Page 101 of The Bewitched Viking

Nay, it was not. But it was part of a pattern that bothered Alinor tremendously. A pattern that said she was a small part of his life, and that one less than honorable.

“Why do you fight your fate so?” Adam inquired now.

“Because I deny it is fate.”

She and Adam were seated before a roaring fire in the chilly great hall after dinner. Dozens of others sat about in groups in front of other hearths, drinking, conversing, dicing. A scene that was reminiscent of those taking place in noble Saxon homes she was familiar with.

“He treats you almost like mistress of his castle,” Adam argued as he watched her grading the poor wool she’d found in Tykir’s storerooms. It was not near the quality of her own sheep fur, but she was carding, spinning and weaving it nonetheless…a familiar task that gave her comfort. She would use the finished wool for servants’ clothing

Alinor gave Adam a skeptical look on considering his words. Mistress of Tykir’s castle? “In all ways except one,” she pointed out.

Adam quirked a brow at her.

“That exception is when he takes me by the hand and draws me peremptorily to his bedchamber with clear sexual intent.” ’Twas odd that she felt comfortable discussing such matters with this young man who’d become a friend to her, but she was so frustrated that she needed to vent her fury somewhere.

Adam grinned at her blunt confession, clearly thinking Tykir was not such a bad fellow. “It does happen often.”

If he’d intended to make her feel better, he was sorely mistaken. “It matters not to Tykir whether it be midmorning and I am in the midst of setting the day’s menus with Girta, or afternoon helping Bodhil churn butter, or evening before the hearth fire in the great hall. The man is…insatiable.”

“Alinor, Alinor, Alinor,” Adam said, laughing heartily. “There are some women who consider such demands for their company a compliment. Mayhap you do too good a job in providing for his bed pleasure.”

“Oh, you just don’t understand. He gives me no choice.”

“A wife would have no choice either,” he noted.

“Wife? Who said anything about a wife?”

Adam frowned. “Methought we were discussing the difference in respect given to a leman, compared to a wife.” He studied her intently. “What really is at the heart of your complaints?”

She took a deep breath. “Tykir makes his joy in our coupling too evident,” she disclosed. It was a deeply personal thing to confess to a mere friend, but she had no one else who might conceivably be able to advise her. “He wants me with a bottomless hunger, and he doesn’t care if anyone knows.”

That’s why she felt pegged as mere bedmate, rather than respected lifemate. It was not that she wanted that kind of permanent relationship with the Viking. At least, she did not think she would want that. But surely a man did not stare at a wife so lasciviously all the time, but especially when she walked fast all of a sudden, causing one of her bells to jingle ignominiously. Nor did a normal husband feel the need to touch his wife incessantly, whether in passing, with a light caress of her hair, or in assaulting her with a sudden exuberant hug.

Adam’s mouth dropped open. He did not laugh at her again, though. Instead, he shook his head with disbelief, and took both her hands in his. “Alinor, my dear, what you describe is a woman-blessing. A man loving a woman beyond all reason.”

“Oh, nay, nay, nay! I never said aught of love.”

He shrugged. “I know I am young, but I am well traveled, and I can tell you that God has laid a gift in your hands. You can toss it aside or tend it with care. Mayhap it is not love, precisely, but who knows what it could be? Tykir’s a good man, Alinor. Look beyond his actions to their cause.”

“The man is a troll,” she argued.

“Some would say you are a witch,” he countered. “Troll, witch, Viking, Saxon, man, woman…they are all just words.”

Adam walked away then, leaving her to her hand-spinning. She used the time to ponder Adam’s words and her own niggling suspicions. In the end, she came to an alarming conclusion. God help me, but I love him. How that disastrous situation had come about, she could not say. The simple answer could be that the lout brought her incredible sexual pleasure. Or that he was bone-meltingly handsome, especially when he smiled or winked at her. Or that his roguish teasing actually brought her joy. But the truth was, he touched her in a more elemental way. There was an invisible bond connecting them that seemed to have an almost mystical basis.

Was it possible that fate, or some celestial being, had destined them to be together? Did God want her to tame the savage Viking? Now that was a daunting prospect, she thought with a silent laugh. And amusing, really, to think that the blessed Lord would use a Viking king’s crooked manpart to gain his ultimate ends with her.

She had no more time to ponder her fate then, because the bane of her life arrived…well, the other bane of her life. Rurik. He slumped down onto a bench near her, elbows braced on his widespread knees, and stared glumly into the fire.

“Now what?” she finally asked. “Didn’t the chicken dung ointment I suggested for removing your blue mark do the job? Never mind. I can see that it didn’t.”

He cast her a sidelong glare. “I’m not as dumb as you think I am.”

“Nobody is.” She thought a moment. “Don’t tell me; let me guess. You have run out of women in all of Trondelag to lure into your bed furs.”

His lips turned up reluctantly, and she had to admit he would be a tempting bit of manhood, if she was the type of woman attracted to his particular brand of arrogance. “There are a few left, but those are old crones…not worth the effort.”

“You could start over again.”