My Fair Viking

  He smiled to himself, and not just at the image of Tyra the Warrior becoming Tyra the Healer… or any man's assistant. Whether Thorvald lived or died, the trepanation had been the most horrible, exhilarating experience of Adam's life. Those final moments when his drill had broken through the bone structure had been filled with suspense for them all. As one, they exhaled with a loud whoosh. Afterward, Adam applied bruised betony to the wound so it would unite and heal, then wrapped a long, clean strip of linen about the king's temple and all around his head.

  Adam, for one, felt as if he'd been touched by the hand of God.

  Whether Thorvald lived or died, and despite Adam's two-year absence from medicine and his vow never to practice again, he knew one thing without a doubt.

  I am a physician.

  Tyra found Adam on one of the ramparts of the castle.

  He sat with his back against the outer wall and his face pressed against his arms, which were folded over his raised knees. She had no idea whether he slept, or wept, or both. Nor did she know whether he would welcome her intrusion. Probably not.

  Even so, she sank down to the rampart floor beside him and put a hand on the nape of his neck. He wore one of the loose Arab robes today, like the one she'd first seen him in back in his Saxon home.

  "Thank you," she said, and she meant it most sincerely.

  He didn't raise his head, but he did turn it so that he could look at her. "For what? We may not know for days if your father will recover."

  "It matters not," she said, and moved her hand from his nape to his shoulder, which she squeezed briefly as a further sign of her appreciation. "Oh, I do not mean that my father's life has no importance. 'Tis just that I know you did not want to practice your healing skills, and definitely not in such a serious case."

  "And not in another country, where I was brought against my will," he added. There was mirth in his voice now. She knew he was teasing her… again.

  "That, too," she agreed. "Despite all your objections, though, you did a fine, fine job. I am impressed."

  "Impressed, hmmm? I like the sound of that." He sat up, which she regretted. She no longer had an excuse to lay her hand on him. And she did so like the feel of his clean hair under her fingertips and the hard muscles of his back under her palm.

  "Do not be letting your ego get more overblown than it already is. Any bigger and your head might explode," she teased back. She was not experienced with teasing games… certainly not teasing games with men. "I merely thanked you for completing the task competently. Just say, 'You are welcome, my lady,' like a humble healer."

  "Humble healer?" he snorted, apparently not liking that description of himself. Tyra's heart went out to the man. He looked exhausted, despite his teasing, and why not? He'd spent two hours working on her father, and another two hours watching over him afterward. No doubt he would return to his vigil after this respite. "I did it because of our pact, Tyra. Do not be attributing fine motives to me. You made me a promise, and I intend to collect on it sometime soon."

  Her face warmed despite her resolution to stop this blushing business that had started when she met this rogue. "I do not for one minute believe that you performed your surgery on my father because of me. You did it because you saw a man in need of your help. You did it because you are a doctor."

  He shrugged. "Perchance it was all of those things, including you and the prize I intend to collect. So, exactly how thankful are you?"

  Uh-oh! "What do you mean?" She was fairly certain she knew exactly what he meant. It would be something involving bed furs.

  "Will you be slipping into my bed furs this night?"

  "Nay!" she said far too quickly. "That was not our agreement."

  He narrowed his eyes at her. "Do you intend to renege on our deal now? Your word is your bond, or so I presumed. Has that changed?"

  "My word is everything. If you heal my father… that was what I agreed to. Then, and only then."

  "I suppose you are correct. I just thought you might want to show some small token of your… thankfulness. In advance."

  "Small token?" she asked skeptically. "Like a gift? A gold coin? An etched silver arm ring? A jewel-encrusted goblet?"

  "Not quite what I had in mind." The twinkle in his eye was most beguiling.

  Tyra had no idea how to handle this man. A rogue, pure and simple, that's what he was. First he pricked her pride by questioning her honor. In the next instant, he twinkled his sinful eyes at her. How was a woman to know when he was serious? "What, then?" she inquired in a surprisingly cool voice.

  "Oooh, let me think." He tapped his lips with a forefinger, thoughtfully. "A kiss would be nice."

  "A kiss?" she practically squealed. "When I am willing to give you some priceless object, you would settle for a mere kiss?"

  "It would not be mere, I assure you. And, frankly, I have more treasures than I can use. You may find this hard to believe, but I have been a knight as well as a healer these past fifteen years. Many a battle and many a prize have there been."

  "Now, there's a conflict of interests," she commented with a laugh. "Did you thrust a sword in your enemy, then later sew up his wounds?"

  "That very thing did happen on occasion. Eventually, I declined to serve as a soldier anymore, unless absolutely needed to defend the position of one king or another. And they did not mind. 'Twould seem my services as a healer were needed more than my sword arm. Either way, the rewards were great. I do not need your material tokens."

  It was she who put a finger to her chin and tapped thoughtfully now. There was more to this man than she'd originally thought.

  He stared at her hotly, waiting for an answer. "Well?" he prodded finally when she refused to respond to his request for a kiss. A kiss that would be more than a mere kiss. She was afraid to imagine exactly what that might entail, but for a certainty it was bound to prove dangerous to her equilibrium.

  When she still declined to answer, he moved on to another subject. "In all honesty, I must thank you, as well."

  "Me? For what?"

  "You are correct in saying that I am a physician. I am also a man… as I intend to show you someday. I was a brother… at one time. I am a stepson. And I am a friend. But most of all, I am a physician. Somehow… God only knows how… I forgot that for a while. Some say that God is the Supreme Healer. Mayhap He arranged events so that I would separate myself from society and medicine for those two years… something I needed to do so that my wounds would mend. Mayhap it was also God who arranged for me to be kidnapped by a warrior-wench who brought me to this lost land.

  That was the most backhanded compliment she'd ever been given. But she was well pleased, more so than if he'd given her false praise about her beauty, as men were inclined to do when in the company of women. His comment relieved her guilt somewhat, too. But, really, he used the most tangled logic she'd ever encountered. "Methinks you give your God too much credit."

  "Methinks I have not given Him enough, and that has been my problem."

  Religion? From this rascal? He is ever confusing me. Does he do it a purpose? Probably. "You are a good doctor, aren't you?"

  "Yea, I am," he answered without humility. She expected no less from him. "And you, my fair Vking. Are you a good soldier?" he asked, taking her hand and twining their fingers together. She tried to pull away, shamed by the size of her hands and the less-than-feminine calluses on her palms, but he would not allow that. Instead, he freed only his thumb and began to caress her wrist, back and forth. What a glorious, glorious sensation centered there where her pulse began to beat wildly! You would have thought he was doing something intimate, or scandalous, but all he was doing was caressing her wrist with a thumb, whilst he watched her, waiting for an answer.

  An answer? Blessed Thor! I forget the question. Oh, he asked if I was a good soldier. "Yea, I am a good soldier… the best a woman could be… or most men for that matter."

  "I could give you an ointment for that itch."

  What that offer had
to do with being a good soldier, she had no idea. "What itch?" She cocked her head in question.

  "The one right there," he said, waggling his eyebrows as he stared at the crotch of her braies.

  She blushed furiously.

  "The one you scratch on occasion… especially when you notice one of your men doing the same."

  She tried to pull her hand away, again to no avail. The man saw too much by half. She did try to take on some masculine traits. The way she walked, for one thing, when she remembered not to roll her hips. Her garments, for another thing. Crude gestures, for still another. It was silly, she supposed, especially if people like this brute noticed that they were not natural movements.

  "Now, now, do not be embarrassed. I think it's rather adorable, actually… in a silly sort of way."

  "Adorable? You think my scratching my private parts is adorable? I need to rethink my actions. I really do. Adorable is not the image I am trying to convey."

  He threw his head back and laughed. What a wonderful sound his laughter was! Warm and spontaneous and very, very sensual.

  When he was done laughing at her, he pulled a mock-somber face and asked her the most unexpected thing: "Well, isn't there some important question you have been yearning to ask me?"

  She couldn't imagine what he was referring to.

  He stood and pulled her to her feet with him. An amazing feat in itself. She did not realize he had the strength.

  "Don't you want to ask me what I am wearing under my robe?"

  When his mischievous comment finally penetrated the daze she was in, she blushed again, because, of course, she had wondered idly about that very subject. But a woman, and her pride, could stand only so much teasing. She pulled hard, and he released her hand. As she stomped down the rampart path, she heard the oaf laughing.

  But she did not stop stomping, and he did not stop laughing… until he called out, "Nothing."

  And then he reminded her, "You owe me, sweet lady-warrior. Do not forget the kiss."

  As if I could!

  Chapter Seven

  "Psssssttt!"

  Adam was about to step down the steep wooden stairs leading from the ramparts when he heard the hissing sound. Was it Tyra, having second thoughts about the kiss? Had she decided to give it to him now, rather than later? He smiled to himself, liking the idea of all this privacy for a kiss that he guaranteed would melt her bones.

  His smile immediately faded when he saw that it was Rashid, not Tyra, who stood waiting around the bend.

  "What are you doing, skulking about?" he snapped.

  "Master!" Rashid exclaimed, clearly offended by his charge. "I have come to warn you—"

  "Warn me? Of what? Has the king worsened?"

  "Nay, nay, nay!" Rashid denied. " 'Tis another, uh, event I come to… hmmm, uh… warn you of."

  "Well?" he said testily. 'Twas hard to go from thoughts of hot kisses, to a possible medical disaster, to whatever it was Rashid was hmmming and uhing about.

  "Look over here," Rashid said, leading him to a rampart wall that overlooked one of the courtyards below.

  Rashid looked and saw a large group of people lined up outside the great hall doors. They were simple folk— cotters, hesirs, their families. He frowned his confusion at Rashid, who was grinning brightly at him. That bright grin caused Adam's frown to deepen.

  "What do those people have to do with your warning me?"

  " 'Tis a miracle, my lord."

  Oh, God! We are back to the lord nonsense. And I am sick to the soul of the miracle nonsense, too. "Speak plainly, man."

  "News has spread already of your great medical talents, Master Adam. These people suffer various ailments that they want you to treat."

  Adam bowed his head. He had made much progress today, but he was not ready for this.

  "Do not be afeared. I will tell them that you are overtired today from your work with the king, whom you must still watch closely. But may I be so bold as to suggest that in the morn you might begin seeing the sick?'

  Adam raised his head, his nostrils flaring with anger. Rashid was pushing him.

  "Just a few," Rashid was quick to insert.

  Sometimes Adam had to remind himself that Rashid, overbearing and annoying as he could be, was his friend. Rashid had his best interests at heart.

  "A few," he agreed.

  And so, the next stage of his life began.

  Adam trapped Tyra that evening.

  She had been avoiding him all day, the threat of a kiss hovering in her mind. In fact, she had not even gone to the great hall for the nightly meal, no doubt an extra-special production on Ingrith's part to mark their father's operation, even though they did not yet know what the outcome would be. He had not died; to the Viking mind, that was cause to celebrate.

  Adam had spent much of the day in her father's chamber, watching over him. Still, she had managed to avoid meeting up with him, there or elsewhere. Till now.

  She'd been ambling from the scullery through the kitchen gardens to the outer back steps leading to the second floor and her bedchamber. On the way, she'd grabbed a hunk of flatbread and a stuffed pigeon. Then she'd stopped at the well for a ladle of water. She'd been sitting on the wide well bench, eating her tasty fare, interspersed with sips of the frigid water.

  That was when the rogue had sprung his trap, coming up on her unexpectedly.

  He dusted off the bench with a hand, then sat down beside her. An understandable action, considering the fine Saxon apparel he wore tonight. A tunic of wool in a shade of midnight blue… which matched his eyes, she could not fail to note. The tunic, embroidered at the edges with silver thread, was belted at the waist over black braies that hugged his form. His half-boots were of butter-soft calfskin.

  She felt like a cow herself next to the resplendent creature that he was.

  "Were you waiting here for me?"

  "I was not."

  "You did not join us for dinner."

  "I was not hungry," she said, then immediately realized her mistake, for she had a pigeon in one hand and a hunk of bread lying in her lap.

  He laughed.

  "It wasn't because of you." Another mistake.

  He laughed some more.

  "You have grease on your lips," he remarked in a tone that was oddly husky.

  She licked her lips.

  He exhaled with a whoosh.

  "What does that mean?"

  "What?"

  "The whoosh?"

  "It means that you affect me greatly, my lady warrior."

  "Oh," she said, but what she thought was, Ooooh!

  He reached out with a thumb. "You missed a spot." He used his thumb to wipe a wide swath under her bottom lip, then put the thumb to his mouth and sucked. The whole time, he watched her, and she watched him.

  For the love of a Valkyrie! Tyra had never seen a man do such an erotic thing in all her life. She felt the effects of the gesture right down to the tips of her tingling fingers and curling toes, and some unmentionable places in between.

  "Do not play with me, Saxon."

  "I like playing with you, Viking."

  "Stop now, or—"

  "Or what?"

  She had no idea what… because the impertinent, arrogant born-to-be-a-libertine was lowering his mouth toward hers. And she was frozen in place. Mayhap it was because she had a pigeon in one hand and a ladle in the other, but more likely it was because her lips had somehow parted of their own volition. She wanted his kiss. She wanted it badly.

  "Tyra," he whispered against her mouth just before his lips claimed hers. The man was proving to be a master at a number of things. Medicine, for a certainty. And now, kissing. She did not allow herself to ponder what other areas of expertise he might have.

  He pulled back slightly to look at her. His eyes devoured her, searching for what, she did not know.

  "Well, that was… nice," she choked out.

  "Nice?" he sputtered.

  "So, now you have your thank-you kiss-token."
r />   "Hardly," he said, even as he bracketed her face with his hands and drew her down to the wide bench with him.

  The water ladle dropped to the ground with a thud and the pigeon flew in another direction… she hoped not into the well.

  He shaped her mouth, he nipped her, he laved her with his tongue, then sucked at her. His lips were hard, demanding something of her. Finally he gritted out against her mouth, "Open."

  She did.

  "Wider."

  She did.

  Then, by all the gods and goddesses, he showed her what a man could do with his tongue in a woman's mouth. The wetness… she should have been revolted; instead, she sighed inwardly at the delicious taste of him. The aggression… she should have shoved him off the bench; instead, she allowed him to take charge. The sinfulness of the thrusting action… she should have felt guilty; instead, she reveled in her first experience with a man's lust for her.

  Somehow, in the midst of this brain-muddling kiss, he moved himself atop her.

  "Why do you whimper, sweetling?" he whispered against her ear.

  Sweetling? He called me sweetling. She could not keep herself from smiling against his neck. "I thought it was you that whimpered," she whispered back.

  He was leaving a trail of kisses along her jawline when she spoke. He laughed against her mouth and admitted, "Mayhap it was." Then he resumed kissing her, and his hands… his wicked hands… moved everywhere on her. Everywhere.

  Tyra loved the way he kissed. She loved the way he touched her, ravenously, as if he could not get enough of her. She loved the way he made her feel… feminine and desirable.

  "Dost know what the best thing is about these insufferable braies you wear?" he asked her.

  "What?" she asked, though she recognized the teasing mirth in his voice.

  "This," he answered, putting his hands under each of her buttocks, then twisting his ankles about her ankles and spreading both their legs wide. The result: his manhood was nestled firmly against her womanhood.

  He gasped.

  She gasped.

  "Oh… my… God!" he said.

  "Oh… my… God!" she said, too. Sometimes only a good Christian expletive would do.