Fate had a battle on her hands. She would die fighting—would howl and curse the gods while the flames licked at her feet.
The Viking strode alongside her on the narrow path leading down the cliffs.
From behind them, a series of loud roars shattered the silence.
Konáll cupped her elbow when she stumbled and wrapped an arm around her waist.
She froze and bile raced up her throat. Twisting out of his hold, she leaned on a craggy stone. The roar of waves crashing on the tiny inlet and a sudden gust chased away the nausea. Nyssa drew in a deep breath and closed her eyes, savoring the fresh tang of the sea.
“What ails you woman? You are as green as the moss on the cave’s walls.”
“I needs tell you of Aegir’s curse.”
“The cat told me all.”
Nyssa shook off his hold. “Nay. Aegir cursed me twice.”
He crossed his arms, spread his legs wide, and raised a dusky brow. “More than burning at the stake?”
“I am heiress to castles and lands—”
She shrieked when he sprang forward, scooped her into his arms, and marched into the tumbling waves.
“You did not answer me. What ailed you so your skin turned green?”
“’Tis part of the curse. A man’s touch brings bile to my throat.” She cupped a hand over her mouth. Speaking the words soured her saliva. The muscles in her stomach rioted.
He dumped her into a crashing wave.
Nyssa stifled an oath when she parted her lips to swear at him and swallowed a mouthful of salty ocean. Turning her back to the incoming swells, she coughed and swiped at the tears caused by the brine attacking her eyes.
He caught the neck of the tunic she wore and tore the fabric apart. Using the shredded linen as a cleansing cloth, he carefully wiped the grease from her face.
“Give me fair warning when you are ready to empty your belly from disgust at my touch.”
In truth, the nausea had faded somewhat. Mayhap because the fresh scent of the sea filled her lungs, or mayhap because when he scrubbed off the grime coating her neck and throat, she could no longer smell the stench of her own flesh. ’Twas blissful to be clean again.
When he began to rinse the pig lard from her breast, she stilled his hand. Staring at his brown hand on her white flesh, she whispered, “I will finish.”
“Nay. We break the curse this night, Nyssa. Close your eyes and lean against me.” He grasped her shoulders and fit her back to his belly. At that moment, she realized he had shed his garments. He set her bottom to his pecker. His erect pecker.
She stiffened and tried to wriggle away.
“Nay.” He kneaded her shoulders. “Before Bagan One-Eye went to Niflheim, he spoke of his seven brothers who have taken over Castle Caerleah at your uncle’s invitation. If aught happens to you, your uncle’s eldest daughter inherits the lands and castles. Your uncle agreed to wed his daughter to any man who rends your maidenhead and burns you at the stake.”
Nyssa curled her lip. “That coward. My uncle, Ánáton, is afeared of his own shadow, and his eldest daughter, Monette, is a witch. And a greedy one at that. Bagan One-Eye intended to kill me then?”
She shifted her toes on the sand, arched her neck, and sighed when her aching muscles eased under the Viking’s steady massaging.
“Aye.” Konáll slid the cloth lower and rubbed small circles around her belly button. Her stomach rippled at the tingling sensation.
“Are you ill, Nyssa?”
“Nay.” She shook her head. “’Tis wondrous. For so long, if a man so much as brushed against me, I would vomit for days.”
He brushed his lips over the cusp of her shoulder. “Your face has lost the green twinge, and you are no longer as stiff as a metal rod. Methinks it time to have you find your woman’s pleasure.”
Tension stiffened her backbone. “What of the curse?”
“Tis time to break it.” He turned her around and set his lips to hers. Warm breath skittered over her damp cheeks. Her skin heated at the sizzling silken contact.
She set her palms to his chest, pushed to break the strange sensation of his mouth on hers, and met his stare. “I have much fear of this, Viking. I am not like other women. I do not lust after men. I have no desire to couple.”
“Shh.” He touched a finger to her lips. “Close your eyes and give over to me. I will not do anything you do not wish.”
“And what if I wish you to stop, right now?”
Chapter Three
“Nyssa, want you to die at the stake?” Konáll blew on her ear.
She yanked her shoulder up to ward away the caress and puckered her forehead to squint at him. “Know you any sane person who yearns to be burned alive?”
Only his warrior training stopped him from shaking her senseless. Did she never stop replying to one query with another? “Answer me.”
“I can find no way to break the curse. Trust me, Konáll. I have thought long and hard on this since the day I learned of it. Thrimilici is upon us.” Her voice broke on a choked sob.
She had called him by name. Odd, that should please him so. He traced the line of her chiseled arm. “I bear the ring of the Saracen.”
The brisk breeze didn’t whisk away her audible gasp and that, too, pleased him. Beneath his palm, her muscles twitched. Slowly, she turned to face him.
At that moment the moon shed her clouds and beamed a silvery stream of dazzling brilliance. His belly knitted. How had he not seen her beauty? She wore the allure of elves and pixies combined. The shorn hair should have lessened her womanhood, yet the silken, jagged edges somehow enhanced features of absolute perfection.
Wide eyes framed by thick fringes of muddy brown lashes stared at him, streaks of amber threaded through a gray only a threatening storm cloud could claim, and twin dark points punctuated the middles. Ash brows rose, and her nostrils flared.
She spoke, the words drowned by a squalling flock of white gulls flying over them.
Undeterred he continued to study her face. The nose mayhap a tad too arrogant for flawlessness, the cheekbones high, ridged and dusted with a hint of shyness and full, pouting lips the color of ripe raspberries. He loved raspberries. His cock throbbed.
“I did not hear you, Nyssa. Say again.”
“’Tis the truth you speak, Viking? You wear the Saracen’s ring?” Her eyes were luminous and nigh as dark as coals.
“Aye.”
“Mayhap ’tis why I can bear your touch.”
“Mayhap.” Mús had warned that e’en if Nyssa’s bile did not rise, she was cursed to fight his taking of her virginity.
“Show me.”
’Twas a command, not a request. Her hot breath skipped over his left nipple. Konáll knew she did not realize her short nails scraped his forearms. Lust crackled across his groin as the image of her lemon-kissed womanly curls crowded his mind.
“Are you deaf, Viking? Show me.” She cuffed him.
He shook his head. The curse. He had to break the curse.
“Hold my cock.”
She reared back, brows pulled together, but neither greened nor released her hold on him. “Nay.”
He grinned at her grimace. “Aye. ’Tis where I bear the ring. Whilst fighting with the Jomsvikings, I was captured. The caliph who took me enjoyed devising tortures to suit each prisoner. He spent many a sennight testing me and in the end, he found my weakness.”
Her head dropped and the heat of her gaze had him aroused and aching in a pulse beat. She chewed her bottom lip, but reached one hand to his erection.
Konáll ground his teeth. Desire lashed him. His knees wobbled at the sight and feel of her tanned fingers encircling the base of his shaft.
“Nay.” She dashed her hand away and a wave crashed around her waist when she fell to her knees.
The gods had mercy and a stiff wind carried off his low moan. Mesmerized by the sight of her eye-level with his engorged shaft, her sinful lips but a whisper away from the glistening head, he fisted his hands at his side. “You must find the ring.”
Expecting her to ask why, he flinched when she took him in hand.
With trembling fingers she explored the head of his shaft, warm puffs of her breath a soaring blaze to his pecker. He tried to hold still, but his wayward organ jumped and twitched between her palms. When she drew the foreskin back to the base, his stones tightened, and he bit his tongue until the pain caged his exploding lust. The copper taste of blood flooded his mouth. He locked his hands behind his back and blinked her into focus.
The sight of her nigh did him in. Worry furrowed her forehead and a tear leaked from one eye, she tilted her chin. Her lips opened, then closed. “How do you still live with such a thing? ’Tis the cruelest torture.”
“It hurts not.” The Saracens’ torture of him was naught compared to the sweet agony of her tentative tracing of the metal ring that pierced the flesh between his balls and anus.
Gently, he removed her hands from his skin and lifted her to standing.
Never before had a red haze of lust blurred his vision. He nuzzled Nyssa’s nape and reeled when the spice of her woman’s arousal filled his nose. ’Twas as if he had imbibed a score of ale and wine horns. His cock burned. The chill of the crashing surf swirling over his hips did naught to cool his desire.
She moved with such swiftness that he had no time to counteract her swift and powerful punch to his chin.
“By Odin woman!” He tossed Nyssa into the crest of a breaking wave, cracked his jaw, and ran his tongue over his teeth. Though the blow felt as if she had separated the front row from his gums, it had not.
In the murky darkness, he glimpsed the flaxen cap of her hair as his betrothed breached the ocean surface not an arm’s length from where he alternately treaded water and skimmed his toes on the sandy seafloor.
What mischief now?
He had smelled her desire. She had melted in his arms. Why, then had she pummeled him?
Mús’s earlier warning echoed in his head. He had to break the spell, but she would fight him to the death if need be. Forsooth, mayhap ’twas fate’s intervention, her powerful punch. For the blow had restored his warrior focus and discipline. He knew what he had to do, had planned the taking of her maidenhood and her woman’s pleasure during her healing trance. He thanked his brother, Dráddør, for the addition of the harem master’s tools to his trunk.
Swimming against the strong current, Konáll concentrated on Nyssa. He plunged after her, captured both her hands, and planted his feet on the seafloor. “We
will
finish this.”
“Nay. I see dawn’s light. ’Tis too late.” She squirmed and kicked his shin. His bones vibrated, and he clenched his jaw against the sharp pain. In truth, her strength nigh bested his hold on her.
Konáll locked her wrists behind her back—first her pleasure, then her maidenhead. He spun her around so she backed his chest. “Forgive me,
mìlseachd.
”
Trapping her waist, he hauled her higher so her feet skimmed the lapping water and carried her up the sandy incline to the middle of four stakes he’d driven into the sodden sand earlier.
He whirled around, dropped to his knees, and forced her onto the beach beneath him.
“What of your pecker?” Those sultry lips curled into a sneer. “Risk you it greening and withering?”
He grinned. “Nay, betrothed. I risk naught. Afore dawn you will be well pleasured, your maidenhead breached, and the curse broken.”
Charcoal eyes glittered fury at him, the amber flecks in them forcing him to recall the lion’s dire warning.
Konáll glanced at the horizon and cursed. He bore down on top of her squirming hips and legs, letting his weight still her movements. Working quickly, he spread her wide and bound her wrists and ankles. Once he had her secured, he retrieved the sack he’d hidden after the battle.
Nyssa spat Gaelic at him—short angry curses. Hissed her rage. Jerked her hands violently. Jolted against the ropes keeping her spread-eagled.
After retrieving the items he needed from the sack, Konáll knelt between her knees. Moonlight shimmered over her firm breasts and caressed her narrow waist and the slender curve of her hips. Sea drops glittered around the hollow of her navel, the liquid crystals sparkled and danced as she thrashed.
He was harder than marble, his stones rammed tight and ready to erupt, and the neat triangle of tight, pale curls at the apex of her thighs had him salivating. Frenzied desire heated his skin. Sweat peppered his brow. He concentrated on evening his jerky, rasped breaths. When he regained control of his shaking hands, he retrieved the dildo from its velvet sack and spread the fabric on the sand. Then he set the clay pot of the harem master’s aphrodisiac oil and the ivory penis on the golden square.
’Twas time.
She rampaged against the restraints, her feet drumming the beach, her hands twisting back and forth as the rope allowed.
After lubricating the carved penis, he settled between her legs and nudged her thighs wide. He rested one arm heavily on her belly effectively quieting her furious writhing. The action did naught to contain her angry shouts.
She arched and bellowed one vile oath after another.
He fought her movements, jammed her into stillness, and nuzzled her belly, the soft sweet flesh below her navel.
“Nay!” She tossed her head from side to side.
He set his mouth to her core and tongued the hooded source of her pleasure, then blew softly while sliding the penis side-to-side through her folds. The magikal aphrodisiac coated the lips of her puss, and the pink color deepened with each stroke.
“Aye,” he murmured and took her woman’s nub between his teeth.
She froze.
Tugging the sweet flesh lightly, he waited for her to battle him again, but she neither wrenched nor jerked, and her stomach rippled under his palm. He suckled the delicate hood and inhaled her unique perfume. Musk and clover honey mingled with the salt of the ocean and the spice of the oil. Her curls tickled his nose and, unable to resist, he slid the ivory head through the silken pubes and pressed a hard circle against her nub.
Her belly contracted, and her coarse bellows ceased.
Spreading her wide with his other hand, he licked the circumference of her folds, and laved the tip of her delectable buttocks crease. The dildo moved easily as her sex slickened. ’Tween the oil’s effects and her honey, the tip of the crown of the ivory cock slipped into her center. Konáll groaned as her walls clamped around the smooth dildo. His pecker throbbed and his balls blued to bursting.
She arched, the motion slight, and her bottom cheeks tightened. Above the gentle swishing of waves on sand, she whimpered, and he heard her low moan.
Konáll grinned. He reversed the direction, tonguing the circle and halting at her hooded nubbin.
To his delight dewy cream coated the reddened flesh. He sipped the sweet skin guarding her core. Her legs tightened around his shoulders. ’Twas all the signal he needed. He set his mouth to her nubbin and sucked, inserted one finger into her sheath, and stifled a howl when her puss clamped down on him. Working yet another finger in, he began swiving her.
“Aye. Nay.”
He rejoiced for her hoarse croaks were no longer commands but pleas. He increased the tempo of his tongue and driving fingers.
She heaved, and her hips lurched off the sand.
Her inner walls convulsed around his digits, pressing them so hard the bones ached.
Not stopping for a breath, he yanked his hand free, positioned the dildo at her center, and drove it to the hilt.
She screamed.
He hung his head at the anguish in her voice, but pulled the leather knotted around the dildo slowly until the tip of the carved crown cleared her entrance. Konáll bit his lips to silence a hissed wince. The sight of the ruby streaks on the pale dildo hammered at his chest. Carefully he set the obscene instrument on top the velvet to dry.
He freed her legs and arms and gathered her close, hoping the heat of his body would warm her chilled and trembling flesh. “’Tis done. The curse is broken. You are free.”
Mús had been right. The exact wording of the curse allowed Konáll to free Nyssa. For he had taken her maidenhood, given her a woman’s pleasure, and ne’er had his cock or the Saracen’s ring touched her flesh.
Not an ounce of fight appeared left in his warrior princess, and he mourned the loss. Her shoulders shook, and she curled into herself. Tears dripped onto his arm and ribs. He held her tighter and crooned a nonsense verse his mother had sung long ago to soothe him after a nightmare.
All at once Nyssa went limp in his embrace. He drew back to study her tear-streaked face. She was either asleep or in the trance of earlier.
Had he done the right thing? Would she ever find joy in the loving between a man and woman after this? ’Twas better than being set aflame and dying in agony. After a time, she no longer hiccupped, and her breathing fell into a regular rhythm. Her flesh had warmed a little, but she needed to be swaddled. Thank Freya, he’d had the foresight to stuff a length of wool into the sack.
Elbowing slowly to a sitting position, he scanned the bay. A misty fog swirled around them. The curling cream vapors chilled his spine, and his lack of clothes, armor, and weapons snaked dread and danger across his nape.
Though he knew the spiked rocks surrounded them, he perceived nary a black stone. Urgency coursed through his veins, he shifted her, reached across to the rock, fumbled with the sack, and retrieved the blanket. She did not react when he wrapped the cloth around her. He gathered the velvet bag and the dildo. Streaks of dried scarlet marred the ivory surface, the proof of her innocence intact should he have need of such. He inserted the hand-carved penis into the bag.
Konáll stood, adjusted both Nyssa and the sack, and turned around. The moon’s rule had ended and the sun peeking over the horizon illuminated the cove. He swore under his breath.
What had happened to the army of boulders?
For the jagged rocks had vanished, replaced by a gleaming silvery beach with nary a stone in sight. Dawn’s glow shimmered over the fine white sand, blinding him for a moment. The cliffs still stood as afore, the red stone face now burnished gold by the rising sun’s rays. As he watched green ivies flecked with white flowers sprouted from the craggy bluffs.
Every hair on his body spiked.
A gentle breeze, sprinkled with the tangled aromas of fresh brine and sweet peas, circled the bay. The spicy perfume did naught to tame the menace throbbing in the icy air.
A slight sound drew his attention.
Mús.