Page 100 of The Bewitched Viking

Alinor was going to kill the clod. The problem was, she couldn’t move. She was plastered facedown on the mattress—boneless, sated and sore in some important places. And, yea, she was covered with bruises, all gained from the enthusiasm of their bedsport, not from any intended pain on Tykir’s part. Even the air touching her over-stimulated skin felt like a caress.

“Time to get up, witchling,” he said, donning a pair of low-slung braises. “Come. Let us break fast and get about the day’s work.”

“False promises do you make, Viking. Seems to me you said that very thing to me two morns ago.” She mimicked his deep voice then, “Time to get up, witchling.”

“Do you make mock of me?” he inquired with a short laugh.

Before her fuzzy brain could come up with an answer, a feather tickled the back of her knees. She shot to a sitting position. There was no way in the world she could withstand another of his feather tortures, though she had to admit to having reversed the torture on him a time or two last evening. Or was it the evening before?

He was leaning against the bottom bedpost, arms folded over his naked chest. His eyes swept her nude body ever so slowly—a maddening habit of his that she had become accustomed to. She did not hide herself in modesty, having learned he would not allow such. Besides, she was not ashamed of her body now. Tykir had succeeded in one thing, at least—making her feel beautiful. Well, he had succeeded in many things, but not all of them so commendable.

“You are bruised,” he observed with concern, stepping forward to run his knuckles over the top of one breast. “I did not mean to hurt you thus.”

Thus being the key word, Alinor thought. She accepted that he’d meant her no physical pain, but he certainly cared not a whit if she was hurt in other ways. She was beginning to suspect that he had kept her overlong in this bedchamber today, even knowing he was needed below, to make a point with her, his soldiers and all his people. Her status was to be thrall from now on. Oh, not a castle drudge or scullery maid. Nay, he had something more loathsome in mind. What had he called it? A love slave. Yea, he was establishing her status firmly for all to see. His own personal whore.

And that hurt Alinor more than any bruise.

The suspicion was reinforced a short time later when they had both finished bathing and Tykir held out the last of the gift boxes for her.

“Nay,” she said, shaking her head vehemently, knowing its contents even before he pressed the latch and the red silken harem apparel spilled forth.

“Yea, Alinor. You will wear it.”

“There are many things you can make me do, Viking. That is not one of them. I will kill myself afore I parade about in that scant costume for one and all to see. Believe me when I say that. I prefer death to that public humiliation.”

“You will wear the garb, but only for me.”

“Wh-what do you mean?”

“You will wear the outfit for me alone in our chamber—”

Our chamber? The fine hairs stood out on her body. So, this intimate confinement with the Viking was to continue? For the entire winter? Oh, my God! she thought. Oh, my God!

“—and you will wear it belowstairs, but under your gown.”

She arched a brow in question.

“I will know it is there.” His voice was husky with meaning.

A short time later she was attired in the scandalous garment which pushed her breasts up and gave them the appearance of greater size. Vast amounts of skin were left bare—her shoulders and abdomen—and even more skin was visible through the almost sheer fabric. Worst of all, the only way she could avoid the tinkling of her bells was to take tiny steps, like a humble thrall. She blinked her eyes several time to keep the tears that scalded there from welling over. “I will hate you for this, Tykir,” she declared softly. “I think I was beginning to love you a little…fool that I am, but now—”

“Love?” he scoffed in horror. “I never asked you for love. Nor do I want it.”

She saw a momentary flash of regret in his eyes and knew that he lied. But it was too late now. The die was cast.

The days passed, and they were not so bad for Alinor.

Still, Alinor’s pride could not be reconciled to her less than honorable position at Dragonstead. She fought Tykir at every step, even on the reasonable requests he made of her, like the mending of a favored tunic or trimming his overlong hair. And she took offense at even the slightest insult.

Right now she was refusing to speak to the troll because he’d failed to introduce her, at first, to a visiting Viking jarl who’d passed through that afternoon by horse-driven sleigh on his way to a neighboring reindeer farm he owned. Tykir had been puzzled by her feelings of being slighted. “Jarl Jorund is a boorish lout,” he’d explained, trying to defend himself. “I was trying to protect your sensibilities.”

“A likely excuse.” She’d sniffed indignantly and slapped away the placating hand he’d set on her arm.

“Why would you want to meet another lout? Am I not lout enough for you?” he’d teased.

“You forgot I was even there.”

He’d grinned sheepishly then. “Is that such a great sin?”