Authors: Sandra Hill
Viking Heat (30 page)
She placed a hand on his. He turned it, reflexively, and her fingers pressed against the inside of his wrist where she could feel his rapid pulse rate. So, he was not an unaffected as he pretended.
He jerked his hand out from under hers, as if with distaste.
“Actually, I think you
do
want me near you, and that is your trouble.”
do
want me near you, and that is your trouble.”
“Are you going to sigh-co me, or whatever you call it?”
“Psychoanalyze.”
He shrugged as if to say
Whatever!
and turned to speak to Erland on his other side.
Whatever!
and turned to speak to Erland on his other side.
“What an ass!” she remarked to Arnis, who was grinning at her.
“Dost refer to me or Brandr?”
“Brandr,” she said, “though I’m beginning to think all men are asses.”
That was reinforced when Brandr stood and held up a hand for silence. When everyone was quiet, he announced, “We have new entertainment tonight. Mistress Joy is going to favor us with tales of the future and how we Vikings are going to fade from the earth. Oh, and mayhap she will tell us about a little blue pellet that can make a man’s staff stand to attention for a sennight and more.”
Everyone began to call out their approval of their new skald. The old skald was dead drunk at the back of the hall.
Red-faced with embarrassment and displeasure at being put on the spot, she glared at Brandr as he sat down again and reached for his mug of ale. “I will get you back for this.”
“I would like to know how. There is naught you can do to affect me anymore.” He snickered. He actually snickered at her.
“Well, you see, Brandr, we never got around to engaging in all the different kinds of sex I wanted or planned.” She put a hand on his thigh, high up.
His face filled with color, but he didn’t shove her away. So she plowed on, “For example, I could slip under the table when no one was looking, kneel between your legs, and . . .” She told him in detail what she could do. Only when she was finished did she lick her lips and smile at his astounded and, yes, interested, face.
Then she squeezed his thigh, stood, and sashayed across the dais and down the steps, not giving him a backward glance. But she knew that he was watching her.
When there was silence in the room and some of the people had moved closer so they could hear better, Joy began:
“Once upon a time, in the year two thousand and nine . . .”
Some forms of dining can only be done in twos . . .Brandr was able to evade Joy for two whole days.
But that did not mean she was not on his mind. Oh, nay! She had managed to implant herself in his brain like an erotic splinter with those images she had suggested at dinner two nights past.
So he decided not to eat in the great hall . . . for the time being. Which was silly, he knew, and cowardly, but he could not stop himself. Or he pretended an interest in Inga whenever he saw Joy approaching.
“It is a defense mechanism,” Tork told him, slipping down into the bathing pool beside him.
“Huh?”
“Joy asked to have a chat with me tonight.”
“A chat?”
“Yea, that means a talk.”
“I know what a chat is. Why are you chatting with the wench?”
“Because she asked me to.”
“What kind of friend are you, that you go chatting behind my back?”
“Will you stop interrupting me? I am trying to tell you that Joy believes you avoid her as a defense mechanism.”
“I assume you are going to explain.”
“You avoid her to prevent yourself from being hurt.”
“Mayhap I am just bored with the wench. Didst ever think of that?”
“Ah, well, then, you would not take exception to my tasting the wench’s favors?”
He turned slowly to take his friend’s measure.
“I was jesting, Brandr. Holy Thor! Do not be so sensitive.”
“Sensitive? Nay, do not tell me. Another Joy word.”
“Once I find my female side, I will show you how to find yours.” He grinned at Brandr. Then they both burst out laughing.
“She has certainly been entertaining one and all with her nightly sagas. Didst know that Rolfr the Ganger in Norsemandy will breed sons and grandsons leading to one called William the Conqueror, who will win a great battle for all of Britain?”
“Truly?”
Tork nodded.
“When?”
“About fifty years from now.”
“Do you believe her tales then?”
“I do not know. How about you?”
“Same here. She sounds believable, but how can it be? Time travel? Pfff!”
“Well, the old ones tell fanciful tales of giants and dwarves and dragons and such. How much different would future marvels be? I do not know if she speaks the truth or is just a good storyteller. I do know this, Brandr. She loves you.”
“I do not think so, but even if it ’twere so, I do not care.”
Tork raised an eyebrow of disbelief.
“ ’Tis for the best, Tork. Do not join the wench in her games. Yea, I still want her, but it was always going to be a dead end. Either she will go away in a poof, or I will wed some suitable Norse maiden, and you know she is not the type to share.”
“She would probably cut off your manpart and make it into some gel, like ram’s testicles.
He winced but then grinned at his good friend.
“Do you think there is any of those apple dumples left?”
“I was thinking more of a tun of ale.”
“Perfect. Beer and apple dumples.”
But, truth to tell, Brandr was thinking of a different kind of eating . . . one Joy had planted in his head. And no amount of beer or sweet dishes was going to make it go away.
Dressed to kill . . . with temptation . . .“Liv, can we go up in the treasure room and see what we can find?”
Liv straightened with shock from the gown she was edging with embroidery in the form of twining acanthus leaves. “You would steal from Brandr?”
“No! I just want to see if there’s any clothing there, other than these sexless apron outfits you women wear here.”
“Sexless?” Liv lifted her own apron, not understanding.
“You’ll see.” Later she was the one sitting in Liv’s bedchamber, wielding a needle. She’d found a gown “in the Saxon style,” according to Liv. It was long-sleeved velvet in a midnight blue color, like Brandr’s eyes. Very plain except for some gold silk banding on the wrists and hem, and a very wide gold cloth belt, almost like a bustier. It had a rounded neckline, but it was above the collarbone. Joy was lowering it a bit more to expose some cleavage. Not that she had the breasts for cleavage, not without help anyway. So, with a little creative binding, aided by Liv, she was going to create the impression that she did. It would be the medieval version of a Victoria’s Secret push-up bra.
Liv couldn’t stop giggling. “Will you not be embarrassed to go out in front of one and all in this wanton garment?”
“You think this is wanton? Honey, you should see what they wear in my time. Dresses so tight they could be painted on, and the hems up to here.” She pointed to a place high on her thigh.
“You jest?”
“Nope.”
“Do you . . . did you dress like that?”
“No, but not because I thought it was objectionable. It just wasn’t me. Besides, I’ve been in WEALS training where such clothing would be unacceptable. Men and women dress the same there.
Blah
, being the key word.”
Blah
, being the key word.”
“I cannot believe you shaved, as well.”
“Almost all women do, in my time. It feels great.”
Liv looked skeptical but then she asked, “Mayhap I will try it when I bathe on the morrow. Will you show me how?”
“Sure.”
Why not?
Joy figured. She’d already gotten herself in trouble for a dozen other reasons. Helping Viking women to get clean-shaven shouldn’t be a big deal.
Why not?
Joy figured. She’d already gotten herself in trouble for a dozen other reasons. Helping Viking women to get clean-shaven shouldn’t be a big deal.
All her high hopes didn’t last long, though. No sooner had she entered the hall than Brandr confronted her. “Oh, nay! Never! You will not be going in front of my men dressed like that.”
“What’s wrong with how I’m dressed?”
“Have you totally lost your senses? Not only are you a thrall, but now you would sell your wares.”
“Thrall, thrall, thrall! I’m sick of hearing that word.” She went rigid with affront. “The only man I was trying to interest was you, but then you’re right. I’ve lost my senses to think you are worthy of my
wares
.”
wares
.”
“Is that so?” They were both glowering at each other. “And, by the by, where have you been hiding
those
?” His eyes were about bulging out at her bulging breasts.
those
?” His eyes were about bulging out at her bulging breasts.
“I don’t know what you mean.” She straightened, which caused her breasts to be even more prominent.
He used a fingertip to trace the edge of the bodice, which caused her nipples to rise and harden, evident under her dress’s thin fabric.
By his grin she knew that he had noticed. “Do not think you can entice me with these beauties. I have seen better.”
“Bite me!” she said, spun on her heel, and went back to Liv’s bedchamber, tears of hurt—and, yes, frustration—filling her eyes.
She was already gone before he muttered, “I would like to. Gods help me, I would like to bite you, every blessed wanton bit of you.”
Hit me with your best shot . . .“Uh, Brandr . . .”
Brandr was just breaking fast the next morn when Tork approached him. “What?” he snapped.
“In a sour mood, are ye?”
“Bite me!” he said.
Tork just laughed at the expression he had picked up from Joy. An appropriate one, he had to admit.
“You might want to come out to the exercise room and see how bow-skillful our newest archer is.” Brandr’s father had built a huge annex onto the keep where he stored weapons. In the winter months, soldiers repaired and sharpened their swords there, but they also engaged in exercises of sorts.
“I will be there soon enough.” He’d been up for three hours and had worked up an appetite, not just engaging in swordplay but setting up wrestling matches betwixt some of his men to build muscles and raise spirits, helping to cart deadfall limbs from the forest for firewood, and riding his horse down to the fjord and beyond, checking the ice fishing nets. At this time of year, they had to make use of every daylight hour they had.
“Whate’er you say.” Tork grinned as he reached for a piece of manchet bread with a slice of hard cheese.
“I assume that grin means you are up to some mischief.”
Munching on his bread and cheese, Tork did not answer immediately. After swallowing, he said, “Not me. Your new archer.”
Fine hairs rose on the back of his neck. “She would not.”
“She would.”
“Bloody hell!” he swore, shoving his own food aside, stomping down the steps, across the hall, and through the long corridor leading to the adjacent room, which was huge, as big as the great hall, though not heated. Men in the heat of exercise needed no hearths.
And there she stood, dressed in men’s—rather, boyling’s—braies and tunic with a longbow raised to her shoulder. And, with a whoop of delight, she let loose an arrow, which whizzed through the air with a direct hit to the target.
His men—traitors, all—were laughing and cheering.
“Luck,” he declared under his breath.
“She has been doing thus for the past hour.”
“And you just now came to tell me?”
“I was enjoying the view too much.”
Which Brandr understood when she bent over to pick up a new arrow from the ground, exposing her rounded arse in the tight pants to several dozen lustsome, appreciative male eyes.
“Joy!”
She straightened so quickly she almost slipped on the rush-covered floor. “Hi!” she said to him.
His eyes almost rolled back to the whites with fury at her blithe greeting.
Without further words, he took her by an upper arm and nigh dragged her back to the hall, ignoring the laughter behind them and her squeals of resistance.
“What is wrong with you?”
“Everything,” he said through gritted teeth. “E’er since you arrived on the scene, everything is wrong.”
She tried to wriggle out of his grasp, but he was having none of that. Noticing the gawking folks who began to gather from the kitchen and then the great hall, he continued to drag her toward the stairs, then picked her up and carried her to his bedchamber, slamming the door behind him. Only then did he release her to stand.
“You are two bricks short of a full load, buddy. What did I do wrong now?”
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