The Norse King’s Daughter (13 page)

“Unfortunately, that appears not to be true.” Before she could question that odd statement, Sidroc turned to the others. “I would speak to the princess in private for a moment. Ivar, you can stand in the doorway and watch if you are concerned about the impropriety.”

“I have no interest in—” she started to speak, but Sidroc took her upper arm in a vise-like clasp and nigh dragged her into the garden and past the ever-present fountain. With no doubt panic-stricken irrelevance, she noted that this must be a bird garden. Dozens of different kinds seemed to be chirping and singing. When they were far enough from curious ears, he inhaled and exhaled several times.

“Well, spit it out. ’Tis obvious you have something stuck in your craw. Again.”

He glared at her. “I’m trying to find the words.”

She arched her brows and tapped her foot impatiently.

“Is Runa mine?”

The things women do to hide their secrets . . .

Sidroc watched with increasing fury as Drifa’s face went bloodless and she put a hand to her heart, swaying on her feet. What had seemed like an impossible idea a short time ago was becoming possible.

“What do you mean by such a question?” she demanded in her haughty princess voice, raising her chin and pretending ignorance.

Hah! She was as innocent as a cobra in a privy. Well, her lies were about to come back and bite her in the arse.

“What do you think I mean? Every time I mention the child or its father, you get scared. You ne’er answer any questions about the girl. And you just about fainted now when I asked if Runa was mine. You are hiding a secret, M’lady Liar, and I would know what it is. The logical conclusion would be—”

“—that I birthed a child of your seed? For the love of Frey! When you asked if Runa was yours, you meant
ours
?” she asked with wide eyes and dropped jaw. And then relief, of all things. “What was it? An immaculate conception? A long-distance tupping? I swear you are the dunderhead of all dunderheads.” She dared to laugh at him.

His jaw hardened with anger and he fisted his hands to keep from throttling her. “Did you or did you not have your way with me when I was in a six-sennight sleep? Did you birth my child? Was Runa born, oh, let us say, almost exactly four years ago?”

She stared at him with seeming incredulity.

“Answer my bloody damn questions?” he roared.

He could tell she wanted to hit him, but instead she asked in an irksome voice of calmness, “Exactly how would a woman go about having her way with a sleeping man?”

“As if you do not know! She would wait until he was in a death-sleep, and when he had a nighttime erection, or mayhap she would have brought him to enthusiasm with her hands or mouth, she would climb atop him and hump until his seed shot into her womb.”

Her eyes got wider and wider with his words. “Mouth . . . enthusiasm . . . hump?” she sputtered. “You think I did those things?”

He nodded. “Mayhap more than once.”

“Runa is not a child of my womb.”

She was lying, or at the least there was some secret she was withholding. “Do you swear the girling Runa is not of my blood?”

“She is not our child, Sidroc. But just for the sake of curiosity, what would you do if she was? You are a soldier. You have no home. You have no wife.”

“I will soon have a home, and I would have my child under my shield, regardless. If you bore my child and kept it from me, I would take the babe in a trice and not look back.”

Her lips quivered and her hands shook as she sank down onto a marble bench. He followed and turned toward her, knee to knee.

“Sidroc, I have never lain with a man, and Runa is not our child.”

He was still suspicious. “So, if I asked your men about the girl . . . the color of her hair or eyes, her facial features, they would not say reddish-brown hair, gray-green eyes? If I went to Stoneheim and saw the child, there would be no resemblance?”

“Nay, do not be questioning my men. And I definitely do not want you going to Stoneheim to disturb my family.”

“Your wishes are no longer my concern, if ever they were.”

“I swear to you on my mother’s grave and my father’s heart, Runa is not our child.”

“Then what secret do you hide?”

“Mayhap I will tell you one day, but for now it is my secret to keep.”

“So be it!” He stood and was about to leave. First thing he was going to do was question some guardsmen.

“Wait,” she said, and stood to face him, a hand on his arm. “For all purposes, Runa is my child, though I did not give her birth. I must needs protect her at all costs. If you promise not to ask any more questions about Runa, I will tell you my secret after you return to the city, afore you leave Miklagard for good.”

He frowned. “Why would I make such a promise? What benefit is there for me?”

“If you will wait”—her face flushed—“I will . . . I will give you . . .”

He knew instinctively what she was going to offer in return for asking no more questions. “Forty-two nights in my bed furs?”

“Or until you leave the city for good.”

“At which time you will tell me your secret?”

She nodded.

“This must be
some
secret you hold close, princess. You would give me your maidenhead to protect a child. A child you seem to think I might endanger.” He wondered now just who the father might be. Obviously someone of importance. He would find out, eventually. But he was not about to let her off the hook so easily. “You are twenty and nine years old, Drifa. How do I know your female parts are not withered up, like a raisin?”

Her face flamed, but she shot back, “You are thirty and one. How do I know your dangly part is not shriveled to a winter-soft carrot?”

He laughed. “My dangly part is just fine, I assure you, especially with that head drilling that was forced on me.”

“Would you prefer they left you for dead?”

“As you did?”

She rolled her eyes. “Do we have to discuss all that again? Will you accept my offer?”

“Agreed,” he said finally and turned to walk away. But then he stopped. “Come here.” He motioned her toward him with a forefinger.

He saw her warring with herself, wanting to tell him what to do with his finger. But then she gave in and walked up to where he stood waiting.

“Put your arms around my neck and seal our bargain with a kiss.”

She did so with an awkwardness that touched him, despite himself. At first he let her press her lips against his in a kiss that was more suited to a child.

“Have you forgotten everything I taught you?” He hauled her up against him, chest to chest, groin to groin, causing her to be on her tiptoes.

“It was five years ago.”

“Still arguing with me, sweetling. That is no way to persuade me to do your bidding.”

She said a foul word under her breath. “What do you want me to do?” They were so close he felt said breath on his mouth.

“Open for me.” He took over the kiss then, and it turned out Drifa hadn’t forgotten much at all. Soon they were both panting with excitement. He could tell she was astonished by her quick response to him. He was astonished, too, and pleased.

“Oh my gods,” she whispered, putting the fingertips of one hand to her lips.

He smiled. “Be in my chambers afore nightfall and do not plan to leave until dawn. Another thing. Do not bother to bathe afore coming to me. We will bathe together in my bathing pool.”

He could tell she was shocked at first, as he intended, but she quickly shuttered her expression with a cool look of disdain. “Good. Because you stink.”

Lifting an arm, he sniffed. No problem. Of course there wasn’t. He had washed and put on a clean uniform before coming to court. He realized two things then.

Drifa was gone.

And the witch had gotten the last word in.

Chapter Twelve

Let the lessons begin . . .

D
rifa had hours to prepare for her “meeting” that evening with Sidroc, but she waited until the last moment to tell Ivar her plans.

“I will be spending the night with Sidroc,” she said without preamble.

“Princess! You cannot do that.”

“I can and I will, Ivar. With all due respect, I am twenty and nine years old, well past the age for maidenly protection of my virtue.”

The shock on his face pierced her. “I promised your father to protect you, m’lady.”

“And you do so, well and good.” Seeing that he was unconvinced, she said something she knew she should not, but it preserved at least a bit of her self-respect and might convince her guardsman to relent. “Sidroc and I are betrothed.”

She was therefore in a stormy mood by the time dusk rolled around and she arrived, with Ivar, at Sidroc’s quarters. And, yea, Ivar would be standing guard outside the door all night. That was the concession she’d had to make to his demand that she allow him to speak to Sidroc first. She knew what “speaking” would entail. Fists, at the least. Blood, at the worst.

When she knocked on his door, Sidroc opened it immediately, raised his brows at Ivar’s scowling presence and raised them even farther when she shoved him aside and slammed the door behind them, leaving Ivar behind.

“That was rude.”

“Do not speak of rudeness, you arrogant lecherous libertine. Do not pretend to—” She stopped speaking on getting her first good look at the cad. He was wearing only
braies
, low slung on his hips, and naught else. Even his big bare feet with their narrow toes reeked sex. If she were not so blistering mad, she might have been tempted by his handsomeness. She might have put a hand to the light dusting of reddish-brown fur on his chest. She might have pressed a fingertip against his hard male nipples. She might have done so many wicked things. Instead she snapped, “Expecting a heat wave?”

“Nay, just you.”

She could tell he was amused by her fury, which had not been her intention. If there were a pottery pitcher nearby, she would hurl it gladly.

“Is Ivar going to stand out there all night?”

“Yea. Feel free to go out and remove him, if you will.”

“His presence does not bother me. Just do not do too much squealing with bedjoy, lest he think I am killing you.”

As if I even know what bedjoy is!
She shot him daggers of revulsion.

He just smiled. “How did you convince him to allow you to come stay the night?”

“I told him we are betrothed.” She raised a hand to halt what she knew would be some insult or other about how he would not marry her now if she were the last female this side of Asgard. “Do not worry that I am deluding myself about your intentions. I will not be begging you to make a virtuous woman of me.”

“Virtuous?” he scoffed.

The donkey’s arse!
“What do you want me to do? Let us get this farce over with as soon as possible.”

“You are so anxious for us to begin.”

“Nay. I am so anxious for us to end.”

“Sweetling.” He laughed. “We have at least nine hours to while away, by my guess. I have even lit a timekeeping candle so you can keep count. We have plenty of time.”

Drifa gulped, unable to imagine what could possibly last for nine hours. He was probably just teasing her.

“I thought we might start with a light repast,” he said, pointing to a low table where there was fruit, cheese, and a flagon of wine.

“My stomach heaves at the thought of sharing food with you at the moment.”

He should have been offended, but instead he just shrugged. “Perchance later you will have worked up an appetite.”

She hoped not.

He handed her one of the goblets of wine, though. When she tried to decline, he said, “Drink it, Drifa. You need to soften your sharp edges.” She was about to argue that her sharp edges were her only weapons against this untenable situation, but he put his fingertips to her mouth. “Enough. Come, let me show you around.”

Sidroc’s bedchamber was small, containing only a raised pallet with a thick mattress against one wall, several pegs on the wall for clothing, and a large chest. His bedchamber had another door, on the opposite side from the entrance door, which opened onto a bathing pool with floating lotus blossoms. It was situated in the midst of a small garden. There was also an antechamber with a table where soldiers could get massages to work out their weary muscles. Another table sat in the garden, this one for dining or playing the board game
hnefatafl
, which lay open as if a game had been interrupted.

“They give such splendid accommodations to all Varangian soldiers?” If her mind were not consumed with what was to come she might have enjoyed investigating the garden more thoroughly. Right now flowers were the last thing on her mind.

“Nay. Those in command of divisions, as Finn and I are, get separate quarters. And we share.” He pointed to five other closed doors arranged next to his in a semicircle.

Drifa was appalled, but not by the bathing pool or massage area. “These men could come out at any time and witness what you . . . what I . . .”

He smiled. “Your modesty is safe, Drifa. Those doors are locked, at my request.”

Thank the gods!

“The men know I am entertaining a lady, but not whom.”

Oh good gods!

“However, Ivar standing guard in the outside corridor might be a clue to some.”

There was naught she could do about that. Ivar would not budge without her, she knew that sure as sin . . . the sin she was about to commit.

“This is a good life you have here,” she remarked, sipping at the wine. Unlike Sidroc’s reason for giving her the wine, she needed it for courage. “Are you sure you want to give up all this luxury?”

“For a certainty. Finn and I had a conversation on this very subject recently. Vikings are not meant for such a soft life. It weakens us.”

She nodded her understanding. “My father always says that the coldness of the north hardens a man’s muscles.”

“And other body parts,” he commented dryly.

If circumstances were different, she might have laughed with him.

“Don’t you feel guilty betraying Ianthe?”

“Nice try, Drifa, but you cannot make me feel guilty. Ianthe and I did not have that kind of relationship. In fact, we have none now, except for being friends.” She must have gazed at him doubtfully because he added, “Are you looking for fidelity from me, Drifa?”

“Nay, that is not what I meant.”

As if she hadn’t spoken, he said, “Well, you have it. Yours will be the only bed furs I share until I leave this country.”

“Even Ianthe?”

“Even Ianthe,” he agreed. Then laughed. “Guess who is visiting her this evening?”

“Who?”

“Alrek, your clumsy Viking.”

This was news to her, though she shouldn’t be surprised. Alrek had talked about nothing but Ianthe since the emperor’s feast. “Visiting? Do you mean that in a carnal sense?”

“I doubt it, but not for lack of the young man’s wanting. ’Twould seem he has fallen in love with my former mistress, or so he claims.”

“And how does Ianthe feel about that?”

He shrugged. “Mostly she is amused, I think. He is quite a few years younger than she is.”

“And you don’t care that Ianthe would be with another man so soon?”

“Nay. We are friends and always will be. I wish her joy in her life, wherever it comes from, or whomever it comes from.”

That was amazing to Drifa.
I wonder if he will care so little about me once he ends this game of his. Will he discard me like stale ale because, in truth, we are not even friends?

Sidroc sat down on a low bench near the pool, his long legs extended and crossed at the ankles. “Take off your gown, Drifa, so I may see what I have ‘bought.’ ”

And so we begin.
“You have not bought me, knave. We are equal in this bargain.”

“Take it off, Drifa.”

She downed the rest of her wine, feeling the heady liquid rush to all her extremities, dulling her brain. But not nearly enough. She was fully aware of what she was doing as she removed her garments and soft shoes. She raised her chin but could not make herself look at him. She knew that her blush covered not just her face but her entire body exposed to his scrutiny, and that was evidence enough that he was humiliating her.

“Unbraid your hair and comb it out with your fingers.” His voice was huskier than usual.

She raised her hands, thus lifting her breasts, which were much too full for her slim frame, in her opinion. Combing through the long strands required her to not only raise her arms but twist her shoulders from side to side, which in turn caused her breasts to bob. In the process, she inadvertently looked his way. Then looked again. Not only was he flushed, too, but there was a large bulge sticking up from his
braies
.

Before she could bite her foolish tongue, she asked, “The head drilling?”

“Nay, this is all your doing.”

Mine? My nude body has that effect on him?
She was both flattered and gratified by his remark.

“Come closer,” he demanded, and spread his legs.

You can do this, Drifa. Think of Runa. You can do this.
When she stood between his thighs, he ran his fingertips over the outside of her arms that she’d pressed rigidly to her sides. Every fine hair on her body rose to attention, including some unmentionable places.

“Oh nay, no hiding. Open your eyes.”

Think about planting bushes. And manure. Do not let him see your feelings.
When she opened her eyes, she noticed immediately the haze of arousal in his eyes, which were more gray than green at the moment. “Good girling,” he said, and leaned up to kiss her briefly before setting her back so he could see her better. “You are so beautiful.”

She was not, but ’twas not the time to argue. In truth, she doubted she could put two words together as he lifted her breasts from underneath, then ran his thumbs across the nipples, bringing them to hard points.
Manure, manure, manure. Horse manure. Cow manure. Oooooh!

Sensing that she was about to swoon, he put his hands to her waist for a moment. “It is all right if you moan your ecstasy here and there.”

“I swear, I am going to hit you over the head with a pottery jug first chance I get.”

“Do not be angry with me because your body betrays you, Drifa.”

And then her body betrayed her some more as he played and played and played with her breasts. Tweaking the nipples. Running his knuckles across them. Pinching them, for Asgard’s sake! But it was when he put his mouth to her that it became too much. He suckled her, he actually suckled her. Hard. Rhythmically. Interspersed with flicks of his tongue. Then he moved to the other breast and did the same.

“So much for manure!” she muttered.

“Huh!”

“I am thinking about manure so I can resist you better.”

“Don’t you dare.” He licked one of her nipples, and a shock of pleasure rippled throughout her body. Her knees gave way and he caught her with a chuckle, placing her on his lap. But not just on his lap. She was astraddle his lap, wide open and exposed to his scrutiny. And he was scrutinizing her, all right.

“Oh, this is not normal. Let me up.”

“Not a chance.”

“But . . . but . . . I need to visit the privy. I think my bladder is leaking.”

His lower body lurched, and he made a low moaning sound at the back of his throat before pressing his forehead against hers, as if trying to catch his breath. “Drifa, dearling, that is not piss. It is your woman dew readying itself for my penetration.”

“I must be as perverted as you are!” she exclaimed when she understood what he meant.
Can this situation get any more embarrassing?

“That is not perverted, silly woman. ’Tis the way the gods . . . or the One-God . . . made women. It will aid in your pleasure.”

“Pleasure! I do not intend to get any pleasure from this act. Not at all.”
If I can help it.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk! Do you not know better than to dare a Viking?”

“I was not daring you.”

“Sounded like a dare to me.” To demonstrate, he put a fingertip right into her wetness and fluttered it once, twice, three times.

She almost flew off his lap.

But he put both hands to her hips and held her in place. In fact, he moved her flush up against his cloth-covered bulge.

“You are torturing me,” she said on a moan.

“Sweet torture, I hope.”

He began to kiss her then, and, oh, he was a good kisser. She’d always known that Vikings were masters of the art of sailing and fighting. She’d had no idea that some were also masters of kissing. In truth, she’d never known there was an art to it, but there was. There definitely was.