or shoving him away, she just gaped at him.

“Do you like that, Helga?” he asked, kneading her small breast and pulling on the nipple.

Her only response was a groan and a toss of her head to the side, eyes squeezed shut.

He took that as permission to give equal attention to the other breast. Within moments, she was panting with woman-joy. Females with small breasts were more sensitive there than big-busted women. Leastways, that had been his experience. He couldn’t wait to take her in his mouth. He made a bet with himself that he would make her reach her peak someday just by fondling and suckling her breasts.

But first things first.

He spread her cloak and then her thighs. Carefully he adjusted his hips so that his throbbing manpart rested against the groove of her womanhood, separated only by his
braies
and her gown. He hoped she throbbed, too. If she did not now, she would soon. That, he promised himself.

“Helga, look at me.” Her face was still turned aside, eyes shut tight.

“I cannot. I am so ashamed.”

“Of what? Being a woman? Look at me, please.”

She did, and he saw that her eyes were wet with unshed tears. “I must be a wanton.”

“Silly goose,” he said and gently laid his lips over hers. He moved slowly at first, wanting her to become accustomed to him. Women were skittish. Like horses. Especially Helga, who would not appreciate the association,
he was sure. That was the last thing she needed to hear. “Helga the Homely” had been objectionable; “Helga the Horse” would be intolerable. So he forgot the horse association and concentrated on worshiping her lips. Holding her face in his hands, he nibbled. He smoothed. He licked. He caressed. Just the friction of his mouth over her so desirable lips was pure ecstasy. He’d meant to please her, but he’d ended pleasing himself.

“You taste like honey…and cloves,” he said.

“You taste like horse,” she said.

He laughed.
It’s not the first time I’ve been told that
.

But she didn’t seem to be objecting to his horsiness, so he chose not to take offense.

“Open, Helga,” he murmured against her wet lips.

She did—in her innocence, far wider than was necessary. He inserted his tongue and began a slow in-and-out rhythm that simulated the sex act. A most excellent pupil, she quickly learned the lesson and did the same to him. He thought he just might swoon, so intense was his arousal.

And speaking of arousals!

She was undulating her hips against him in a rhythm as old as time. He assumed it was instinct and not experience that caused her to move so enticingly. He pulled back slightly and stared down at her.

Her lips were kiss-swollen and wet. Her eyes were glazed over with passion.

“Are you a virgin?” he asked her of a sudden.
Of course she is a virgin. Her father said she was
.

“Yea, I am,” she answered, too dazed to be offended by his question. At first. He saw the moment when she realized just what he’d been asking. Anger suffused her
already flushed face. Then she asked him, “Are you a virgin?”

“Nay, but I feel as if this is all new with you.”

“Hah!” she said and rolled away from under him, standing clumsily. Apparently his question had been a bucket of cold water on her ardor. His, on the other hand, was still rock hard and ready. “I do not know what trick you played with your lewd fingers to turn me into a harlot, but it will not happen again.”

He leaned back on his elbows in the straw. “Methinks your father was wrong about you.”

He could tell she did not want to ask, but she did anyway. “What was my father wrong about?”

“Your female parts are not withered into raisins. They are plump and juicy and wet. I would bet my life on it.”

She inhaled sharply and tried her best not to react to his teasing. “Are you ever serious?”

“On occasion.”

“Speaking of serious, you told me that you would not do anything
serious
to me in the straw. You lied.”

He shook his head. “Nay, you are wrong to malign me so. What I did…what
we
did was not serious. When I get into the
serious
business of lovemaking, you will know it. And I will see just how juicy and unwithered you are there.” He glanced pointedly at the juncture of her thighs.

“You are by far the crudest, coarsest, crassest man I have ever met. They ought to call you Vagn the Vulgar.” She was towering over him, hands on hips.

“Now that you mention name-calling, I think I have come up with a new name for you, Helga,” he said as he watched her attempt, futilely, to brush all the straw out of her cloak. She even had straw in her blond hair, but
he would not tell her that. “Don’t you want to know what it is?”

“Nay, I do not. It’s probably something crude, like Helga the Harlot.”

He made a clucking sound of disapproval with his tongue. “Helga the Magnificent.”

“I hope you do not consider that a compliment.”

“Of course it is a compliment.”

Helga turned on her heel then and stormed out of the stable, but not before telling him exactly what he could do with his compliments. She must have learned that midden-talk in the rough business sector of Jorvik.

Vagn just smiled, well pleased with the events of this evening. Mayhap he would stay at Gorm’s estate these three months after all. Mayhap he had just discovered something interesting to while away the time.

But a nagging voice in the back of his head kept asking whether Helga had been right. Was he bored and just using her to pass the time? Was his anguish over Toste distorting his view of Helga and his whole thus-far-pointless life? Was he being fair in seducing Helga when he was unsure of his intentions?

All these were unfamiliar questions for Vagn. And therein lay the problem. In the past, he and Toste had done what they’d wanted, when they’d wanted, consequences be damned. Was he finally, at the ripe old age of thirty and one, growing up?

How to outwit a lackwit…

A large wood fire blazed in three of the massive central hearths in Gorm’s great hall, providing welcome warmth to the two hundred and more servants and retainers who
gathered there following the evening meal. Before one of those fires, Gorm and Vagn dueled over the board game
hnefatafl
, at which they were equally matched. Around them, soldiers diced and conversed, usually on subjects of war or women. Housecarls bustled about removing the remnants of the meal—primarily roast acorn-fed pig with manchet bread—and dismantling the trestle tables, which would be replaced with box-bed sleeping arrangements around the perimeter of the room.

Helga had disappeared soon after dining. Avoiding him, no doubt. He could understand that. He was a soldier who knew how to stalk his prey. Poor prey! Even when he attempted to curb his baser appetites, he seemed unable to keep Helga out of his mind. His hunger for her grew by the minute—pathetic in its intensity.

“Helga was with you in the stable for a long time this afternoon,” Gorm said of a sudden.

Vagn’s hunger died a quick death. Had his pathetic mind-wanderings been so apparent? “What? You have spies watching over me now?”

“I have always had spies watching over you. But that is neither here nor there. Have you made any progress with my daughter?”

Vagn had been sipping at a horn of ale and started to choke.
Progress? Does he mean what I think he means by that word?
“What a question for a father to ask! Do you encourage men to seduce your daughter?”

“Not any man. Just you.”

A trap has been set for me here. Be careful, Vagn; be very careful
. “Well, I am not going to discuss any loveplay there may or may not have been with your daughter. So forget that.”

“I did not ask for specifics, just a general progress report.”

“Nay!”

Gorm smirked, as if Vagn had given him some significant answer. They continued to play, moving their ivory pieces about the carved oak board.

I wonder how soon I can slip away without offending this wily old bear
. “Why me, for the love of Frigg?” he asked Gorm.

“The time is right. I am not well, Vagn…oh, do not misread my words, I am not about to fly off to Valhalla anytime soon. But I grow old and my heart hurts on occasion and, well, I feel a need to put my life in order…to tie up all the loose ends, to make sure Briarstead continues in good hands.”