Lord of Raven's Peak (Viking Era 3)

“You will obey me, Laren. You are my wife. You will obey me. I do not need your protection.”

“Stubborn man,” she said under her breath, but knew he’d heard her. Before he could reply, she rolled over to him and grabbed his face between her two hands. She kissed him, missing his mouth, then finding it in the darkness, kissing him hard until he parted his lips, and she slipped her tongue within to find his and feel the warmth and sweetness of him.

“You think to seduce me,” he said, his voice bemused, for she was innocent, yet she had no thought to hide from him, to play the coy maid, or allow him alone to direct their lovemaking.

“Aye, of course I do. Now be quiet. I love how you taste, Merrik.”

He smiled and she felt the softening of his mouth against her lips. “You won’t change my mind, Laren, no matter what you do.”

“This I do for myself,” she said, and came over on top of him, her loose hair spilling around their faces, an erotic veil that made Merrik quake beneath her. She was still wearing a linen shift, but it didn’t remain on her for very long. He stripped it over her head, then felt the soft weight of her body on top of him, her breasts pressing against his chest, her legs atop his, his sex hard against her woman’s flesh. And she was kissing him all over his face, her tongue lightly touching his ears, her fingers a light whisper over his brows, his forehead, his nose. Then she began to move over him as she kissed him and he laid his palms flat over her hips and pressed her down hard against him even as he thrust upward. He moaned and she caught the warmth of the sound in her mouth and parted her legs.

He thought he couldn’t hold on much longer. His hands were all over her now, tangling in her hair, pulling her back so he could kiss her breasts.

He rolled over atop her, coming up to catch his breath, for surely if he didn’t, he would spill his seed on the woolen blanket and not deep inside her. His chest heaved and he shook with his need to come into her, but he held himself still, aware finally that she’d stopped squirming against him and was lying there beneath him, waiting, wanting him. He drew her legs up and brought his mouth down to her, his fingers tightening on the soft flesh of her thighs, knowing vaguely that she would be bruised, but not caring, for she was arching upward, and keening softly into the darkness, calling out his name, again and again, and the wanting in her voice, the urgency and fervor, made him feel things he’d never before known existed.

He gently closed his hand over her mouth when her cries erupted from her throat, giving her the freedom to yell if she wished to without the others in the outer chamber hearing her.

And when he was stroking her with his mouth, easing her and calming her, she was tugging at his shoulders, urging him upward, and he came up to his knees and then guided himself into her. He closed his eyes at the feeling of her, the smallness, the eagerness of her to bring him closer and nearer to her.

“Merrik,” she said, and clasped his back to bring him even deeper. He couldn’t hold back, though he wanted to. Once, then again, he came deeply into her, then nearly withdrew until he was shuddering with the frenzy of his need, then he was heaving over her, crying out, his arms stiff as he held himself over her, and she said his name again and again, accepting him, taking all of him, and he didn’t want it to stop, ever.

They lay close, her right leg over his belly, her cheek against his heart, her hair damp from her urgency, fanned out over his shoulder. He kissed the top of her head, tightening his arms around her. “You give me passion,” he said. “I wish I could have seen your face when you reached your pleasure.”

Her knee moved downward just a bit until she covered his groin. The scent of him was rich and dark in the night air, filling her nostrils, and her scent was mixed with his.

“Cease your movement or I will take you again. You must be sore from me, Laren.”

She leaned up a bit and kissed his chest, his shoulder, his throat. She sucked at the pulse in his neck, then kissed his mouth. “It was a man who struck Erik.”

He stilled. She came up onto her side, her fingers smoothing the hair on his chest, lightly stroking him.

“How do you know this?”

“I remembered that he stood over me, smiling in triumph. I wasn’t completely unconscious. He stood there, Merrik, saying nothing, just smiling. He didn’t try to help me, he did nothing save smile that loathsome smile. It’s just that I can’t see his face, yet I know he was pleased that I was there, pleased because I would be blamed for killing Erik and none would suspect him. I cannot be certain that he did murder Erik, but it does seem likely, does it not?”

“You are certain?”

“Aye.”

He cursed then, soft and long, and she felt the tension coming into his body and hated it. She should have waited to tell him, but now it was too late.

“Oleg and I learned very little today talking to each of our people. But you know something, Laren, I have been thinking that this man must have followed you up the trail to the point. Perhaps he meant to kill you, but when Erik came, he waited to see what would happen. All knew my brother wanted you. When you escaped my brother, he struck Erik down. When he saw you unconscious on the path, he knew he’d won. You would be blamed.”

“There is but one man who would do that.”

“Aye. But we must be certain, very certain.”

She kissed him again, unable to stop herself, and that kiss led to another and yet another and her hands were soon wild on him, stroking her palms over his chest, downward to his belly and into the thick hair at his groin. When she touched him, she breathed in and said into his mouth, “The way you feel, Merrik, ’tis nothing I could have ever imagined.”

“Nor I,” he said. “Nor I.”

19

DEGLIN GULPED DOWN his ale and wiped his hand across his mouth. “It’s hot out here,” he said as he poured himself another cup from the barrel beside him. He frowned as he looked up to see three women washing clothing in the big wooden tub set on wooden planks beneath a full-branched oak tree. “Aye, it’s as hot as she is, the cold bitch.”

“As who is?” Oleg asked, looking toward the women.

“That bitch, Laren. I tell you, Oleg, she is nothing, nothing at all.” He drank down more of the ale. “She bewitched Merrik, then whored for him. Aye, she pretended she was hot for him, as hot as that damned sun baking my flesh.”