Authors: Sandra Hill

Viking Heat (17 page)

BOOK: Viking Heat

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“Right. Don’t be cruel,” Joy crooned.

No one laughed.
Jeesh!

“On the journey here from Hedeby, I was telling Joy that she would make a wonderful skald with all her tales of her country,” Arnis told a clearly skeptical Brandr. “Leastways, she would be better than Alviss.”

“Brandr says my talk bores him to sleep,” Joy told Arnis.

“You talk in the bed furs?” Arnis asked. “And Brandr allows such? Really? Methought my brother was a better lover than that. Unless you mean bawdy talk.
That
he would abide.”

Brandr reached over and swatted his brother on the shoulder. “Behave, halfbrain.”

“I’m not a poet, and I’m not going to be your free entertainment,” Joy asserted.

“We shall see,” Brandr said, repeating her favorite phrase back at her. Then, for her ears only, he whispered, “Besides, I much prefer to be entertained in private.”

When people started to clear and dismantle the tables, Brandr stood, putting her on her feet. “Come. ’Tis time for our reckoning.”

“Reckoning? I thought you said compromise.”

“Reckoning, compromise, same thing.”

She didn’t think so! Still, she let him take her hand in his and lead her through the hall and up the stair. Twice she had to stop and pull up her pants, which fell to her ankles. Brandr seemed to enjoy watching her tug his
braies
—that’s what they called men’s pants in this country—up her bare legs.

Instead of going to his bedroom, as she’d expected, he took her to a small room that smelled to high heaven, where he lit a wall torch with a flint he carried in a side flap of his pants.

Holding her nose, she asked, “What is this?”

“The garderobe. Have you ne’er used such? ’Tis an indoor privy.”

Joy examined the room more closely, still holding her nose. There were three toilet seats, like an outhouse, but it appeared as if this room hung on the outside of the fortress. On the floor was a basket of moss and another of large green leaves. Surely not replacements for toilet paper? Eeew! Glancing inside one of the holes, she saw nothing way down below. “Where does it all go?”

“The fjord.”

“You dump your waste in the river outside your home. Do you comprehend how much disease that could breed, not to mention contaminate drinking water?”

“I misdoubt that. My grandsire was far ahead of his time. He studied the ancient Romans’ methods of waste removal. There are underground trenches with thin currents of water that lead to a point in the fjord downstream from us.”

“Oh, that’s just great. Pass the problem on to your neighbor.”

“Our nearest
neighbor
lives almost a half-day’s ship ride from here,” he replied with consternation at her verbal attack. “Besides, the Thorssons deserve to be contaminated. They are a vile bunch. In any case, I did not bring you in here to discuss shit and such.” He was reaching up to the ceiling, where there appeared to be an iron ring hidden in the wood. Pulling hard, a sort of ladder came down. Holding the torch in one hand, he indicated with the other that she should climb up in front of him.

“Is this some sort of upper dungeon you’re going to put me in? Stink me to death as torture?”

He chuckled. “Just go. I’m about to show you my compromise.”

Once she was up there, and Brandr had followed after her, she twirled around with amazement. It was a sort of treasure room, low-ceilinged and packed with chests of coins and jewels and piles of fabrics.

“Here,” he said, shoving several garments her way. They were ladies’ attire in the Viking style, except the materials were of finer quality than most. “They belonged to my deceased mother and sisters.”

“You store all this precious stuff in a privy?”

“Not in a privy, above a privy. And really, they do not smell much. Leastways, they can be washed or aired out, if they do. Some say it makes the cloth resistant to moths. The most important thing is that they survived the raid by the Sigurdssons because of this very stinksome hiding place.”

“And you trust me with that information?”

“What good would it do you? You will not be leaving here. Now, don’t go raising your chin at me again. I am here to make compromises.” He pushed her down to sit on a big chest, and he sat on another facing her. “I will allow you to wear these garments. You will help Liv; that will be your duty here. You may be asked to help with work around the keep where needed, but your main chore will be as companion to Liv . . . or healer, if you will. The bedchamber doors will not be locked. You may move about above and below stairs, within reason.”

“Those are all concessions on your part. What do you expect in return?”

“Loyalty. You will continue to wear the amulet under the garb. I find that I like the idea of something, if not you, saying that you belong to me. You will sleep in my bedchamber at night.”

“Naked?”

“Of course. Odin’s breath! Everyone sleeps naked, for the most part.”

“Would I be expected to have sex with you?”

“Only if you want to.”

“And that’s all?”

“You must promise not to try to escape again.”

“I can’t promise that. It’s my duty as a soldier to escape the enemy.”

“I am not the enemy.”

“Yes, you are. Making me a slave is not the act of a friendly nation.”

“Then you will be forbidden to go outside the keep.”

She shrugged. They could try to keep her inside. Didn’t mean they’d succeed. “Sounds as if we have a Catch-22 here. I lose either way.”

“Or you could say you win either way.”

She sighed and glanced around the small storage room. “Where did you get all this stuff? Is it stolen?”

“Nay. Some was bought in the markets of Birka and Hedeby and Kaupang, or even in the Arab lands. Still others were prizes of war, like this.” He held up a magnificent tapestry, almost like the Bayeux Tapestry, but much smaller, about two by three feet. “This once belonged to the British King Athelstan. I was a Jomsviking for many years afore coming back to defend my estates when the Sigurdssons . . . well, you know all that. I was a Jomsviking, and as such, paid warriors, we rode with Eric Bloodaxe again King Eadred, Athelstan’s nephew. This tapestry was amongst the spoils of war. If I were not so preoccupied in getting Bear’s Lair back to its former self, I might have joined an army against the current King Eadred, Athelstan’s nephew several times removed, who is rumored to be ill and close to death. No doubt his young brother, Edwy, will take over as king of Britain, but I must say, a more sorry, immoral man there ne’er was.” He stopped speaking when he realized he was rambling and that Joy was staring at him with disbelief.

“There is no king of England now. The ruling monarch is Queen Elizabeth.”

Brandr frowned. “I have ne’er heard of any Elizabeth in the House of Wessex. You are mistaken.”

“Tell me again what you said about the various kings.”

He looked at her as if she was crazy, and that’s just how she was feeling. “Back some years, there was Alfred the Great, a good and wise ruler in Britain, though not a lover of anything Viking, followed by his son Edward and then his grandson Athelstan, who was a collector of books and precious objects. But that was during my father’s time. After Edward came Edmund, then Eadred, who now holds the throne.”

“Elizabeth is the queen of England. The sole ruler. There hasn’t been a king in Britain for more than fifty years, since her father George died.”

He shook his head and repeated, “You are mistaken.”

Joy began to feel lightheaded as an impossible thought entered her mind. “Brandr, what year is this?”

“Nine hundred fifty-five, as you well know.”

Joy made a gurgling sound, then stood, as did Brandr. “No, you idiot. It’s two thousand and nine.”

They gaped at each other, equally stunned, but it was Joy who fainted.

Chapter 10

Sex was sex, even with a thousand-year-old woman . . .

What a mess! The jester god Loki must be having a grand time laughing at him, or mayhap the Christian Satan was wielding his usual deviltry.

Brandr had caught the demented wench when she fell into a dead faint . . . and, yea, he was now sure she was demented. First a soldier, then a mind healer, and now a time traveler. For the love of Frigg!

With great care, he managed to pick her up in his arms and still carry the torch as he climbed back down the ladder and staggered back to his bedchamber. Along the way, he met up with Tork and his latest bedmate, the one Joy had mocked. “Do not ask!” he replied to Tork’s raised eyebrows.

Tossing her on the bed did not make the wench even stir, so he went back to the garderobe and closed the hidden ladder door, after first gathering the garments he had offered.

She was still “asleep” when he returned, so he called out to one of the house thralls to bring a pitcher of ale and cups to his bedchamber. After building up the fire, he turned back to the bed.

Joy was splatted out on her back, arms and legs spread, like some bloody sacrifice. He’d like to sacrifice her, all right. To think he had been considering bedsport with the wench a short time ago . . . a thousand-year-old woman! Not that she was really a thousand years old or a time traveler. More like an escapee from a hospitium for barmies. That was just as bad. In the midst of satisfying his “enthusiasm,” she might just go into a raging fit.

The warped side of his manhood said,
Hmmm! There might be some pleasure in that shivering and convulsing.

But then he corrected himself,
Nay! That would make me as barmy as she is.

Well, he was in a tight spot, for the moment. Mayhap it would be best if she slept off this fainting spell. Afterward, she might be saner. He downed half the pitcher of ale, which a male house thrall brought in, trying his best not to gawk at Brandr’s “captive.” He probably thought Brandr had done something to knock her out.

Setting down his empty cup, he began to remove her clothing. As he took off the boots, then the man’s braies, tunic, and rope belt, he felt an odd pleasure in seeing her in his clothing. It made him feel as if she actually did belong to him, willingly.

Now there was a joke! Joy coming to him willingly.

On the other hand, he was a liar if he denied wanting such, even though he did not want to want her to want him. Truly, he did not. Because that would make him weak. There would be a hole in his defenses, one she could use to her advantage.

I am bloody hell thinking too much.

With the last of her garments tossed aside, Brandr stared down at her. Usually, he did not like red hair. Too brassy. But he liked
her
red hair, both above and below. Unlike many redheads, she had only a few freckles . . . on her nose and shoulders. Her nipples and areolas were a pale rose color, matching her lips, which were pouty when closed, as they were now. Pale, cream-colored skin covered her tall frame. He even liked her long toes and high-arched feet.

You would think that he would be painfully hard with arousal, looking at her naked form. He
was
hard, but the greater pain was in the region of his heart. For some strange reason, he was breathless. His dumb heart ached.

Her eyelashes began to flutter, and he quickly pulled the bed fur over her, not wanting to be caught ogling her body. He could only imagine the sharp words she would hurl his way.

When her eyes opened, he shoved a cup of ale into her hands, which she drank thirstily and handed the cup back. Then she stared at him, and he could tell that she was slowly becoming aware of the words they had exchanged in the treasure room. Then, like before, she surprised him, this time by opening her arms to him. In a low, whispery voice, a bit slurred by the alehead, she pleaded, “Come. Hold me. I am so scared.”

If ever a man made a new record time for undressing, it was he. He’d always had woman-luck in the old days before he became a berserker. He must have his old charm back. No doubt Joy had been stifling her lustful urges for some time, but now she had crumbled under an overwhelming desire for the mating with him. It happened like that betimes.

She had scarce lifted his side of the furs before he was in his bed, holding her, skin to skin. The pleasure was so great that he was the one who almost fainted.

With a sigh of pleasure—from him or her, he was not sure—he rolled onto his back, taking her with him to his side, where she nestled up against him, her face buried in the curve of his neck, an arm thrown over his chest, one of her nipples caressing one of his nipples, and a knee raised and covering his standing manpart. He kissed the top of her sweet-smelling hair.

Then came surprise fifty or so, by his estimation.

She fell asleep.

So much for her lustful urges!

BOOK: Viking Heat

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