Page 26 of The Blue Viking

Swiftly, before she could spout all the reasons why this was not a good idea, Rurik laid a line of nibbling kisses along her jaw, up to her ear, which he exposed by brushing back her hair. At first, he just flicked his tongue against the shell of her ear, wetting its grooves and crevices. When she made a mewling noise, he knew—he just knew—that he had hit upon one of Maire’s most sensitive spots. All women had them—leastways, those he’d come in contact with did—but they were ofttimes in different places … the ears, the back of the knees, the nipples, the sensitive flesh betwixt the woman-folds, the navel, even the arch of a foot. Now that he knew Maire’s ears were susceptible to titillation, he launched a full assault. Using the tip of his tongue, he circled her ear, then gently blew it dry. He stabbed and withdrew, then sucked the lobe. All this was accompanied by whispered words of praise and encouragement to her.

Maire grew wild. “I am so ashamed,” she cried out at one point. “Look what you do to me. Again.”

“Nay, do not say so. Your passion is my pleasure, and there is no shame in that.”

She shook her head in denial, even as she reared her neck up with continuing ardor. “I hate you, Rurik.”

Rurik knew that. Hell, he hated her himself. Still, the words hurt. “Do you hate my kisses, too?” He could not keep himself from asking that question. How pitiful I am!

Her eyes were cloudy with arousal when she met his direct gaze. For a moment, it appeared as if she was going to lie, but then she stopped herself. “Your… kisses … are … sweet… agony,” she admitted through gritted teeth.

“Ah, well, then we are equal partners, dearling,” he confided back to her, “for you make me tremble.” And that was the truth. On the other hand, mayhap his knees on the hard stone could be weak due to his landing on those joints so often during combat; they did tend to creak betimes. She did not need to know that, though.

When his lips met hers again, it was, indeed, sweet, sweet agony, for them both. And he was not surprised at the hissing noise he heard. He felt like hissing himself, and purring, and shouting with sheer joy.

But then, he realized that the hissing noise did not come from Maire. Oh, Holy Thor! Could it be more snakes? Is this the location of the den where the men relocated the snakes from the pit? His slumberous eyes flew open, and he leaped back off her body and the stone, at once in a crouched battle stance, ready to fight off this new, unknown threat. But, no, it was not snakes in the vicinity. It was a frenzied animal that now hurled itself at his back and began clawing his shoulders. And it was another wild animal, above Maire’s head on the rock, that was hissing.

“Don’ ye be hurtin’ me mother, ye bloody, cod-sucking Viking,” a child’s voice shrieked into his ear as small fists pummeled his shoulders and clawed at his neck. At the same time that Rurik recognized it was Maire’s son hanging on his back like a miniature berserker, he took in the large black cat perched on the boulder, still hissing, with its back bowed. It was about to launch itself at Rurik’s face, he could tell.

“Now, Rose, settle down,” Maire said, grabbing for the feline just as it was poised to attack.

“Rose? You named that monster Rose? A witch’s familiar named Rose?” By now, Rurik had disengaged the foul-mouthed urchin from his back and had him cradled firmly at his side with an arm wrapped around his waist, like a sack of barley. Who knew such a young person could spout so many coarse words? Or could stink so bad?

“Rose is no monster,” Wee-Jamie yelled.

“And she’s not a familiar, either,” Maire declared, shimmying off the boulder to stand facing him with the still hissing cat in her arms. “She’s just a sweet pet, given to Wee-Jamie by a passing tinker last year.”

Rurik had seen pet harem cats with sleek, silky fur. This cat’s mangy hair stood on end, and it was bald in spots. Not a pretty sight. Right now it was staring up at Maire with adoration and docile innocence. But Rose wasn’t fooling Rurik one bit. He knew that, given the chance, the cat would put stripes on his balls.

Rurik wished his Beast were here now. The wolfhound would make a tasty meal of yon cat.

“You odious wretch! There you are, you rascal,” another voice exclaimed. It was the rotund monk, who came rushing out of the trees, his cassock lifted to his hairy calves; Rurik had seen him the first day he’d met the Campbell clan. The panting man almost tripped over a root and had to grab for the boulder to keep from falling over… which caused the rock to start rocking again … which caused Rurik to recall what he’d been about to do on said rocking rock.

“Father Baldwin!” Maire squealed with embarrassment.

“Were you not told to stay in camp?” Father Baldwin scolded the boy, calling Rurik’s lustful thoughts back to the present. “Everyone has been looking for you hither and yon. Dost know the trouble you have caused? Dost know the danger you could be in if one of the MacNabs grabbed you?”

“No one’s gonna grab me,” the boy boasted, which was ridiculous, considering his position in Rurik’s imprisoning embrace.

In a rush of words, Father Baldwin explained how the boy had slipped away from his guardianship and promised that it would not happen again, even if they had to tie the boy and his cat to a tree. At that the child issued an expletive so obscene that everyone gaped at him, and the cat pissed on Rurik’s boot. His very expensive skin boots made of cured reindeer hide.

Rurik was too stunned at the cat’s audacity to do more than gape … and plan his revenge.

“Listen to me, son or no son, you are due for a good mouth-soaping,” Maire warned, wagging a forefinger at her whelp, “and do not think I won’t do it, either.” God, he loved it when Maire was fierce and ill-tempered. She reminded him of a Norse Valkyrie about to go into battle.

“Why do you not bring the boy back to the castle now that the MacNabs have been banished from the grounds? Will he not be safer there under my guardianship?”

The monk’s face, right up to his half-bald, tonsured head, turned nigh purple and Maire looked as if Rurik had suggested that they toss her son into a fiery pit.

“What? What’s wrong with my suggestion?” he asked, thoroughly confused.

“Attend me well, Viking. Do not attempt to tell me what is best for my bairn. He is mine, and mine alone.”

“Huh? As if I would want him!”

Maire gave him an odd look, then signaled to Father Baldwin, who picked up the cat, which Rurik would swear was smirking, and held out his free hand for the boy. Rurik released him, but not before swatting the youthling on the arse. Wee-Jamie gave him a look over his shoulder so malevolent it would have done Stigand proud. Rurik would be sure to watch his back in the future, though. An attempt at retribution was sure to come from this grimy gremlin.

’Twas odd the way Maire acted concerning her son, as if she feared for his safety in his presence or that of the Vikings who served under him. Rurik shrugged. It was her decision. Besides, he had no particular inclination to have an unpleasant child underfoot.