Chapter Two

Bettina couldn’t decide.

Garbed or naked?

Sotted or sober?

Hair braided or unbound?

Under the furs or sitting in the chair?

Though a blazing fire warmed the chamber, an icy chill claimed her fingers and toes. For a moment, the walls wavered and seemed to close in, but then she caught herself panting and realized she was a tad muddleheaded.

Breathe, take a deep breath, and let it out slowly.

Nay, decide and make haste.

I wish ’tis done with all speed. I wish ’twas not my first time.

She shed her silk cyrtel, pleased her fingers worked though they shook uncontrollably. Thanking her mother and the Lord for the front-laced dress, she shrugged the material off her shoulder, letting the scarlet fabric fall on the floor. The chemise went next, then garters, slippers, stockings, and she piled all into the corner near the bench window.

Her heart roared in her ears when she heard Njal’s deep voice spitting a slew of Norse curses. Words she shouldn’t know or comprehend, but did.

Her legs felt as wobbly as those of a newly birthed foal attempting to stand for the first time. She dashed to the bed, stubbing her toe on a wide claw foot, but ignored the pain and dove under the furs and linens and pulled them up to her nose.

The old hinges on the massive door creaked as it opened. Bettina squeezed her eyes shut when she realized all the candles and wall lamps still burned brightly. She had planned to have the room so dark he wouldn’t be able to see her reactions.

Njal slipped through the narrow opening, glanced her way, and her belly flutters took off like a swarm of butterflies. He wore a somber expression, his eyes narrowed and hooded, his lips pressed tightly together.

What had she done to change him from a charming and flirtatious peacemaker to a hangman about to spring the floorboards? Or mayhap his distaste of her from the day before had returned?

Anger threatened to test her resolve to please him. If only Petalia hadn’t repeated the words she’d overheard Njal spewing to his brothers. She misliked words, misliked that the same word could mean thus in one circumstance, and that in another.

So be it. She would ignore his words and do her duty. He would have to suck back his words and bile, consummate the marriage, and seal the vows.

She shuttered her eyes and watched him finish barring the door, spin around, and take three long strides to the chair. He sat and unlaced his tall boots. Cert in the uneasy quiet her rasped breathing and pounding heart reached his ears, Bettina fought the rabbit-timid impulse to bury her head under the bed covers. Instead, she let her lids droop and clenched her jaw.

She could do this.

“Do you know what will happen tonight, Bettina?”

He moved like a demon steed.

She had taken her eyes off him for a heartbeat. How came he to her side, wearing no tunic nor boots and leggings? Since Papa died and Bettina had assumed more and more of his duties on the land, she had seen many men’s bare chests, but none with flesh bronzed and rippled so the muscles stretched the skin taut. A wave of giddiness hit her as the straw sank when he sat.

“Do you know?”

Breath left her lungs. She leveled her chin and met his intense stare. “We rut.”

His eyes closed and his lips nigh disappeared they flattened so.

Mayhap he objected to the word, but ’tis the term the common folk used, and ’tis what they would do. His displeasure fueled her ire.

“Tup?” she suggested.

His eyebrows met like dark thunderclouds ready to shoot lightning bolts.

“Fornicate? Mate? Slam? Bed?” From the ruddy color staining his face, Njal objected to all the terms she’d heard for the act. “Hump—”

His hand cupped her mouth. His eyes no longer held the deep blue color she had admired at the meal, and his hot breath came in snorts. “Be quiet. How have you heard such vulgarity?”

“’Tis everywhere.” But her explanation was muffled by the hard press of his hand.

She touched his fingers and looked up at him.

Shaking his head, he said, his thumb brushing her bottom lip, “Have you not heard it referred to as making love?”

Distracted by the way her lip tingled and the way the fine fuzz on his jaw swirled, she captured his errant finger. “I cannot think when you do that.”

The smile that curved his lips fair dazzled her.

“Good,” he whispered, his mouth claiming hers, and all thoughts fled her reeling brain.

Jesu.

The prickles his tongue engendered as he tarried and lingered on her lips, as if memorizing the taste and touch and shape of her, had her head spinning.

He covered her.

Jesu.

This she liked, the feel of him lying atop her, the weight of his body on hers, the press of his hips, the hardness rubbing her nether parts. Unbidden she arched into the steely length of his manhood, near swooning with the delicious friction of body to body.

“Open,” he murmured, the word rumbled over her mouth, and his honey-scented breath tickled her nostrils. She obeyed him instantly, and fell back against the bed cushion when the tip of his tongue swept over her teeth. His hand slipped under her back and he turned so she sat on his lap, clutching his shoulder for dear life. ’Twas as if he meant to taste every bump on her tongue, to claim every crevice.

She floated, she soared, she burned everywhere. ’Twas magikal madness, the miracle of his caressing mouth and tongue. Her heart banged to escape from her chest when he took her bottom lip between his teeth and bit down gently. Her woman’s parts fisted and clenched and became uncomfortable and damp. Squeezing her thighs together made the nub throbbing at her center ache and prickle and itch like a fresh bee sting.

He raised his head and her fingers loosened their grip on his shoulder. Bettina panted as if she’d run the entire length of the meadow that ringed the castle’s walls. Her lips were afire and swollen and wet, and his face swam in and out of her wavering vision.

“Aye. ’Tis wise to begin as we mean to go on.”

Bettina blinked and his features shifted into focus.

“So begins your taming, warrior bride.”

He wore a self-satisfied smile that made her palms blister with the need to wipe it off his face. A need increased a score-fold as the meaning of his words registered.

’Twould take more than a kiss to tame this warrior bride.

Tilting her head back, she met his fierce stare full-on, and though her fingers trembled she said, careful to keep her voice low, “I recollect the correct term, my lord. I believe what we do now is fuck.”

He reared back and only then did Bettina realize she sat on his lap, the sheets tangled around her waist, her bare breasts hidden by her long hair.

She flinched when he threw back his head and laughed.

“I amuse you, my lord?”

“Better I laugh than show you the difference twixt fucking and loving.” His eyes never left hers. “Why seek you my anger?”

“This unlearned, simple, coarse country lass seeks naught from you.” ’Twas her turn to smile when his flesh reddened at hearing his own words flung back in his face. Anger lit her actions as she threw off the sheets, rolled over, lay down on the bed, and spread her legs. “Do it.”

“Witch.” He bounded off the bed. “’Tis fucking you want, ’tis fucking you’ll get.”

He shed his breeches and a knot of true fear coiled her insides at the sight of his enormous and angry manhood, all purpled and thick and bobbing. She choked back a whimper, took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and fisted her hands in the covers, praying as she’d never prayed before.

Long moments passed and nothing happened. She listened but heard naught but the fire spitting and hissing. Lifting one eyelid, Bettina peered but could not find him. She chewed on her lip, fear catching her breath. Moving slowly and as silent as possible, she rose on her elbows and did not know what to make of him sitting in the chair, his back to her, one leg stretched to the fire.

“At the high table this eve you seemed to welcome my attentions.” His deep voice held no trace of anger.

Curses on her temper! She could not fail Mama and her people.

Balling her hands, she sat up. “I did not know your true opinion of me then.”

“Ah.”

* * *

Njal couldn’t believe how close he’d come to taking Bettina in anger. If the nobles at court could see the Peacemaker now, the jests would crash and thunder faster than North Sea waves in a storm churned by Thor's fury. And the wrong belonged to him and him alone.

Repressing a long sigh, he stood, went to the table, and poured two goblets of wine. Carrying both, he walked to her side of the bed and offered her one. “’Tis wine. Not your preference, but I am loath to call for a jug of ale at this hour.”

“My thanks.” Her hand closed around the brass stem, and she kept her gaze fixed on the goblet. “’Tis only mead I dislike. ’Tis the sweetness.”

He studied her composed face. “Dress, Bettina.”

Her head whipped up and he read the distress in her wide eyes.

“I would have us talk a while.”

She bent her head and the dark fringe of her lashes fluttered like a butterfly’s wings. Unwanted and unneeded, his manhood, which had gone flaccid minutes earlier, stirred.

“I should not have angered you. I beg your pardon.”

“And I should not have insulted you or judged you without knowing you.”

“My lord?” She raised her face and his chest ached at the confusion and anxiety etching lines on her forehead, pooling unshed tears at the corners of her eyes.

She is a maiden, albeit one with a fierce temper.

“Do you cast me aside?”

She has much courage. And spirit.

“Nay. I will never do that, Bettina. But I believe ’tis wise for us to begin our marriage night anew. What say you?”

Her jaw dropped and her eyes grew so wide as to dominate her whole face.

“Truly?”

“Aye. Dress and we shall talk.”

“You have the right to beat me for my transgression.”

“’Tis not my way.” Honesty compelled him to add, “Not my way normally.”

While she disappeared behind the screen to the west end of the room, Njal drew on his breeches. He then set up the game popular in Northumbria, Fox and Geese, one of many he carried and used to his advantage in negotiations.

He sensed her approaching him, though her bare feet made little sound on the stone floor. “Know you the game Fox and Geese?”

“Aye. Papa and I played it oft.”

Sitting in the chair, he captured her hands, and when her gaze met his, he smiled. “What say you to a game?”

She didn’t resist when he pulled her to his lap, but glanced at the table with the carved and painted wooden board and the pieces, and her forehead puckered.

“You wish to play Fox and Geese?”

“Aye. What shall we wager?”

“I have no coin.”

Smiling at the confusion causing a tiny frown to hover over the bridge of her nose, he said, “Then we shall play for kisses.”

Her gasp made his grin widen. “Your choice, Bettina—fox or geese?”

Sliding him a sly sideways glance, her eyes narrowed, and she asked, “You give me the choice?”

“Aye.”

“Fox.” Her nostrils flared and his lips twitched when she shot him a triumphant smirk. “Who goes first?”

“A warrior always defers to a lady.”

Within two moves, she had captured one of his geese. Her eyes flashed, and all the tension between them vanished as she twisted on his lap and declared, “The first of many.”

“We shall see.” He gave her the yellow painted goose. “I believe I owe you a kiss.”

“Oh.” The animation in her face dimmed.

“Thirsty?”

“Aye.”

He picked up his goblet, took a sip of wine, curled his arms around her back and slid her down in his lap. She opened her mouth and he fed her the wine. His bride stiffened; he licked the seam of her mouth, and she swallowed. He kissed her then, teasing her lips, nibbling at the corners, sucking on her plump flesh.

When he tickled the seam again, she yielded to him, and the sound of her lungs expanding halted. Njal suppressed a smile when her eyes opened wide. “Is aught amiss?”

“Aye. Nay.” Her chin canted upward. “I would have this over and done with. I would know what to do.”

“Nay sweetling, ’tis better to do this slow. ’Tis pure delight to draw it out.” He brushed her mouth and slipped his finger between her lips. “Nay. Think on what you want to do now.”

Her nostrils flared, she suckled his callused skin, her teeth nipped at the tips of his finger. His seed gathered hot and heavy in his sac. Withdrawing his finger, he captured her lips, rewarding her trust with long licks, soft bites, and a carousing, lazy exploration of the heat and moistness of her mouth. Anticipation had his cock throbbing and his blood racing to his balls. Unable to resist, he combed her hair, savoring the way the silken tresses trailed his chest.

When her hands twined behind his head, he drew back, kissing a soft path to her ear, and whispered, “Is my lady satisfied with her prize?”

By Odin, she sucked the air from his lungs, her dark eyes glazed, her lips reddened and pouting. She blinked and he helped her sit up, but kept his arm around her waist. He captured the dice and threw it, then moved a goose into such a position that her fox could jump and capture two pieces.

Her lips twitched. She twisted to face him, and then rested her palms on his shoulders. His prick hardened like an anvil when she dazzled him with a bubbling smile and a soft laugh. “I believe, my lord, I have discovered a new form of Fox and Geese.”

Bringing one of her hands to his lips, he opened his mouth and kissed her palm, licking a small circle on her flesh, all the while gazing at her face. She worried one side of her lip and her breasts heaved. “And what is that, my beauty?”

“The way you play the game, we both win.”

“I hope so, lady mine. ’Tis your turn.” He placed the dice in the center of her palm, closed her hand over it, and then kissed and licked each finger, before glancing up at her. “For luck.”

By the time she captured her seventh goose, Njal’s wits stood poised to lose the battle with his lust-engorged cock, and his balls threatened to cleave him in two they burned so blue.

When he went to lean her back for his kiss, she eased off his lap before he could prevent the move, and grinned at him with such a saucy siren tilt to her head that he near grabbed her and tossed her on the bed right then and there. But she raised one leg and straddled him full, her mound to his prick, her bottom on his thighs.

“The fox will yield two geese back to the game if she can be the one to claim the prize.” Though her gaze was bold, her voice wavered at the end.

His eyes nigh bulged out of his head. Cupping her firm ass, one cheek in each palm, he squeezed her flesh, and growled, “Done.”

’Twas the sweetest, most agonizing torture he’d ever endured letting her take the lead, his cock twitching with her soft licks. The tiny teeth nipping his flesh sent him into randy burning and flaming hell and heaven combined. He groaned when she suckled his tongue. His hands kneaded her bottom, grinding her up and down the length of an erection rivaling stone.

She bit down on his lower lip and he lurched off the chair. Her hands cupped his jaw and her tongue darted into his mouth, tangling and curling and caressing, and she wrapped her legs around his waist.

He stumbled to the bed, holding her with one arm, and unlacing her dress with the other. They fell onto the bed, he tore at her chemise, ripping the thin fabric, and her breasts, those marvels, plumped and firmed before his eyes.

“Cocoa,” he muttered before latching onto the up-tipped bud. He worshipped the peak, bathing it slick with his tongue and mouth, finding the other mound, learning the shape and contour of her softness, and plucking the nipple, before switching his attentions.

She moaned his name, clamped a hand behind his head and urged him on. He suckled harder, drawing the nipple between his teeth over and over until she arched under him, one leg clamping his thigh. Sawing the taut tip, he looked up at her as she stiffened and shuddered.

Knowing his control rested on a hairpin, he shoved his breeches off, bunched her skirts to her waist, and settled between her legs. He reached down to her mound. His fingers found her slick and creamy, soft and open, and he guided his prick to her puss, watching her intently. Her eyes opened slowly. He rubbed the crown up and down her folds. She gave him a sloppy one-sided smile and stopped breathing when he nudged himself inside. Her head fell back on the bed cushion and her brows rose as he pushed in, and her sheath clamped his throbbing flesh.

He withdrew and thrust harder, gaining precious little ground she was so tight, so hot. His jaw clenched, and sweat beaded his temples as her walls convulsed once, twice, and she moaned his name.

His balls swelled, stretching so taut the flesh burned. She arched off the mattress, seating him deeper, and his sac slapped her creamy folds, the sensation setting his semen near to erupting like an exploding, fire-spewing mountaintop.

He pumped harder, his hips driving into her slick channel. He thrust to her womb, tearing through the film of her maidenhead, and tensed every muscle in his body, laboring to keep still, knowing she needed time to adjust to his girth.

Tendrils of her hair tickled his chin and he buried his nose in the fresh hazel fragrance. His groin fired and his thighs rippled with the effort not to move, not to pummel into her sweet heat.

She wriggled under him and he grunted, begging Freya’s mercy, but clamped his jaw tight and held on.

Her hand stroked his shoulder; she bent and licked the cusp, and then bit him hard.

His cock declared victory and he began pounding, holding her hips, molding her mound to his groin, spearing in and out, savoring the soft pop as her flesh refused his retreat.

Her nails raked his back, the pain spiraled into him, and the orgasm began low in his groin, spearing through his cock. “Valhalla,” he roared as he shuddered and his seed shot out of his prick, one spurt after another until he collapsed, spent. Not wanting to crush her, he rolled over onto his back, and clamped her tight to his chest.