“I think I shall have to hire another tutor for you,” Etainen said. “One to teach you how to be a better victor.”
“Um, yes, of course.” Freya’s head was swimming. “Swimmy, swimmy, swim, swim.”
“What?” Etainen said.
“Hedwig, is this supposed to happen?” She should feel worried; instead, she could describe the feeling she got only as fluffy.
Fluffy?
“I’m feeling all kinds of happy, as if I’m in a big ocean of blueberry ale, only not drowning, and the ale is fuzzy and warm. Headache is there sometimes, but then it gets happy again.”
“The potion is working just like it’s supposed to.” Hedwig pinched her thigh under the table, harder than Freya had pinched hers.
Freya rose, unable to concentrate on
hnefatafl.
There were so many more pressing worries. “I want to dance. How do they dance in Rome, Etainen? Can you show me?”
“No one’s won the game yet,” he said, looking away from her. Why didn’t he like her still? He was supposed to like her. They were supposed to be gazing at each other with glazed eyes, murmuring sweet nothings, not about each other, but around Rome. Freya gave his broad shoulder a shake. Could he tell she was using the hand on him to steady herself?
“You said you gave her a potion,” Hartwin said, yanking her from Etainen by the shoulder. “What kind of potion?”
“A calming—”
Freya grabbed Hartwin’s hands. “Come on, let’s dance if Etainen’s going to be a squish-fun.”
“Er, there’s no music, Frey,” Hartwin said.
“I know a mouse that lives by the sunny stream,” Freya sang. “It ripples all day long like a pleasant dream. The little mouse goes eep, eep…” She continued with one of her favorite childhood songs. In fact, it was the only one she had learned before her singing instructor quit. Something about night terrors.
“Uh, maybe I should remix that potion if it’s doing
that.”
Hedwig covered her ears as Freya kept on singing.
“The little fish goes bloorble urrble, bloorble urrble.”
“This is Freya’s normal singing,” Faramund said. “Only she usually never sings.”
“I can see why.” Hedwig rolled her eyes as Freya kept on singing.
****
Siegfried was downing his wine faster now. That sound, that horrible sound continued. He tried to focus instead on Hartwin and Hedwig. The Remi soldier was still badgering the bold maid about the potion.
“Leave me alone about it already,” Hedwig finally snapped. “Do you want to sit here and listen to her cry and whine? I sure don’t.”
Siegfried decided that his bride was becoming more and more dislikable with each passing second. He needed to find something positive in this, anything to make this bearable. He remembered her kiss in the market. If she were eager to play the whore for Pompey, she could do the same for him.
He snatched her onto his lap, her round ass against his cock. Her eyes were very wide before he kissed her. Her lips tasted of tart ale with an aftertaste of something like white wine. She sagged against him. Her kiss was not as fierce as earlier, but slower this time. He drank in her sigh, her nipples hardening against his chest. That toga fabric was so deliciously thin. If he slipped a hand up her thigh, he was certain she would be slick, ready for him.
Her men would never allow him to carry her away. There was nothing for it but to prolong the probing of accepting mouth. He groaned as she adjusted her bottom, planting herself more firmly upon his lap. His cock rose to attention. Would her sex be as hot and willing as her lips? His hand on her neck locked her against him, but she wasn’t trying to pull away. On the contrary, her arms slipped around his neck, a soft moan escaping.
“Enough,” Berengar said. “She is not your wife yet.”
“He got her to stop singing,” Hedwig said.
Siegfried forced himself to end the kiss. But she would remain on his lap, so that round little ass of hers could conceal—and torture—his eager cock.
He tightened his grip on her waist and neck as his vision blurred on the edges, his head feeling fuzzy. She’d had some sort of potion, and he’d probably kissed a healthy dose from her lips. What
was that potion? This thought was followed by a piercing ache in his temples. He shook his head. Odd. He closed his eyes as she turned her body so her back was against his chest, her ass again stimulating his cock.
“She isn’t usually this way?” Siegfried was beginning not to care so much about any of this. It was difficult to care, between the effects of the potion and the sweet torture. “These benches, they need backrests.”
Freya’s shifted again so her head rested in the crook of his arm. She touched a lock of his hair at his nape. “It’s streaked with sunshine, but you don’t smile much.”
“Jumping up behind people and yelling ‘booga booga booga,’ yes,” Hartwin told Hedwig. “But not ‘ooty booty booty.’”
There was a difference? Siegfried had to strain to follow their conversation. Information was always important. Why did he want to laugh? He wanted another wine. And to have Freya alone, that toga off, body laid bare, his for the taking.
Hartwin was still talking. “She’s flighty, but in a charming way, not like she is now. This,
this
isn’t Freya. I’d rather her be upset, Hedwig. I hardly call being upset whining. It would be whining if she were complaining about not having an Egyptian choker for her wedding. And she never would have kissed Etainen like that.”
Guilt cut through some of his arousal. He’d not, no matter what circumstances required, even this marriage, have a woman regret her actions with him. That thought was stifled by another explosion of pain between his ears.
“Freya, what about your game?” Berengar said, nudging the board.
“Oh, yes,
hnefatafl.
I will play offense again. Rome conquering the barbarians.”
Siegfried thought her eyes did look a little unfocused. So, her men didn’t think she was mad, yet all the behavior Siegfried had seen led him to conclude just that, at least until he’d had this potion.
“This time, I will play the conquering forces,” Siegfried said. “You defend what you have and see how easy it is.” He would take pleasure in showing this little princess what it was like to be conquered, at least in a sense. That would pass the time until this potion wore off.
“Etainen, you’re a Cimbri,” Hedwig said as the board was set. “You live near the North Sea. You worship Nerthus, right?”
“Some of us worship that sea goddess. Why?” Siegfried said.
“I take it that doesn’t mean you, which means you’re not one of those people sacrificing slaves to Nerthus.” Hedwig rested an elbow—and her ample breasts—on the table. Siegfried focused on her face; the other men’s gazes were lured by the siren call of plump tits.
“Human sacrifice?” Freya winced.
Well, at least that upset her. Siegfried learned something about her every time she cringed or looked pained. He only hoped this potion did not dilute his memory.
“Didn’t this Chiron teach you anything about the other tribes?” Siegfried asked. “The Romans sacrifice gladiators to their gods. My people drown slaves as sacrifices.” He didn’t bother to conceal his grimace. The grimace was helped along by the colored light bursting across his vision.
“To Nerthus,” Hedwig finished. “Did you ever think Nerthus might just want some white wine? Really, what is she supposed to do with some man who is missing half his teeth and has breath that smells like a whale carcass? I mean, at least switch to male slaves with nice abdominals.”
“You feel oddly passionate about this,” Freya said.
Siegfried nodded in agreement. If his thoughts remained on the inane or pleasurable, it appeared he would remain pain free.
“Hedwig is my namesake—the infamous, devious Sea Bitch. Nerthus and Hedwig, same thing. Just like Woden and Jupiter being the same. The Gallic Lugh and Apollo.”
“Jupiter and Woden?” Freya seized upon the idea. “How is that even possible?”
“I’ve read tales like that,” Siegfried said. “Where Lugh and Apollo are the same, but they aren’t gods.”
“You’ve read those, too?” Freya asked, blinking at him over her shoulder. He no longer wanted to insult her. Just the thought brought more of the pain, a pain very different to the heaviness in his balls that grew worse every time she moved.
“Aye.” His voice sounded hoarse. How much was he supposed to bear of this persistent arousal? “An odd concept, an obvious endeavor of Rome to make their gods more palatable to us lesser creatures. I worship only Rome’s gods now. I do not need coercion.”
“But, in the tales, they aren’t gods. I don’t think the author is Roman,” Freya said. “Why would Rome make Hecate look so evil?”
He kissed her, no longer caring for the discussion. It required too much thought. He called, too, for water. Lots of water, in the hopes it would dilute the potion. He moved Freya’s ale away as she studied the playing pieces.
She seemed to be enjoying herself, and even though her gaze was slowly becoming focused again, she sometimes cast him big, goofy grins over her shoulder, usually after she made a good move. He considered moving her from his lap, but there was no danger of him falling for a Rome-loving princess. No, he’d enjoy what charms she had. Lust, aye. Never love.
Chapter Four
Etainen won every damned time Freya played as defense. She extracted revenge for her losses by adjusting her position on his lap. Each time she so much as budged, she was rewarded with a jerk of his cock against her ass and a hoarse, agonized groan against her neck. She had hoped to distract him, but the man was clearly accustomed to thinking under pressure. Damn him.
Still, even though he did not like her, he wanted her. This power over him was heady. She needed to think clearly to wield it and not succumb to those stormy eyes that glazed with lust each time she looked over her shoulder, her bottom bringing his cock to attention.
When her headaches became less painful, as enticing as it was to stay and continue toying with Etainen, it was time to do something constructive. She pretended still to be drunk and wanting to retire, so no one—no one being Etainen—would expect her to get out of bed until the morrow. If she had her chamber to herself, she’d take time to pleasure herself; teasing Etainen did not come without its consequences.
When the two women arrived in Freya’s chamber, Hedwig thrust Freya toward the bed.
She landed on what felt like a great pile of rocks because of the mahogany boxes stuffed within. “I’m not drunk. But I need your help.” Freya winced as she pushed herself off the bed. She definitely had a few more bruises now.
“I’m going to meet Fara—”
“This won’t take long, Hedwig. I need a disguise. A good one. I need comfortable shoes, too. The thin soles on our Roman sandals hurt. I’m going to get the prisoners out tonight, but I don’t want Etainen to recognize me if he should happen upon me.” Normally, Freya went barefoot when she was Swan, but if she could get comfortable shoes from Hedwig, that would be a boon. The shoes from her peasant disguise rested in a corner, but Etainen might recognize them from the marketplace.
As annoying as he was, she could kiss Etainen again for giving her water to drink. He’d been so discreet about it, having her share his drink. If only he knew the purpose for which she was using her sobriety.
“I have a better idea,” Hedwig said. “I wasn’t supposed to give you this yet, until you mastered your powers better. Just give it back to me when you’re done and don’t say a word to Morrigan.”
Freya leaned forward, watching as Hedwig reached into her satchel and removed a trident. It was beautiful, crafted of purple pearl with shimmering abalone tines. It glowed softly in the dim light. “How…how did that fit in your bag? Where did you get that?”
“You pulled it out of your Power Dream. Sometimes it happens. Morrigan took it from you before you awoke. But you’re going to need it if you’re planning on taking on all those guards. Maybe you didn’t notice, but the prisoners have a lot of Romans watching them tonight.”
Freya took the trident. It felt warm in her hands. The purple glow of her magic suddenly surrounded her. The light left her in human form, winged and with armor. Had she mastered the wi— No. They disappeared.
She tempered her frustration with her wing failure by admiring her armor in the looking glass. It was armor like she had never seen before, made of purple pearl with abalone trim, carved into the likeness of swans above her breasts. The bodice fit tightly, raising her small breasts. There were no leggings, only an abalone skirt, similar to the ones Romans wore, yet this skirt barely covered her crotch. The boots were thigh-high and included heels. The shoulders were abalone as well and crafted to resemble wings.
“The original armor looked like a giant pearl box. I couldn’t let you be seen in that. Your armor gives you strength and agility, Frey. But I also enchanted it to prevent you from getting sick at the sight of blood. You’ll be fine. Just don’t get stabbed in the tits.”
Freya gave her another hug. “You gave me shoes.” Hedwig really was a friend, wasn’t she? “But, we’re going to need to cover up the armor when I’m wearing it tonight. I’ve never seen a human in armor like this.”
When they were finished, Freya looked in the mirror. She barely recognized herself. She’d done this before, though barefooted. Now, her feet were heavily bandaged under the new boots, padded with heavy cloth. The soles were wonderfully thick. A glamor concealed the trident, making it appear as an ordinary wooden staff. The boots were covered in material woven of shadow. Her face, below the eyes, was covered, too. There would be no chances taken that Etainen would rescue her. Atop her head was a curling wig of vivid red hair.
“You want me to come with you?” Hedwig asked, her reluctance plain in her sneer.
“No,” Freya said. “But wait to see Faramund. I need him on guard duty. And, thank you.”
She lumped the furs on her bed, lest Hedwig wander off or someone checked on her. When she was satisfied the bedding looked like a slumbering Freya, she left. Hedwig had even had a spare blonde wig in that strange satchel of hers that she’d retrieved when she’d given Freya the red one. This blonde wig was stuffed just beneath the top of the furs.