The Pirate Bride (14 page)

“And I’ll bet there were plenty.” She leaned back to float as well, but when she realized how visible her breasts and nether hair would be to a lecherous fool such as himself, she swam over to the boulder instead, and holding on, she craned her neck upward.

“Now see what you have done! All I can see is a male body part. You put that wicked idea in my head.” She was smiling as she spoke, and he rather liked her teasing him.

“Is it big? The male part in the skies? If so, it must be mine.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk!” she said, still with a smile in her voice. “You mentioned your brothers. How many do you have? And are there sisters, as well?”

“I am the oldest of four brothers. No sisters.”

“I have only brothers, too, but brutes they are, always had been. We were never close. Are you close to your brothers? Do you see them often?”

He swam over to lean against the boulder beside her. But then he picked up the soap, lathered his head and face and shoulder, and went down deep to rinse off his upper body and soap the lower regions, front and back. It would be nice if Medana did it for him, but he knew enough about women to recognize that it was too soon. He came spurting up beside her and began to soap her hair before she had a chance to protest, which she did.

“I can do it myself. Stop that.”

Not only had he soaped her long tresses but he was working the soap into her shoulders and neck, massaging the tight muscles. She reeked of honey, in a good way. “I know you can,” he replied huskily, “but I can do it better.”

“Be that as it may . . .” She grabbed the soap out of his hands and went off a short distance to take care of her own cleansing habits. Unfortunately, he was unable to see clearly, despite the full moon. Mostly, she did her soaping under the water.

When she returned with her hair finger combed behind her ears, she set the soap on the boulder and said, “I asked about your family. The fact that you have been gone so long . . . Were there problems before you left home all those years ago?”

He shook his head. “We were a close family. Not just my brothers and me, but my father and mother, too. I had a good home, growing up. Now that I am older, I realize that I took for granted what many children do not have.” He shrugged. “I have not seen my mother and father for five years, and because of the estrangement from my father, there has been little contact with my brothers, as well.”

“What went wrong?”

“Nothing went wrong, precisely. My reputation for being wild was earned long before I left home, if you must know. My mother, Lady Alinor, claims I came stomping out of the womb ready to raise trouble. Mischief was my motto. And, truth to tell, my father was said to be a bit wild himself afore he married, so he has no right to condemn my wicked ways. Still, I had decided to reform and was going back to Dragonstead when . . .” He let his words trail off.

“When you were captured by female pirates,” she finished for him.

“As you say.” He was deep in thought for a long moment as memories assailed him. “Starri and I were the closest, him being only two years younger. Starri most resembles my mother with his red hair and freckles. Guthrom came six years after Starri and is eight years younger than me; and then Selik was not born for another four years; so there is a twelve-year difference in our ages. Selik was always trying to keep up with the rest of us, even as a toddler scarce out of his swaddling clothes. He is still at home, I believe.”

“And the others . . . where are they?”

“Last I heard, Starri was handling my father’s merchant vessels with a base in Jorvik, whilst Guthrom was soldiering in the king’s service. Starri married young, to the daughter of a neighboring jarl. Dagne was her name, and Starri was smitten from the first time he saw her. She died two years past of a wasting disease. Supposedly, he still grieves mightily and vows ne’er to wed again.” He glanced over at Medana, wondering why he was talking so much of personal things he usually kept hidden. Well, not hidden. Just not brought out to examine like a running sore.

She stared back at him. “Thork, you need to go home. You need to make amends with your father. Methinks your brother Starri needs you. And mayhap you need him, too.”

Way too perceptive the wench was! “That is precisely what I intended to do,” he reminded her.

“Oh! Do not place all the blame on me. You have had five years to return.”

“Well, too late now.”

“It is ne’er too late.”

He shrugged. “For now, we must get out of this water before we are shriveled up into an old codger and an old crone. Unless . . .” He let his words trail off.

“Unless
what
?” she asked suspiciously.

“Unless you would let me lick your skin to see if it is as honey sweet as it smells.”

“Lick yourself. You used the same soap.”

“You are cruel, wench. Cruel.”

She smiled again, and he was coming to love her smile. Nay, not love. Appreciate.

“Before we go, Thork”—she swallowed visibly as if to gain courage—“you mentioned taking our longship. You cannot do that. Without
Pirate Lady
, we cannot survive here.”

“Then return to your various homelands.”

She shook her head. “I would face trial by Althing and death, for a certainty. But I am not concerned about just myself. There are thralls here who have fled from cruel masters. Wives who could no longer bear their husbands’ vicious second and third wives, not to mention concubines. Orphans and the disgraced. Women who no longer fit in regular society . . . if they ever did.”

“You should have thought of that . . .”

She put up a halting hand. “I need no more reminders of what I have done or not, as the case may be. Please, Thork, is there naught I can do to change your mind?”

Oooh, she should not have said that. Not when he was nude, and she nude, and she had those pretty little nipples, and his staff was the size of a lance, and she had seen a male part in the skies, and he had been celibate for three whole sennights. It would be conniving, not chivalrous, his mother would say. But his mother was not here. And chivalry be damned! Thork was tired of trying to be good.

“If you shared my bed, as a woman, I might be willing to negotiate.”

Medana surprised the spit out of him by not even hesitating to answer, “Agreed!”

Chapter Thirteen

It wasn’t the tunnel of love, but it might lead there . . .

T
hork sat on the grassy area beside the pond for several hours with Bolthor, Jamie, Jostein, Alrek, and Finn, passing a skin of mead betwixt them.

Thork had taken a charmingly embarrassed Medana back to the hunters’ hut wearing naught but a thin chemise, and left her there after awakening Brokk and telling him to guard her locked door. She’d gazed at him with confusion before he left, and no wonder. After she’d agreed to spread her thighs for him, he’d put her to bed, alone. He would have joined her there, gladly, but he feared what he might start and be unable to complete to his satisfaction, or hers, when he had so much to do yet tonight.

“Later,” he had promised her with a quick kiss.

“Mayhap,” she’d responded grumpily, but she’d licked her full lips as if to get his taste. He took that for a good sign.

“It really is an amazing feat of nature, is it not?” Jostein commented, calling Thork back to the present.

“I have ne’er seen such in all my travels,” Jamie added. “Leastways, none that were not manmade like those of the ancient Romans.”

“Should we go through tonight and examine it further?” Jostein suggested.

“Yea!” they all agreed enthusiastically.

’Twould be an adventure of sorts, Thork thought. “Can you go get two more torches, Alrek?”

Alrek nodded and was off.

“How do they get the longship down to the base of the pond and through the tunnel, out to sea?” This from Bolthor, who was casting his head one way and another, trying to figure out how it could be done.

“Henry says that they use a sledge to get the longship over to the pond. Then they tip the boat downward a bit until one end is sitting atop the boulder, facing the tunnel, with the back end still on the ground. With fifteen women on each side, they carry it through the tunnel. Longships are not all that heavy, as we know.”

They all gaped at Jamie after he gave this lengthy explanation.

“How in bloody hell did Henry learn all this when we only found out about the pond and the tunnel this afternoon?”

“Pfff! Where do you think?” Jamie grinned. “That’s where he is right now. The lucky sod! Off tupping the Lilli pad again!”

“You are just jealous,” said Alrek, who’d returned with two lit torches.

Thork could not help but notice the scorch marks on Alrek’s tunic. The clumsy halfwit! Had he not realized that he could have brought the torches here to be lit with the one already blazing from its post stuck in the ground?

“Henry best be careful or there will be slant-eyed babes aplenty on this island come spring,” Thork said, taking another long draw on the wine bag.

“Just one babe,” Alrek said. “Lilli is the only one who’s gained his fancy.”

“That is even worse. The lackwit will be wanting to stay. That is how women trap men all the time. Make them think they are the one and only virile man in the world. Boost their conceits ’til they start thinking their shit is gold. Then they . . .” Jostein’s words trailed off when he saw that they were all staring at him. “I am just saying,” he grumbled.

“We’ll wait a little while longer, until the water is all out and through the tunnel, but it will be muddy.”

“I just cleaned my boots,” Finn whined.

“I’d rather keep mine on,” Bolthor said. “There are no doubt rocks and mayhap even snakes.”

“I guess I could clean my boots again on the morrow,” Finn said.

“Do we need to worry about the women blocking the tunnel after us, or stealing their leader back?” Alrek wondered.

“Are you thinking they could move yon boulder?” Jamie scoffed.

“Women are wily creatures. You ne’er know what they can do when they set their minds to it,” said Jostein, the cynic.

“Besides, some of them are witches and could no doubt move it with magic,” Jamie added with a mischievous glint. He was teasing Alrek, who tended to believe everything he was told.

“The boulder will not be moved,” Thork said with finality, “but there is still the question of whether the women warriors will storm the hunters’ hut to rescue their leader whilst we are gone, and mayhap harm Brokk in the process.” Thork pondered the question a moment. “Nay, I think they realize by now that their fate is in our hands, whether it be today or in the future. Their only recourse now is to work with us.”

“Besides, Brokk is twelve years old, almost a man,” Bolthor interjected. “We do not give him enough credit for defending himself.”

That was probably true. Many a Viking youthling was considered an adult by that age and was allowed to go a-Viking. But not fight alone against a horde of enraged women.

“There is a more important issue to the women than rescuing their leader. They will not want to give up their longship,” Jamie pointed out.

“They will have to,” Thork said. Even though he’d inferred to Medana that they would negotiate that point, there was no way Thork and his comrades could get back to Hedeby without the vessel. Whether they would return it to the women . . . that was the question.

A short time later, they were through the tunnel, which was really not that long—about ten ship lengths—and on to the narrow strip of land that connected Thrudr to Small Island. The tide was down and the waves were breaking far out to sea.

They stood in a huddle, staring back at the way they’d come, up, up, up to the top of the steep mountainside. There was naught but trees right down to the shore that was a scree of rocks. He could see how uninviting this island would seem to any passing seafarers, and why they might stop at Small Island for water without daring an exploration of the larger island.

“I am going up to the top of Thrudr again to study the surroundings, now that I am better informed,” Thork said. “And if the gods are with us, we will be taking the longship out to sea tomorrow night.”

“Not tomorrow night,” Bolthor proclaimed. “Big storm coming tomorrow night.”

“Bolthor! How can you say that? Look at those stars. Clear skies at night, sun on the morrow.”

Bolthor shrugged. “Storm tomorrow night. You will see.”

“Do you feel it in your bones?” Jostein asked snidely.

“Nay, I feel it in my missing eyeball.”

Thork did not know if Bolthor was jesting or not. No one liked to question him about his missing eyeball.

“Well, should we go back now or go on to Small Island to explore more?”

They turned as one to look at the two women standing at the end of the narrow connecting lane. They’d been aware of them all along. An old crone with hair like a gray haystack, with a dog the size of a small bear barking at her side. And a somewhat younger crone who was brandishing a large wooden pitchfork.

“Not tonight,” Thork decided. He was not in the mood for killing women, and those two looked like they were geared up to fight to the end.

When they returned to the pond and then used the water trough he’d built for the new shipbuilding project to wash off their mud, Thork said, “We will take turns guarding the hunters’ longhut, two at a time. Alrek and Jamie, you two go first. In a few hours, Jostein and Finn can take over. Bolthor, you can rest after all the woodcutting you did today. We will make plans in the morning for how to proceed.”

“And where are you off to now?” Jamie asked Thork.

“To bed.”

There wasn’t one single person who thought he had sleep in mind.

Where’s a prince when Sleeping Beauty needs a wake-up call?  . . .

Medana knew she’d shocked Thork when she’d agreed so quickly to his proposal that she share his bed furs in return for saving their longship. What he didn’t realize was that she’d had time to ponder their dilemma the whole time the men had been on her island, knowing that eventually the men would take back the reins of power and with it the women’s only means of survival, their only connection to the outside world. A longship.

And, really, it was no great sacrifice to Medana. She’d been tupped before. There would probably be pain, but only for a short time, if her experience with Ulfr was any indication. She’d suffered worse when she cut her thumb nigh to the bone with an axe the first winter they were in exile.

An invasion of her body. A sharp, piercing pinch. A grunt. And it would be over.

More difficult to endure would be the indignity of the act. But then she’d swum in the nude with Thork a short time ago, and that was not so bad. In fact, she’d rather enjoyed herself. The rogue could be charming when he set his mind to it. Not that she was taken in by that false seduction. She was no feckless maid easily swayed by false wooing.

But where was he now? She lay stiff as a board on the rush-filled mattress, waiting for him to come. But he did not. What if he’d changed his mind? Would she care? Of course she would care. It would mean that he was backing out of their arrangement. And the longship would be lost.

Medana yawned and rolled over, then back again, the straw rustling under her. She tossed off the linen blanket and stared up at the crude ceiling. Now that the men had added on to the hunters’ hut, mayhap she could find a better use for this region of Thrudr. She could set up one of the women as a goatherder here. Goats liked mountainous terrain and needed little care. They could subsist on forest pannage, like acorns and wild fruits. Plus their milk made wonderful cheese, as Olga had already demonstrated.

Or the boys, as they grew older, might make a place apart from the women, but that was another problem altogether . . . what to do with the boylings as they grew into youthlings and then adult men. Would they stay on the island or want to move away? She could send them to Agnis, she supposed, to be trained as merchants.

Or mayhap she could use the longhut as her own private retreat. Nay, that would be selfish of her. Why should she have the luxury of her own home, apart from the others?

How about making the place into a romantic spot where the women could bring men to couple. Oh, good gods! A breeding hut? That would be encouraging the women to capture more men. Soon the island would be overrun with children . . . and men. Goats would be better.

Then, too, Bolthor had noticed a problem with some of the laying hens. Apparently, aside from being a warrior and a skald, he was also a chicken farmer. Before he’d married his wife, Katherine, she had an estate, Wickshire Manor in Northumbria, that was noted for its poultry. Chickens still flourished there today. Hard to picture a big, brawny Viking tending chickens, but then Norsemen were known to adapt to all circumstances. Even being stranded on an island by female pirates. In Bolthor’s opinion, they should kill all the existing poultry for food and start anew with a new flock come autumn. Which would mean going a-Viking sometime soon, or going to market to purchase the stock.

So many decisions to be made!

Eventually, Medana fell asleep under the weight of her roiling thoughts. And her dreams were troubled, too. They took her back to a time long ago before fear and caution became her everyday bywords. She was a girling, sitting in a field of wildflowers, watching the dancing of various butterflies when a tall figure approached. Instead of being afraid, she rose to her feet and then ran as fast as her little legs would carry her, jumping up into a pair of warm arms that held her close. It wasn’t her father, surely, or one of her older brothers. Nay, must be a stranger.

It was no wonder then that she awakened slowly to realize that she was pressed willingly up against a warm body that held her close, her face nuzzling the crook of his neck. One of her hands rested on the fine hairs of his chest, under which his heart beat strongly.

She should have been intimidated, but she was not. How odd! Mayhap this was still a dream.

“Wake up, my beautiful slugabed,” he murmured, and kissed the top of her head.

Not a dream!

“Is it time to get up?” She barely restrained herself from pressing her lips against his neck. Or worse yet, to lick his skin. To see if it carried the salt flavor of the pond, she told herself. “Is it morning already?” With no windows, the room was very dark. Still, through the rough chinking in the walls, a grayish light appeared.

“Almost dawn. In about an hour. But, nay, ’tis not time to get up yet. ’Tis time for . . . something else.”

Ah, the coupling I agreed to.
She rolled over on her back. “Shall I lift my chemise so you can do it?”

“Do what?” He was leaning over her. She could feel his breath against her face, coated with the not-unpleasant scent of mead.

“The swiving.”

He leaned forward and buried his face on the pillow beside her head. She could feel his chest heaving.

“Are you laughing at me?”

“ ’Tis hard not to. Have you resigned yourself to being the mistress of martyrdom tonight?”

“What if I have?” she asked, not liking to be the subject of his mirth. When she attempted to shove him away, he just levered his elbows to either side of her shoulders and settled his heavy body atop hers.

Oddly, he did not feel too heavy. And, despite the night air that was cool, he was warm. Even hot. Like an erotic blanket, she thought, and almost giggled at her fancifulness.