Until Forever (12 page)

Considering how angry he seemed to be, she probably should have phrased that in the form of a request. But this was no time for niceties, and she wasn’t about to be shuttled to the sidelines again. She didn’t look behind him to see if his last opponent was down and
out for the count; she simply didn’t want there to
be
any more opponents.

And he must have taken her threat seriously. He didn’t answer her. He didn’t have to. As quickly as they had arrived, he got them out of there.

“D
o you have any idea of how dangerous it is to tamper with history? One of those men you killed today could have been the ancestor of someone important, someone who made an impact on his own time. If you ended the man’s line, before he had a chance to bear children—”

Roseleen was pacing back and forth in her bedroom, where Thorn had returned them. He was standing in the middle of the room with his arms crossed over his chest, simply watching her.

She’d done some swearing when they’d arrived, and scowling in his direction, because what she’d really felt like doing was hitting him for the anxiety he’d caused her. And it was frustrating to know that he’d probably be no more than amused if she’d tried it.

But she’d finally calmed down enough to explain to him what he’d done wrong, only to
have him cut in now with “You worry over trifles.”

Trifles? her mind shrieked. When the whole pattern of history could have been changed?

Her eyes narrowed on him as she demanded, “Just what battle was that anyway? Has it been documented?”

“’Twas no more than a minor skirmish between neighbors, of little import.”

There was an indifference in his tone that really irritated her. To Vikings, battle was glorified, a highly integral part of their lives. They lived for it. They gave no thought to who fell under their blades. Even if a battle was worthy of retelling, there was no remorse or pity for the side that lost, just pride and satisfaction that the winner was skilled enough to be the one to tell about it.

“You’re missing the point here, Thorn. That battle took place hundreds of years ago. It was a done deal, with set results, and time went on to reflect those results. But if someone like you, who wasn’t in the original battle, shows up to alter events, killing someone who should otherwise have survived—”

Again he interrupted her, but this time with something of an explanation, “Odin did caution me against taking lives not destined to perish, also to avoid myself in the times I wouldst visit.”

“To avoid yourself?” she repeated, surprised by what she hadn’t considered. But the rest of what he’d said was too pertinent for
her to wait for an answer. “So why didn’t you take your god’s advice?”

“I did,” he said. “The two sides involved in that battle had long been at war with each other. There were few survivors from their clash that day. There was yet a third neighbor who hated both the other two and took full advantage, coming upon the battle near the end, and dispatching those who might have survived. All died in that battle, Roseleen, so what difference if some died by my hand, or by another’s?”

He had her there. “
Why
couldn’t you have said so sooner? And how do you know?”

For the first time, he sounded disgusted. “I rode with the third factor that day. They were the retainers of the possessor of my sword, and a vicious lot they were. They toyed with their victims ere they put them out of their misery.”

“
You
participated in that?”

“Nay,” he replied. “But I watched it done, unable to prevent it. At least some died more nobly and quickly by my hand this time.”

How could anything noble come out of killing? she wondered. While she was trying to digest that, his voice took on an angry edge as he added, “You will not disobey me again, Roseleen. My life was not in danger, yet your life is not cursed as mine is. That war-horse you approached could have crushed you in seconds.”

She grinned, hoping to offset his anger. “Actually, the beast kind of liked me.”

It didn’t work. With a low growl, he said, “
Now
who is missing relevant points?”

“Oh, I got yours,” she remarked dryly. “You stick me up in a tree—and I didn’t appreciate that one little bit—without telling me that that battlefield was
supposed
to end up as buzzard fodder.” Then with a heavy dose of sarcasm in her voice, she added, “Had you mentioned that sooner, I might have been able to sit back and enjoy the show, even if there wasn’t any popcorn to be had.”

Only briefly did an expression of curiosity cross his face when she said “popcorn,” so intent was he on expressing his anger. “Had you done as you were told—”

“Guess again, Viking,” she interrupted. “I know this is going to be a shock to your medieval system, but women today don’t jump when the master says jump. We think for ourselves, do for ourselves, and we don’t
obey
—God, I hate that word—arbitrary males who have no business bossing us around in the first place.”

“When your life depends on it, you will.”

He was back to sounding calm. She really wished he had yelled that command instead. But his calmness said he
knew
he was right, and if she weren’t still so annoyed with him, she might have agreed.

“All you had to do was take a few moments to explain things to me, Thorn, then I wouldn’t have panicked, thinking you were out there killing the forebears of kings and presidents, changing the whole fabric of soci
ety as I know it. You don’t think I’d risk my life for just any old reason, do you?”

“Presidents?”

“Different countries—” she started to explain, then waved her hand dismissively. “Never mind, democracy wasn’t around when you last were. But if we’re going to travel back in time again”—she paused, hardly able to believe she was really saying this, before continuing—“and the operative word is
if
, then I would appreciate knowing beforehand what’s going on. And what happened to meeting William the Bastard? I could have sworn that was the inducement you used to get me to agree to accompany you.”

Now he was grinning at her. “Lord William does not like it when I challenge his supporters, yet would I have done so, did I not first see to my need for battle. We may now safely visit him.”

“Oh, we may, may we?” she said, annoyed. “Well, I’m afraid I’m not up to two emotional upheavals in one day, thank you. The renowned conqueror of England will have to wait until tomorrow. Right now, I’m going to bed to recuperate from your killing spree.”

“Bed does indeed sound pleasant, yet would I experience your ‘shower’ first.”

She remembered that he’d been eager to get into one earlier—had it only been hours ago?—and he most definitely needed a shower, as well as a change of clothes. She did too, for that matter. She’d forgotten that her clothes were splattered with blood, that what
should have been a nightmare had been very, very real instead.

“You can use the room down the hall. My brother usually leaves some clothes in it—and just remember to get the water to the temperature you want before you step into the shower.”

“You may see to the water for me, Roseleen, since I will be sharing your shower, as well as your bed this night.”

T
he images flashed across Roseleen’s mind before she could stop them, of Thorn and her standing in her steamy shower, her soapy hands running across his broad chest, then of him sprawled across her bed, his body still damp, her body straddling his, her hands exploring every inch of him.

Her breath caught. Her eyes closed as heat spiraled deep into her belly. The sudden weakness in her knees had her swaying. She needed to sit down. She needed to get those images out of her mind. She needed…God, she needed him.

She opened her eyes to find him right in front of her. And he knew what she was feeling. If he hadn’t seen the effect his words had on her, she might have stood a chance of convincing him that she wanted no part of what he had planned for the night. But he wasn’t blind. And she was too drained emotionally to fight it anymore.

When he picked her up in his arms, she gave not a single protest, merely wrapped her arms around his neck while he carried her into the bathroom to set her down right in the shower. He removed only his leather scabbard, boots, and dagger before he stepped into the stall with her. But it wasn’t the water he was interested in starting.

His hands came to her cheeks, lifting her mouth to receive his. Of its own volition, her body moved closer to meld against his. And they stood there, she had no idea how long, tasting each other, sensually exploring each other with their tongues and lips and roaming hands.

Roseleen was growing hotter, weaker, by the second. Thorn seemed unaffected, yet the hard bulge pressing against her belly told her otherwise.

He’d probably gone from bloodlust to sexual lust, a natural transition, except—he wasn’t behaving very lustfully. He was calm, in perfect control, just absolutely determined. His seduction was simply methodical, leaving nothing to chance. He guided, he set the pace, he controlled.

And now that he’d made mush of her with his kissing, he told her, “You may attend to the shower now, Roseleen, and see to the matter of the thing called ‘temperatures.’”

She could? she thought dizzily. But she did, without objection. She was too dazed to do other than follow his exact directions. And it didn’t even dawn on her that they were both
fully clothed, until the water started streaming down on them.

Showering together usually came after lovemaking, not before, or so she’d read. Of course, a Viking wouldn’t do things in the usual way. And this Viking was still reeking of the battlefield.

He threw back his head to receive the full blast of the spray on his face. She turned away from him, her shyness intruding, at least until his arms came around her shoulders, wrapping over her chest.

His lips grazed her ear as he said, “I have a very great need to rip these clothes from your body again, yet do I recall your dislike of simple methods of expediency, so I will restrain myself this time. In fairness, however, do I offer you the same opportunity.”

“You’re suggesting I rip your clothes off?” she asked with nearly bated breath.

“If you feel the need to.”

If? She could think of nothing she’d like better at the moment—no, no, this was insane, she told herself. He was corrupting her with his barbaric ways, or trying to. They could both take their own clothes off, or each other’s off, without ruining their clothes.

She turned around to tell him so, but confronted with his tunic which was now plastered to his chest, she asked instead, “You’re sure you won’t mind?”

His answer was a grin. She grinned right back at him, her shyness forgotten, the need for ripping and tearing that he’d mentioned
just as strong in her. But after a minute of trying to rip his tunic apart, she gave up and started laughing. And that wasn’t like her. Usually when she couldn’t do something that she was attempting to do, she got quite frustrated with herself.

“Do you require help?” he offered.

She glanced up at him and saw that he wasn’t teasing her, he was serious. “No, no—actually, the urge for ruining perfectly good clothes has passed.”

“The clothing can be easily repaired.”

“Are
you
going to wield the needle and thread?” she asked with a grin.

“Nay, you wouldst—”

“Oh, no, I
wouldst
not,” she assured him. “Not when there are numerous clothing stores in every town. It’s only the rare few who still make their own clothes these days, Thorn. The rest of us buy ours. And although most of us might sew up an unraveling seam to get a little more use out of a piece of clothing, we sort of draw the line at big rips and jagged tears. Anything that damaged usually ends up in the rag—”

He was kissing her again, probably to put an end to her nervous jabbering. Whatever the reason, she certainly didn’t mind. But she
was
experiencing some nervousness. He literally towered over her, after all, and the water had showed her all the hard planes of his body, such a big body, and she knew exactly what he was going to be doing with it as soon as they finished in the shower…

“Remove it, then, if you cannot rip it,” he said against her lips.

Yes, of course she would, just as soon as he told her—what? But then he dropped to one knee before her, and she dragged her mind out of the bedroom where it had just gone, to realize he was still talking about his tunic, and now making it easy for her to take it off him.

She reached down to tug on the garment. His lips grazed her neck as she did, then her cheek. She felt his hands at her hips, and suddenly her wet skirt was sliding down her legs. Her fingers were starting to tremble as it occurred to her that they might not make it to the bed, that his idea of a shower and hers might be quite different.

Not that she minded, with the way she was feeling. The sooner the better, actually. But if given a choice, she would prefer a bed for her first experience of lovemaking, to feel his weight on her again. She nearly groaned at the memory of lying beneath him.

She decided to hurry this shower along, and drag him to her bed if she had to. To that end, she lifted his tunic with a yank, forcing him away from her to get it over his head and arms. No sooner did it hit the floor than she was reaching for the soap and making full use of it across his shoulders and chest. The earlier image she’d had of doing so flitted through her mind again, but reality was so much nicer than anything she could imagine.

“’Tis very soft—your soap.”

He had moved his hands up under her blouse, his wrists gradually lifting the material up, but he had stopped over her breasts when he’d said that. Roseleen’s breath suspended, her own hands stilled. When she chanced to see his expression, she saw that he was grinning at her. For some reason, she burst out laughing, and it felt wonderful.

She’d actually never expected to have fun with a man like this. She didn’t know why, but she’d never related lovemaking with fun, yet it was the most natural thing in the world to want to laugh when you were feeling good, and right now, she was feeling really, really good.

With a smile, she turned him around so she could wash his back. In the process, she discovered that he was ticklish, very ticklish, actually, but he was quick to discover the same about her. They did a lot more laughing, and she some squealing, before they got the rest of their clothes off. Roseleen didn’t experience any more shyness after that.

Much later, Thorn picked her up again to take her out of the shower stall, but he didn’t set her down. She started to mention the benefit of towels as he headed straight for the bedroom, but then thought better of it. He was going to do things his way no matter what she said. She’d already figured that out. And besides, she was starting to like his way.

He was very careful in laying her down in the center of her bed. He was careful also in laying himself down on top of her. And his
expression was one of deep satisfaction, that he finally had her where he wanted her.

She didn’t begrudge him whatever feelings of gloating he was experiencing. She felt like gloating herself, for how easily she’d overcome those annoying old-fashioned scruples of hers. She might wonder about that later, at just
how
easily she’d overcome them with him and why, but now she was simply glad that she had.

Right now, with his wet hair dripping on her, she smiled at him and remarked, “You know we’re getting this bed all wet, don’t you?”

“The bed will dry.”

So it would, she thought, before he added, “And I will dry you.”

He proceeded to do so with his tongue, licking the moisture from her, leaving more drops behind him. It was a strangely sensual feeling that was somewhat ticklish, but very erotic, especially when he reached her sensitive areas. But he had her laughing and shrieking at one point, when he raised his head and shook it, sending a shower of cold drops down on her so that he could start all over again.

By the time his licking turned into kissing, Roseleen was a squirming mass of sensitized nerves that reacted to Thorn’s slightest touch. And her perception of medieval man was changed forever.

All of her historical research and studies had led her to believe that in those days, sex
had been a tiresome, though necessary duty governed by the Church. And duty had been tended to quickly and efficiently. Also, medieval attitudes had held women as valueless unless they owned property. Both of those facts supported the conclusion that women wouldn’t have been given much care or tenderness by men, and certainly not the kind of stimulating foreplay Roseleen had just been so generously treated to.

And Thorn wasn’t done. He might come from a pagan era that preceded Church intervention in the bedroom, but Vikings had an even worse reputation with women. Rapers and pillagers just didn’t call to mind pictures of gentle, sensitive sexual partners, yet her Viking was being just that.

Whereas his tongue had been stimulating, his kisses were incredibly hot. Or maybe it was her skin that was hot. She felt feverish. She’d never felt so hot—on the inside. And she knew the cause of that heat. Desire, the likes of which she never could have imagined.

It was consuming her, a deep, primitive need to join with him, and it grew stronger as he drew her nipples, then the whole of her breasts into his mouth, and stronger still when his lips came to her neck, then her ear. Simultaneously, his tongue pushed slowly into that small opening as his hand slipped between her legs and he drove one finger into her.

She climaxed instantly. It was unexpected and explosive, the release of that coiled ten
sion. She cried out, unaware of it. She nearly choked him, her arms squeezed so tight around his neck, and she was unaware of that too.

He wasn’t. It took every ounce of his will to keep from driving into her now and pummeling her with the strength of his passion. He was nearly mindless with his need, having contained it too long. Yet he refused to inflict on her the savage side of his nature, which she herself brought out in him.

It seemed to take eons for her to release her death grip on him, and for her heartbeat to slow. Yet she was still breathless when she told him, “I should warn you, before you get surprised by it. I’ve never done this before.”

His urge to laugh at that eased some of his own tension. “I know,” he said.

She raised a brow at his smug tone. “Oh? And how do you know?”

Now he couldn’t resist chuckling. “Think you I cannot tell the difference? You call no man yours, nor are you a whore, since you have made no attempt to solicit coin from me. Thus are you virginal.”

“I see,” she said, nodding her head. “That’s a very logical deduction, but it doesn’t apply to women of this century. Today’s women aren’t—”

He kissed her again, a most effective way to end one of her long-winded discourses on the differences between their respective times.

She scolded him more than any woman he had ever come across, though usually he
minded it not. Verily, ’twas singularly unique and amusing, he thought, since no female had ever dared chastise him before, not even those who had held power over him through his sword. But now was not the time for such things. And she must have agreed, for she was kissing him back, her arms wrapping around his neck again, her body arching into his in a most provocative way.

It really was more than he could bear at that point. She was so soft, and having attained her pleasure, so yielding, that he couldn’t wait another moment to claim her as his. He entered her slowly, yet was the path slick with her essence, and with only the slightest thrust, he was able to push aside the barrier of her innocence to sheathe himself fully.

She made no sound. And when he glanced at her to see how badly she was hurt, he saw only that her passion had returned instead, and that drove him over the edge. He pummeled her after all, yet with a restraint he’d never shown another woman, and when he felt her climax around him again, his own bliss was there to join with hers.

She was his now. The possessor of his sword had finally become the possessed.