Sandra Hill - [Vikings I 01] (12 page)

Finally Thork pulled back slightly and whispered, biting the edge of her bottom lip playfully, “What were the other things that man Kevin liked in his kisses? Was it…yes…deep, I think you said.”

When Thork’s tongue plunged through Ruby’s parted lips and began a slow, rhythmic, in-and-out cadence, Ruby put her arms around Thork’s neck and parted her legs slightly so she could feel him better. His manhood touched the bud of her femininity, and a shock of pleasure hit Ruby, so intense that she went limp in his arms. Thork’s body spasmed in reaction. He pulled his mouth away roughly, holding her face firmly between his two hands.

So hoarsely that Ruby could barely hear him, Thork asked, his self-control obviously near the exploding point, “And the last thing this man liked in his kisses?”

“I can’t think,” Ruby admitted, watching smile lines crinkle Thork’s eyes. But then she murmured, “I remember now. I think it was ‘long, slow, deep, soft, wet kisses that last three days.’”

Thork grinned and Ruby’s heart lurched, as it always did when Jack looked at her like that. There she went again, thinking of the two of them—Jack and Thork—as one.

“I don’t know about the three days, but I think we can manage the next to the last one,” Ruby promised shakily. “Don’t you?” Playing the aggressor, she pulled his head down to hers, then wet his lips with the tip of her tongue before plunging into his mouth as he’d done to hers moments before.

Thork’s low, throaty moan gave proof positive that he liked what she was doing, not to mention the increasing, delicious pressure Ruby felt below the waist.

Thork pulled away from her, passion glazing his eyes.

“Truly, are you a sorceress?”

“No, just a woman.”

“Will you be
my
woman this night?”

Ruby whimpered as he seduced her with a slight movement of his hips. “Oh, Thork, a part of me wants to, but—”

“Which part?” he asked with a lopsided grin, arching an eyebrow as he moved against her again.

“That’s not fair,” she gasped with a short laugh. “Thork, I want you, too, but I’m too old for one-night stands. I’ve lived with you, I mean Jack, for too many years to be satisfied with so little.”

“One-night stand?”

“It means that I won’t be just another notch on your bedpost, to be forgotten the next day. Unless, of course,
you mean your invitation for more than one night.” She looked up at him hopefully.

Thork bared his white teeth in a devastating smile. “Oh, sweetling, ’twould be more than one night, I wager, afore our appetites were sated.”

No doubt about that, Ruby thought. Every inch of her skin pulsed with want of him.

Impatient, Thork asked once again, “Will you share my bed tonight?”

“Will you admit to being my husband?”

Thork tilted his head questioningly. Then his eyes stormed over as realization hit him that she wanted more from him than he was willing to give.

“Never!” Thork said vehemently, pulling back from her. Suddenly his passion turned cold. He slammed a fist into his palm angrily. “I should have known. Ever do women want something from a man. Never do they give their love unconditionally.”

“That’s not fair.”

“’Tis the fool I am for thinking you showed honest emotion when, in fact, you sought payment for favors given. Marriage vows in exchange for your body! Hah!” His blazing eyes raked her body scornfully. “It appears you were well named after the harlot in your bloody name-song, after all.”

“Thork, that’s not true,” Ruby cried, but he’d already turned and left. She touched her fingertips to kiss-swollen lips to stop her sobs.

Would this man ever stop hurting her?

For the next few days, thoughts of Thork tormented Ruby. No matter what she was doing—helping Gyda to put away summer produce, marketing with Astrid under Ulf’s ever-present surveillance, playing with the children, singing and telling stories at Sigtrygg’s court each night where she’d gained an unwanted popularity—Ruby couldn’t stop thinking about this Viking prototype of her husband.

She should have felt guilty, having such adulterous feelings for another man. She didn’t.

The rational side of Ruby’s brain told her Thork was not her husband. The other side of her brain, however, the one with a pipeline directly to her heart, saw no difference between Jack and Thork.

Ruby needed to talk to Thork, but he avoided her like the plague—rarely coming to Olaf’s house and leaving whenever she saw him in Sigtrygg’s hall, usually with the blonde she likened to Dolly Parton.

Somehow she had to convince him she came from the
future and that, for some reason known only to God, she’d been sent to him. Then, too, Thork’s sons demanded her attention. She must convince Thork that his neglectful behavior hurt the boys. They needed him almost as desperately as she did.

And what about Jack and her own two boys? Was Jack sorry now that he’d left her? Did he think she’d died? She couldn’t bear to picture Eddie and David at her funeral, having to live without a mother. But then, Jack planned to look for another woman. He’d already told her so. As painful as the thought of Jack with another woman was, Ruby hoped his second wife would be a good mother for her sons—if she didn’t return.

Ruby swiped at her eyes and glanced at Gyda who’d been chattering away while Ruby’s mind wandered. A guard, Ulf, followed close behind as they walked toward the Norse castle.

“’Tis a puzzle to me yet why Sigtrygg’s latest mistress, Byrnhil, would summon us. And midday, at that! ’Tis the busiest time of the day. Leastways ’tis for honest folk.”

“I don’t know any more than you do. Believe me, I would as soon stay far away from your king and his volatile moods. I’m afraid he may behead me yet.”

When they got to the palace, the empty great hall echoed with silence. A servant escorted them to an upper chamber where a dozen well-dressed women of Sigtrygg’s court eagerly awaited their arrival.

After the preliminary greetings, Byrnhil, a big-boned, Amazon-like woman, whose size probably suited Sigtrygg well, got directly to the point.

“I sat in the hall the first night you arrived and saw those scanty underthings you wear. Could you show them to us again, here in private?”

Ruby and Gyda exchanged looks of surprise.

“Why?” Ruby asked.

“I like nice things,” the obviously vain mistress said,
pointing around the room where luxurious garments lay haphazardly across chairs and chests. Fine tapestries adorned the stone walls and a Persian carpet hid a portion of the rush-covered floor. “Also, I saw the look in some of our men’s eyes when you disrobed. Mayhap such garb would suit me, as well.”

“I guess it would be all right,” Ruby said hesitantly. “I own a business that makes fine lingerie, you know.”

Byrnhil and her ladies clapped their hands in delight.

“Wonderful,” Brynhil declared. “You can make some for me. We will raid Sigtrygg’s treasure room for fabrics.”

When Ruby modeled her black silk and lace panties and bra for the ladies, they oohed and aahed, touching the fine lace, asking what other fabrics could be used and whether different styles would suit.

“Why are your legs so prickly?” one lady asked with distaste.

“I haven’t shaved in two weeks.” Ruby grimaced.

“You shave your legs? Why? What is your meaning?”

“In my country, most women shave their legs up to the top of their thighs. Some even shave a bikini line,” Ruby explained, demonstrating with a slash of her hands.

“Oh!” several of them gasped. “Does it not hurt?”

“Not at all—when you use soap lather and a sharp blade. And the legs feel as smooth as silk.”

The skeptical women questioned the wisdom of such a habit, especially when Ruby told them it had to be repeated every other day.

The treasure room overflowed with bolts of fabrics, laces, braiding and threads from all over the world, in every color imaginable. She’d known the Vikings’ reputation as traders but never had she imagined such fine taste.

Realizing that paper was at a premium, Ruby pulled aside a bolt of stiff white fabric to use for patterns. She restrained the women from being too greedy and selected
only a half-dozen silk fabrics—black, bright red, green, white and two shades of blue—along with matching trims. She had an especially hard time convincing Byrnhil that wool would not be a good choice for underwear, even for winter.

“I can only work on one set today,” Ruby asserted. “Perhaps if the others watch carefully, they’ll be able to make their own patterns.”

Without hesitation or modesty, Byrnhil stripped to the buff and stepped forward to the middle of the room. The woman’s magnificent body rivaled the finest female athletes Ruby had ever seen, and she told her so. “What do you do for exercise? Do you ever jog?” Ruby had to explain jogging then and was pleased at Byrnhil’s unfeigned interest.

“In Dublin, I practiced for battle with my brothers. Twice have I gone a-Viking with them.” She beamed proudly. “’Tis harder here. Sigtrygg forbids my joining his men on the practice field. Afeard he is that I will best his men with the short sword, I wager.”

She added slyly, “Little does he know I take my servant Hedin to the outskirts of the city where I make him train with me.” Then she advised Ruby, “A woman must protect her own interests.”

Tell me about it!

“Mayhap I will join you in this jogging one day.”

“Not if Olaf has anything to say about it! He’s forbidden my jogging.”

Ruby wasn’t about to risk more punishment, even to satisfy the whim of Sigtrygg’s mistress. She told Byrnhil about the jogging episode.

“Many times have I been locked in my chamber,” Byrnhil boasted. “Sigtrygg even takes a hand to me occasionally. ’Tis naught, imprisonment or a beating, unless a bone be broken or the face marred. That I will never abide.”

Ruby used ribbons to take the place of hooks and eyes on the bra and of elastic at the gathered waistband and legs of the panties. After three hours of measuring, cutting and sewing, Byrnhil stood resplendent in flame-red bikini pants trimmed with black lace. The bra, also of red silk, teased the eye with peek-a-boo black lace in strategic places.

Byrnhil pirouetted in front of a large sheet of framed polished metal, proclaiming Ruby’s creation a huge success. “You will make me a dozen more of these garments tomorrow,” Byrnhil directed two seamstresses at the edge of the room.

Byrnhil walked over to a lacquered Oriental chest in the corner and dug deep, tossing aside one object after another before she found what she wanted. Returning to Ruby, she handed her an emerald the size of an almond, hanging from a fine gold chain. “With my thanks.”

“Oh, my goodness! I couldn’t accept this. It…it was my pleasure to make the lingerie for you.” But Gyda nodded her approval, and Ruby accepted the priceless gem. On the way home, Gyda and Ruby giggled like young girls over their strange afternoon.

“I must thank you for this, Ruby—never have I been invited to the palace by any of the royal misses or mistresses.”

“It seems a dubious honor to me.”

Gyda smiled, their earlier difficulties forgotten for the moment. Then she sheepishly asked, “Do you think you could show me how to make such garments for myself?”

Ruby broke into a fit of laughter, and Gyda reddened.

“’Twould be foolish I would look in such garb, is that not so?” Gyda peeked up at her shyly.

“Of course not, Gyda. I know just the design that would be perfect for you. I laughed because of my ludicrous situation. Here I am in a strange country, worried about keeping my head on my shoulders, and still I’m drumming
up business for myself. My husband Jack would say my priorities are out of kilter, as usual.”

“’Tis hard for you, is it not,” Gyda asked kindly, “being away from your family? I know you have your own business and could probably start another one here with no trouble, but family—well, that is everything, is it not?”

Ruby thought about Gyda’s words, then offered hesitatingly, “In my country, women are liberated. They believe that no woman should be defined by a man—or by the children she bears. She should have her own identity.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Women used to feel that their goal in life was to get married and have children. Now they’re free from that bondage. Many women
choose
not to have a man in their lives, and some married couples
choose
not to have children—ever.”

“Well, ne’er have I heard such ridiculous nonsense in all my life! Of course, each woman has her own identity. When Olaf goes a-Viking or trading with Thork, I handle all his business affairs. I can supervise the unloading of a ship, keep accurate accounts, run the farm and home, but when my husband returns, I gladly defer to him the role of head of our household.”

“Haven’t you ever resented giving up that authority?”

“Nay. A man needs to feel he is taking care of his wife and children. If a woman wants to pursue some talent or even own a business, that would be acceptable, as long as it did naught to interfere in his role as provider and head of the family unit. Surely it is so in every country. I cannot imagine otherwise.”

Ruby thought about her words before admitting, “We’ve made tremendous gains for women’s rights in my country, but perhaps we’ve made some mistakes in our haste.”

“Forsooth! What glory could there ever be in a woman acting the man, of carrying that burdensome job all the
time? What woman could live with herself if she makes her man feels less than a man?”

What woman, indeed!

“She may as well cut off his male parts, like that song you sing about the man wounded in the Asian War.” Gyda pondered a moment and then turned abruptly to Ruby, her forehead creased in concentration. “Is that why your husband left you? Did you make him feel less the man?”

Ruby closed her eyes wearily. When she opened them, she looked at Gyda bleakly. “I think so. Honest to God, without thinking, that’s just what I did.”

With a heavy heart, Ruby entered the front door of Olaf’s home. She stopped suddenly. Thork sat at the table with his two sons playing the Viking board game Hnefatafl, similar to checkers. They laughed and joked and acted like any normal father and sons.

What was going on here?

When Thork looked up and saw Ruby standing in the doorway, his heart skipped a beat. For the love of Freya! After dozens of battles, endless women, so many he had lost count years ago, his stupid damn heart jumped at the sight of a lackwitted, skinny woman with boy-hair and the attitude of a shrew.

It was that kiss! Thork couldn’t forget the delicious, bone-melting, soul-shattering kiss. Nor his anger over Ruby’s refusal to follow through on the promise inherent in such a kiss. But he blamed himself, as well. He never should have allowed the kiss to happen. He had been lax. Just like today. He should not be here. Thork could not let anyone know that Eirik and Tykir were his sons. It was too dangerous. It would be so easy for his enemies to use the information against him.

Thork stood and signaled silently to the boys. They understood that he could not stay when a stranger was
about. At least, he thought they understood. Sometimes when he caught a hurt look in their eyes, he wondered if he should not follow his only other alternative—to take his sons on a ship and disappear to some faraway country, mayhap even that Godforsaken Iceland where so many Vikings fled of late.

“Don’t you even think it!” Ruby told Thork as she stomped up to him, placed a palm on his chest and pushed him back down into the chair. “You’re not leaving here until we’ve had a chance to talk.”

“Do you give me orders, wench?” A smile twitched the corners of Thork’s lips, despite his apparent disbelief over her nerve in pushing him around.

“You bet I do! I’m so mad I could spit nickels.”

“Nickels?”

“It’s not important. Suffice it to say, I’ve had enough of your avoiding me.”

Eirik and Tykir giggled at the sight of their fierce father being bullied by a woman.

“Do you seek my company, sweetling? Wouldst you try my charms, after all? I had not thought my wordfame had spread so far.”

“Wordfame? Charms?” When understanding dawned, Ruby spurted out, “Why, you insufferable slime-sucking frog!”

“Frog?” Thork croaked out on a choked laugh.

“Yes, frog! Leave it to me to land in the dream of a lifetime where I get the frog instead of the prince.”

Thork grinned insufferably, probably not even understanding what she meant.

Ruby clenched her fists tightly to get her emotions under control. Then she turned back to him, calmly. “I want to talk to you about our sons.”

They both glanced immediately to Eirik and Tykir who stared at them, wide-eyed and wide-eared.

“Leave,” Thork ordered his sons. “We will talk afore I depart.”

“Will you stay for dinner, Father, now that Ruby knows?” Tykir pleaded.

Thork scrutinized Ruby speculatively.

She understood little—only that she wasn’t supposed to be aware that a relationship existed between the father and sons. Why?

“Mayhap.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Stay. I’m not going to spoil your little charade.”

When the boys left, Thork motioned Ruby toward Gyda’s private solar. Everyone else had conveniently disappeared.

“Afore you think of chastising me again,” Thork warned, “not that you have any right to do so, let me assure you this is not a charade. ’Tis important no one knows I cherish my sons.”

Cherish?
Ruby’s heart warmed suddenly toward her Viking “husband.” Perhaps she’d misjudged him.

Thork continued brusquely, “Much trouble have Olaf and I gone to in the past ten years to create an image that one word from you could ruin.”

“Why? Why must people think they aren’t your sons?”