Page 89 of The Last Viking

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 oily 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 shimmied 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 small table over to her side. On it he’d arranged a goblet of wine, an ornately jeweled knife, a gold-braided cord, a hammer, a polished stone, and a bowl of wheat seeds.

Standing before her, he was hardly recognizable as the 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 a fury 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 to God and man, family and friend. Come witness 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 me 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.