The Last Viking

  She moaned and bit her bottom lip.

  "Was that a good moan, or a bad moan?"

  She declined to answer. He'd expected naught else.

  As he rubbed the oil into her arms, from shoulders to fingertips, and underarms to endearingly fragile wrists, he talked softly of the day he'd mapped out for her. " 'Tis traditional to exchange the wedding vows afore witnesses, but I've no fancy for others beholding the ignominy of a reluctant bride. "Thus, our ceremony will be a private one... man to woman."

  He saw that she was about to protest, again, but then pressed her eyes closed tightly, dark lashes fanning out against pale cheeks. As if that would shut out his words!

  "Tomorrow, or the next day if you prove particularly recalcitrant, we'll have a wedding feast, with witnesses. In truth, next weekend might be best. more people could come." He'd moved lower and was oiling her back and ribs and waist. The small of a woman's back had always had a special allure to him, and he took extra care with that enticing indentation.

  "Rolf, give it up. This is e twentieth century. You can't make me marry you if I refuse."

  "Watch me, sweetling."

  "I don't want this... this farce."

  "You will yield in the end, that I promise."

  She muttered something about arrogant, conceited Vikings while he switched positions. Still resting on her rump, he faced the opposite direction. Starting with the soles of her feet, which he learned were very ticklish—he stored that information for later—he worked his way up her long legs, stroking her ankles, calves, the backs of her knees and thighs. She was making little mewling gasps.

  He forced himself to talk again, to divert his attention from his hardening arousal. "I called Mike this

  morn and told him there will be no work on the morrow, and perchance not the following day, either. Depends on how long it takes to—"

  "You had no right, Rolf. Tomorrow is the first day after spring break. I have classes to teach."

  " 'Tis no problem," he apprised her airily. "Mike said he can substitute for you, especially since you left detailed lesson plans." He shifted himself slightly akward to rest on her back and focus on her buttocks.

  Over and over he kneaded the satiny globes till they tensed and grew pink. Only once did he allow himself the pleasure of inserting his fingers into the cleft, pressing downward. Already her woman dew was rising, slippery and warm.

  "Ah, sweetling, your tongue may say you want me not, but your body speaks another language." With that, he rose to a kneeling position, flipped her over onto her back, and sat back down, now on her stomach.

  He began to work on her legs, undaunted by her fists pounding his back.

  "Let me up," she squealed. "I'll, I'll finish the enointing business myself."

  He paused and gazed at her over his shoulder. "And will you give your free consent to the wedding vows?"

  The foolhardy wench balked.

  He shrugged and continued massaging her legs, stopping at the soft curls that joined her quivering thighs.

  He was saving that delight for last.

  When he turned and straddled her from the other direction again, she tried to rear up and shove him off.

  He used a pair of her sheer hose hanging from a metal bar nearby to tie her wrists behind her back, then drizzled the oil over her breastbone, between her breasts, over her stomach and into her navel. With meticulous care, he massaged the oil into her flushed skin, above, around, below her breasts.

  "Dost want me to touch your breasts?" he inquired solicitously.

  She averted her face to the side, her eyes scrunched tight. The traitorous hitch of her respiration and wildly beating heart gave her away, though, not to mention the hardening of her rosy nipples and the swelling of their surrounding aureoles.

  He delayed giving her that satisfaction... yet. She needed to be punished. He needed time to control his raging urge to consummate the marriage here and now, afore the vows.

  When he'd massaged everything except for those most erotic spots he'd saved for last, he sat back on his haunches and stared at her. She was so beauteous to him. The fierceness of his passion for her both frightened and exhilarated him.

  He ran an oiled forefinger over her parted lips and she cried out softly, as if in pain. Turning her head, she looked at him directly, her eyes green pools of desire.

  Holding her gaze, he poured a dollop of oil over her breasts and massaged them in wide circling sweeps, moving the entire mounds. Each time his callused palms passed over her hardened peaks, her eyes grew wider and her breathing more shallow.

  He shifted lower and poured the remainder of the fluid into her woman hair.

  She gasped.

  He allowed himself a brief exploration of that territory, fingering the oil into the curls, then between her legs where its slickness mixed with hers. He could bring her to her rapture now, but he knew from past experience that she would resent that. So, with a long sigh, he stood and helped her to her feet.

  Clasping her by the shoulders, he said, "I love you, Merry-Death. Will you wed with me?"

  Her face went soft for a moment before she whispered, "Will you take me with you when you go?"

  He groaned inwardly at her unwavering insistence on the impossible. He shook his head sadly.

  "Then, I will not marry you." Her eyes had become flat and unreadable as a North Sea mist, and rancor sharpened her voice.

  "You have set the course of my actions by your words, Merry-Death. So be it."

  "So be it? Does that mean... does that mean you've given up?"

  He could see conflicting emotions on her face. She wanted him, but she didn't want him. But how could she ask such a lackwit question? He gave her a disbelieving look—the type he and his brothers had been practicing on thick-headed females since boyhood—mostly those who'd doubted their prowess.

  And all he said was, "Hah!"

  A short time later, Dr. Meredith Foster stood in a Viking longhouse, wearing her crimson-and-white wedding finery. She was about to exchange nuptial vows, against her wishes, with a magnificently garbed Viking nobleman. With restless energy, Rolf was laying out ritual items on a small table.

  Although it was mid-afternoon, the interior of the longhouse was dim, having only one glassless window and a door. Rolf had set a fire in the central hearth where smoke escaped through a hole in the sod roof.

  The structure was built in the Viking rectangular style, with the sides curved inward slightly. In the early days, this design was favored because it would have been roofed with an upturned longship. This one was a small dwelling by any Norse standard, only twelve-by-twenty feet, and far too confining when a virile, tightly coiled male Viking was taking up too much of the space.

  Meredith wasn't gagged, but her hands were restrained behind her back around a support beam. She hadn't come willingly. A dark cloud of determination had settled over Rolf as he'd dressed her himself and carried her outside, unmoved by her screeching threats.

  " 'Tis time, Merry-Death," Rolf said, carrying the table over to her side. On it he'd arranged a goblet of wine, an ornately jeweled knife, a gold-braided hammer, a polished stone, and a bowl of wheat.

  Standing before her, he was hardly recognizable as a man she'd come to love. And it wasn't just the jet-black richness of his tunic and slim trousers, with the... talisman belt and the incongruous fanny pack defining the trimness of his waist. Nor was it his golden brown hair spilling over his shoulders, unbound. No, it was his whole demeanor. He was commanding, rigid, his square jaw visibly tensed, his muscles bunched with anger that she feared would soon be unleashed on her.

  He was very, very angry that she still resisted him.

  He was pure Viking warrior now, not the gentle shipbuilder she'd come to know. Raising both arms above his head, he began to chant some primitive words in Old Norse. The whole time, he stared blankly through the window, out to sea.

  Then he relaxed, and translated for her. "I call out God and man, family and friend. Come wit
ness today the marriage of Geirolf Ericsson and Merry-Death Foster."

  "Why didn't you call out to the police, too? Maybe they'd come and rescue me from a maniac."

  "Your willfulness will only make it harder for you," he said tautly. "Heed my warning, you stubborn wench. Every second you waste this day in thwarting time will be paid for tenfold."

  She wasn't afraid of him. She knew he wouldn't hurt her... not physically, anyhow. Not that she didn't believe he had some punishment in mind. "Rolf, don't do this."

  He looked pointedly at her mouth, and she knew that she risked being gagged if she kept on protesting.

  Now his long fingers cradled the goblet of wine.

  Speaking in English, he prayed, "Odin, we draw this nectar from your well of knowledge. May you bring us the wisdom to deal well with each other in this marriage journey we begin today. Especially give Merry-Death the wisdom to know when to give up the fight."

  "Hah!"

  He took a sip of the wine, then turned the goblet, pressing it to her lips so she could drink from the same spot. The cold metal seemed to carry the seductive heat of his mouth.

  After she'd sipped the ruby liquid, he gave her a satisfied nod, and picked up the hammer. "'Thor, god of thunder, I take in hand your mighty hammer, Mjollnir. This I pledge: I will protect my wife from all peril. I will use the fighting skills learned at your feet to crush her enemies. Let it be known forevermore. Her foe are now my foe. My foe her foe. The shield of the Yngling clan is now our shield." With that, he raised the hammer and crushed the stone.

  Meredith jumped and Dog jerked his head up. Dog gave them an inquisitive glance from his good eye, then went back to sleep.

  Next, Rolf moved to the bowl of seeds, taking a pinch between his thumb and forefinger. "Frey, god of fertility and prosperity," he began.

  Fertility? Meredith stiffened and tried to step away, but she was hampered by the beam at her back.

  Giving her a reproving scowl, he sprinkled some of the seeds over her breasts, as well as his own chest, and continued. "We implore not fertility or great wealth in this marriage, oh, great Frey. What we seek, instead, is that you bless us with the richness of love ... and an abundance of passion." His lips twitched at that last, though he remained unsmiling. She suspected passion wasn't part of the traditional ritual.

  The lout! Okay, the adorable lout, Meredith admitted to herself. She was melting with each word of the poignant ceremony, as he'd probably known she would.

  After that, he took the knife, walked behind her, and ran the razor-sharp blade over the skin of her inner wrist. Peering back over her shoulder, she saw a thin line of blood immediately appear. She gaped at it in horror. "You are a barbarian."

  He cocked an eyebrow. "Didst I e'er say otherwise?" He sliced his own wrist then and took the gold cord, binding their two hands together, wrist to wrist.

  He worked from an awkward position, having to secure his left hand to her right, behind her back—certainly not the way the ceremony was intended to go, she was sure. This position also caused him to be standing very close to her, hips and thighs touching. His warm breath fanned the side of her face.

  "As my blood melds with yours, Merry-Death, so shall my seed. From this day forth, you are my beloved." He took her chin in a firm grip and forced her to look at him. Seeing that her eyes were brimming with tears, he clenched his jaw, then jutted it out imperiously.

  He probably thought she cried because she was so unhappy. The dolt!

  "You will repeat the words after me now," he charged.

  Hmmm. We'll see. I haven't done what you've ordered so far. "With this mingling of our blood, I pledge thee my troth.

  Well, that wasn't too bad. I guess I could concede that much. "With this mingling of our blood, I pledge thee my troth," she said. To her chagrin, her voice came out wobbly with emotion.

  He sighed, as if relieved that she wasn't going to make this any more difficult. "From the beginning of time, to the end of time..."

  She repeated the words softly, "From the beginning of time, to the end of time."

  "...let it be known that I, Geirolf Ericsson, give my heart to thee, Merry-Death Foster."

  A little sob escaped Meredith's throat at the beauty of his declaration. Could she say this? She'd be pledging a lot more than her troth. She'd be promising to love him forever. No matter how arrogant or overbearing his demand was that she marry, then divorce him, she would never stop loving him. But that was a given demand.

  So she said the words, with her own interpretation, "Let it be known that I, Meredith Foster, give my heart and soul to the damnedest Viking in the world, Geirolf Ericsson."

  "You are mine now." Rolf let himself smile. "It is done."

  "What is 'mine?"

  "We are wed," he said, leaning forward to press a soft kiss against her lips.

  "We are?" she wished he would kiss her longer, deeper, but he probably feared she'd nip his tongue off. She just might. She realized belatedly that he'd won this battle of wills, after all. "Is it permitted for the bride to bite her husband?"

  "Only in the bedsport."

  "Don't think that I've surrendered."

  He grinned. "The heavens would collapse first, I warrant."

  "How about untying me, oh sarcastic one?"

  "Will you still fight me, oh obstinate one?"

  "Probably."

  "Good," he laughed. "Every warrior loves a good battle. It makes the victory all the sweeter."

  "That was just a skirmish. Don't think you've won the whole campaign."

  "Hardly."

  "We're not really married," she snapped when he wouldn't argue with her. "There isn't any court in the world that would recognize it." That was a mean thing to say. Shame on me. The ceremony felt very, very real to me.

  "Ah, Merry-Death, you should not have said that."

  His nostrils flamed with anger.

  "Why?"

  "Because now I will have to prove to you that we are wed, as well as punish you for all your transgressions this day."

  He bent over and removed his boots, threw his cape, talisman belt, and fanny pack to the hard-packed dirt floor. He was in the process of lifting his tunic over his head.

  "Wh-what are you doing?"

  He, tossed the tunic to the floor, giving her an eyeful of wide shoulders, ridged abdomen, and tendon delineated arms. But that wasn't all. Without hesitation, he released the ties at his waist and let the trousers fall to his ankles. Stepping on one foot, then another, he kicked them off his feet and away. Apparently, his wedding outfit went only so far. No codpiece, breech, cloth, boxers, or jockey shorts in sight.

  Meredith's mouth went dry. She'd known he had good body. She just hadn't known how good. The fire-light and the late-afternoon sun filtering through the window cast golden shadows on his tanned skin. And there was a lot of it. Narrow waist and hips. Flat stomach. Muscular legs and chest with their furring of brown hair. And... oh, my, my, my... Rolf had been justified in feeling overly confident about his physical endowments.

  Slack-jawed, she repeated her earlier question in an embarrassingly squeaky, voice. "W-what are you doing?"

  He smiled then, a bone-melting, dazzling display of white teeth and raw sexual promise. He moved closer... so close she could feel his male beat. His answer came in a thick whisper against her parted lips. "Preparing for battle."

  Chapter Sixteen

  "Battle? Ha, ha, ha!" A little shiver ran visibly over her. She wished Rolf would smile or do something to assure her he was just kidding.

  He did smile, but he did it while kneeling in front of her. Oh, my God, she stood fully dressed and a naked man—a very aroused naked man—knelt at her feet. If she was a sexual fantasy kind of woman, this would rank as a real X-rated Kodak moment.

  "Are you about to pray for my forgiveness?" she choked out.

  "You would like that, wouldn't you, wench? Best you fortify your ramparts, my lady of the running tongue—this warrior is about to lay siege to your
every portal. And you have ne'er seen the likes of a Viking with the war fever, I wager."

  "Aren't you being a little melodramatic?... Oh, no, stop that." He'd lifted the hem of her gown, reached up and jerked the tap pants of her teddy all the way down and off.

  She thought she heard him mutter, "There goes the moat."

  But who was paying attention? She was more interested in the fact that her gown remained hitched up to his hands on either side of her hips, the waist, held by, leaving her bare to his view.

  He moaned.

  She moaned.

  "Now you have done it, Merry-Death.

  "Me?" she squeaked.

  "There should have been a prolonged bout of love-play on our first nuptial bedding. You deserve gentle words and sweet caresses. But, bloody hell, you made me wait overlong," he informed her in a guttural rush. "Too damn long!" He hoisted her by the waist, cupped her bottom, canted her hips outward, and plunged inside.

  She screamed.

  He stilled.

  There wasn't any real pain. She'd been ready for him since that blasted enointing exercise. But he was so big and she was so tight and she hadn't expected his entry and, oh, God, it was Rolf, the man she loved who was filling her for the first time, and if he didn't stir soon she was going to scream again. His forehead, beaded with perspiration, pressed against hers. His eyes were closed, and he gulped for air. "Did you feel that? Oh, hell, did you feel that?"

  "'That?"

  "A tingle. How can that be? I'm tingling there," he gasped.

  She tried to focus there—an impossibility when so many incredible sensations assaulted her everywhere.

  "Lord, I feel it, too. Maybe... maybe the talismans magic slipped and lodged—"

  He started to laugh, but it came out more like a gurgle since his teeth were grinding with restraint.

  "Untie my hands," she whimpered as she lifted her legs, wrapping them around his waist, trying to adjust their position so her body could accommodate his size and the tingling, which was really becoming... uh, disconcerting.