Season of the Sun (Viking Era 1)

“You had no chance. Aye, you fought against it, Zarabeth, but you had no chance. Admit it now, you enjoyed yourself.”

She shook her head. “It merely happened, that is all, nothing more.”

His mouth was a grim line. “It will happen whenever I wish you to have those feelings. You won’t ever pull away from me again, Zarabeth.”

“What will you do?” she asked without interest.

“I don’t know,” he said, surprising himself at his immediate honesty with her.

She looked up at him for a very long time. Finally she whispered, “What do you want from me, Magnus?”

The slave collar glittered in the hazy light. He drew a deep breath. “Question me not further, woman. You are disobedient and insolent. Just don’t press me, Zarabeth.”

Again she said, “What do you want from me?”

“Come,” he said abruptly as he rose. “What I want is to have you in my bed.”

She stood slowly, starkly aware in that moment of what had happened between them, for her body was sore and her legs were weak, and there was still a gentle pulsing deep inside her, a reminder of what he’d done to her, of what he’d made her feel. Aye, she felt a softness and a warmth, she couldn’t deny it, yet at the same time she wished she could have lain there beside him whilst he had touched her and felt nothing, nothing save her hate for him, which wasn’t hate and never had been, but now she felt raw and exposed and helpless and there must be hate for him, for he had brought her to it. She submitted silently as he straightened her clothing, then laced up the front of her gown. He smoothed the skirts on her legs and pushed back her tangled hair from her face. “You no longer look like a maid,” he said, and grinned down at her.

“It matters not,” she said, and shrugged. “I knew you would force me. I also knew that you could not really touch me, only my body. I expect that my body would react thus to any man’s touch.”

He had told her not to press him, but she had. She waited, watching the pulse in his throat, saw the tight lock he had on his jaw. His eyes were cold now as he stared down at her, and he seemed to be struggling with himself. Finally he merely took her hand and pulled her with him. He shortened his step to match hers. Neither said another word until they reached the palisade.

All was silent in the longhouse as he led her to his chamber. He still said nothing, just motioned her to remove her clothing. She turned away from him, refusing to let herself care, and slipped out of her clothes and under the wool blanket. He continued silent, merely stripped and came into the bed beside her. He drew her into his arms, ignoring how she stiffened against him. Magnus awoke toward morning and reached for her. She wasn’t there. He was instantly awake. He roared out of bed, paused to gain control of himself, then walked quietly to the children’s small chamber. She was there, sleeping soundly, Lotti wrapped against her.

He awoke her with hesitation, but quietly, so as not to awaken the children, and led her back to his bed. He jerked off the linen shift, but didn’t stop to look at her. He wanted her too badly, both his anger and his desire blending together. He wanted to punish her and he wanted her to yell again when she reached the pleasure he granted her.

He began kissing her and didn’t stop even when he came inside her and she moaned into his mouth, whether from the pain of his entry or from pleasure, he didn’t know. Nor did he care at the moment. He rode her hard and quickly took his release. The chamber was dark as a cave, and for that he was thankful. He was afraid that if he saw her face he would hate himself. He knew he would see the emptiness in her eyes, the desolation that ground him down. And he knew, deep down he knew that her moan was from pain. He’d been rough, not preparing her.

He pulled away from her, and without a word, without pause, he came down on her and parted her legs to fit himself between them, and stroked her with his mouth. She fought him, outraged and frightened and disbelieving. But he wouldn’t stop. When he felt the tension building in her, he loosened his hold. He smiled, for she no longer fought him. He tasted her and probed her with his tongue and caressed her with his mouth, and he could feel the building tension in her, and when the first cry broke from her mouth, he put his fingers over her and let her scream against them, muting the noise, giving her the freedom to yell her release.

He had won.

She was crying when he held her close to him to sleep. “You are mine now,” he said over and over as he stroked his hands up and down her back.

He took her to the bathhouse, where tubs were always full of hot water and the small room was filled with rising steam and so hot the sweat poured off. It was just past dawn and the sky was pink and pale gray with the coming of day. He said nothing, merely motioned for her to enter. He sat on a long wooden bench, leaned back at his ease with his arms folded over his chest, and told her to remove all her clothes.

It would never end, she thought, staring down at him. Slowly she shook her head.

“I have seen you naked. Why do you hesitate?”

She waved her hands around her. “There is light here and it shames me.”

“As you will,” he said, “but it matters not.” He rose quickly, jerked off her linen shift. She realized he enjoyed her refusal and her struggles. She stopped fighting. She owned only one other shift. When she escaped him, she could not go naked.

When she was naked and sweating, he sat her down on a wooden bench and stepped away from her. He quickly stripped off his tunic, which was all he had put on when he’d pulled her from his bed. She looked at him, standing there before her, strong and tall and so finely made. It hurt her to look at him.

“Come here and bathe yourself. You smell of sex and of sweat.” He gave her soap and a soft cloth. She scrubbed herself and it felt wonderful. “Straighten now and look at me.” Before she understood what he would do, he had doused her with a bucket of cold water. She yelled with the shock. She wanted to hit him, but he was dousing himself with another bucket of cold water, shuddering and cursing, thoroughly enjoying it.

“Now, come here and sit down and feel the steam envelop you. Then we will have more cold water. It is the Vikings’ way. The Saxons stink from the day they’re born. We do not.”

She sat there silent, her flesh heating in the small room, the steam rising above her head. When Magnus lay beside her on the long bench and put his head on her lap, she tried to move away, but the bench was narrow and he held her still, his arms now wrapping around her hips. He turned his face inward and began kissing her belly. When he pulled back and let his tongue touch her, she heaved him off her. He was laughing, actually laughing. He pulled her against him. Their bodies were slick with sweat and he pulled her close, then lifted her.

He sat on the bench with her and widened her thighs until she was pressed against him. He lifted her again and guided himself into her.

“Magnus!”

“Hold still. Ah, there. Now, move, do as you please.” He folded his arms around her back and held her tightly. When she didn’t move, he smiled, realizing she didn’t know what to do. He clutched her buttocks in his large hands and lifted her nearly off him, then eased her back down his length again.