Brandewyne, Rebecca (33 page)

Wulfgar's
mouth closed over hers once more, his tongue parting her lips, invading her,
pillaging the sweet secrets of her mouth, leaving her weak and dazed and
breathless, filled with fear at the magnitude of what she was letting him do,
and yet, as well, with a perverse, perfidious, perilous excitement that was
like nothing she had ever before felt. Like a wild wind, it caught her up and
swept her away, and helpless against it, Rhowenna gave herself up to it and let
it carry her where it willed. Time turned, and kept on turning; it might have
been minutes, or hours. She did not know as she lay in his arms and let him do
as he wished with her. She knew nothing
but the sensations that engulfed her as
he touched and tasted her endlessly, as though time had stopped and he had all the
time in the world to kiss her and to go on kissing her, his tongue darting
forth to follow the lush curves of her mouth, teasing, tantalizing, opening her
lips to entwine her own tongue.

"Sweet,"
he muttered huskily against her lips. "Sweeter than wine is the taste of
you. Gods, how I want you!
Heks!
Witch! You have bewitched me, I
swear—"

His
mouth abruptly silenced any reply she might have made before burning across her
cheek to her temple, the fragrant strands of her hair, scent sweet and inciting
in his nostrils. Like the long, feathery branches of a dark, ancient pine in a
mystic forest, blown by an unseen wind, her tresses tangled about her and
Wulfgar, irrevocably binding them together as his lips tasted the length of her
white throat, his tongue licked the salty sweat from its hollow and that
trickled down between her breasts. Gently, his teeth bit the soft spot where
her nape joined her shoulder, sending an erotic thrill of pain and pleasure
shooting through her before the bite turned into a kiss that scorched its way
to her breasts, swollen and aching with passion, straining eagerly against his
mouth and tongue and hands as, her head thrashing from side to side, she
arched and
writhed against him, instinctively craving more.

Wulfgar's
breath caught in his throat at the sight of her. Her skin was so very white
that he exulted in it, feeling a deep satisfaction that it should be claimed,
covered, and possessed by his own bronze flesh, that this pale Celtic princess
should be his, only his, forever his. His blue eyes glittered as they devoured
her, palms closing covetously over her full, upthrusting breasts, pressing them
high as his mouth lowered to suck again and again of their nectar, first one
and then the other, teeth grazing their hearts, tongue stinging like a bee,
flicking her nipples into hard, roseate buds bursting to unfurl.

Her
arms wrapped about his neck; her fingers burrowed through his long mane of
golden hair, urgently drawing him down to her. As though she were the earth,
Rhowenna drank him in, soaking him up as thirstily as though he were necessary
to sustain her existence, as though he were draining her very soul from her
body and then pouring it back in, the wine of life. He intoxicated her. His
body was as hard as horn, in sharp contrast to the fine blond hair on his chest
that was like silk beneath her palms and against the sensitive tips of her
breasts; his muscles were sinewy, serpentine, rippling beneath her fervid
lips, her
caressing hands; his flesh was slick with sweat, glistening in the diffuse
light that illuminated the shadowy chamber. He tasted of salt, elemental,
atavistic, like the wind and the sea, crumbling her maidenly defenses as surely
as the breakers that swept in upon the strands of the Northland crumbled the
land, molding and shaping it as they willed, as Wulfgar did her. She was
breathless in his wake, kissing and touching him everywhere she could reach,
discovering, exploring, and charting him as he charted her, mapping every line,
every curve of her body, kissing and stroking her shoulders, her breasts, her
belly, the inside of her thighs, her spine from her buttocks to her nape, his
tongue making her shiver both with desire and delight.

Like
a white-watered stream through the mountains, like the tendrils of smoke that
wreathed the sleeping chamber, he twisted and twined himself about her, Hps and
tongue and hands unstill, working their devilish spell upon her until she was
like fire and ice, burning and melting beneath him, a mass of quivering
sensation raised to a feverish pitch. Her womanhood throbbed with a searing
ache, an unbearable hollowness she longed to have filled by him; and at last,
Wulfgar spread her thighs wide, touching her where no man ever
had, a quick,
light stroke that was torment in the face of her agonizing need, making her
whimper like a wounded animal, a low moan that she only dimly realized came
from her own throat. Then, slowly, deliberately, in an encroachment so intimate
that Rhowenna wanted to die, he plunged his fingers full length into her well
of cinnabar softness, into the dark, secret heart of the mellifluous, engorged
petals of her that trembled and opened to him of their own eager, exigent
volition. Her breath caught on a ragged sob as he then withdrew his fingers
just as torturously, spreading quicksilver heat, before sliding them into her
again and yet again. His tongue was in her mouth, mimicking the sweetly
agonizing movements of his hand, the flicking of his thumb against the pulsing
key to her desire, honing her passion for him to a keen, dagger edge that
stabbed her like a blade, making her strain desperately against him, driven by
blind, primitive need, frantic for release and fulfillment.

"Please,
Wulfgar..." Rhowenna entreated softly, her violet eyes flying open to see
him poised above her, bronze and naked in the shadowy half-light, his own blue
eyes dark with desire, glimmering with triumph, his bold shaft hard and heavy
with desire.

She
shivered at the sight, suddenly afraid
of what was yet to come, understanding
that what had gone before was but a tantalizing prelude designed to ready her
to receive him. There was between them an eternal moment as highly charged as a
storm, the air fraught with promise and portent. The fire and the lamplight
flickered and danced, casting eerie, elongated shadows on the walls; the smoke
swirled high, sinuous and somehow mystical, making her feel like a vestal
offering and Wulfgar seem like one of his ancient pagan gods from a place older
than the earth, older than time itself. It was as though in all the heavens,
only they two existed, wanting, needing, destined for this joining.

"Rhowenna,"
he groaned. "Rhowenna..."

And
then, at last, he took her, the hard, questing sword of his manhood driving
swift and deep and true into the sheath of her, burying itself to its hilt,
splitting her asunder in a breathtaking moment of penetrating, white-hot pain
that was all-vanquishing, all-consuming. She gasped, then cried out, a low wail
of surrender that he smothered savagely with his lips, filling her mouth with
his tongue as he filled her with himself, throbbing within her, lying still
atop her to accustom her to the feel of him inside her, stretching and molding
her to accept him. Until now, she had never truly known what to expect, had
never truly comprehended
this absolute invasion, this quintessential possession that made of a maiden, a
woman; and of a man, a conqueror. How could there be pleasure from this
subjugation? Rhowenna did not know, and tears trickled from the corners of her
eyes at the thought that perhaps there was none to be had, that Wulfgar had
lied to her, after all.

"Shhhhh,
sweeting," he murmured as she whimpered against his lips. Gently, he
kissed the tears from her cheeks, his hands stroking her hair soothingly.
"Hush. I know that it hurt. But the pain will pass in a moment, and then
you will know only pleasure, I promise you. Trust me. I love you. I love you
with all my heart."

Slowly,
steadily, he began to move inside her; and it was then as though her body no
longer belonged to her at all, but had become a part of Wulfgar. His hands were
beneath her hips, lifting them to meet his own as he thrust into her
powerfully, again and again, faster and faster, dark flesh melting urgently
into pale as he quickened against her, his head buried against her shoulder,
his harsh, uneven breath hot against her skin. From the woolen pallet wafted
the scent of their mating, sharp and sweet, as, to her surprise and wonder, the
pain Rhowenna had felt at first gradually
gave way to pleasure that grew stronger
and stronger within her, until she felt as though she would burst from it and
did not know how she could possibly withstand it. Surely, she would die, and
yet, perversely, she felt as though she would die, as well, if she did not find
some release from the nameless thing that had seized her, that she did not yet
understand but instinctively sought. Feverishly, she clutched Wulfgar,
enwrapped him, enfolded him, taking him deep inside her, the world spinning
away into nothingness as she moaned and strained desperately against him,
rushing headlong with him down a dark, wending passage that led from deepest
seas to highest mountains, where a sun-touched midnight sky above seethed and
roiled, and then, without warning, erupted violently into such splendorous fire
that it was almost hurtful to behold, dazzling flame setting them both ablaze,
taking their breath, exalting them, sealing them forever as it burned them to
ashes until, finally, with a last, ragged gasp, Wulfgar shuddered long and hard
against her, spilling himself inside her before they lay still, hearts pounding
as one.

In
the quiet afterglow of their lovemaking, he held her close against him,
cradling her head against his shoulder; and Rhowenna was filled with joy and
wonder as she lay silently
in his embrace, marveling that he should have made
her feel as she had. In her wildest dreams, she had never imagined that what
happened between a man and a woman could be as it had been for her and Wulfgar—
beautiful and special in every way. She had never in her life felt so close to
someone, to a man, felt so secure and protected, so fulfilled and beloved as
she did now. Idly, her hand trailed down his broad chest, traced tiny patterns
in the fine blond hair there until he caught her wrist and, turning her palm
up, kissed it tenderly, lingeringly. His blue eyes were loving and drowsy with
passion, his smile so tender that her heart turned over in her breast.

"I
love you, Wulfgar Bloodaxe," she said softly.

"I
know,
kjœreste,
I
know, else you would not have surrendered yourself to me; and my heart is
overflowing with all that it holds for you and for what you have given me in
return. I love
you,
Rhowenna
of Usk," he murmured fiercely before his lips came down on hers again,
desire for her once more sweeping through him like a strong, in-rushing tide.

His
body moved to cover hers again, pressing her down; and eagerly did she open
herself for him, not knowing then where his mouth ended and hers began.
Outside, the wind sang
its unbridled, melodious song to forest and heath and sea; and within, the fire
and the whale-oil lamps burned low as she and he became again as one, no space
between, urgent mouths and tongues and hands engaged until he swelled and
surged into her, bringer of exquisite torment— and its joyous, sweet release.
His exultant cry was as piercing as the call of the seabirds that haunted the
sea-swept strands; dulcet, it mingled with her own when, at long last, she felt
the hard, supple length of him shudder against her, and she trembled fierce
with passion as, like a wild swan, white wings spread wide, she soared over
seas and distant shores unto the very heavens, then came to rest ever so gently
in his strong and loving arms.

Frey's Blessing
and Loki's Mischief

Although
she did not then know it, the short, swift days that followed that first night
of lovemaking were the sweetest Rhowenna was to know for a long while. Yet even
had she known what was so soon to come, she could not have savored those sweet
days any more than she did. Never before in her life, not even with Gwydion,
had she felt such happiness, known such sharing and intimacy with another human
being as she knew with Wulfgar; nor had she ever experienced such passion. Time
and time again, he swept her up to lay her down upon the soft woolen pallet of
the beautifully carved bed in the sleeping chamber, there to work his devilish
magic upon her, until she knew every plane, every angle of his body as well as
she knew
her own. There was nothing he did not know, did not teach her. As autumn
hastened toward winter, she spent long, languorous, greying afternoons with him
erotically tormenting and tantalizing her until she begged him to take her; and
there were intense, feverish nights, as well, nights when, long after she had
fallen into slumber, he came late to their bed to take her urgently, fiercely,
without any preliminaries.

Wulfgar
insisted that they be wed, although, to Rhowenna, the pagan ritual they would
undergo had little meaning, and she knew that in the eyes of the Christ and the
Church, and under the laws of Usk, she would not be truly and legally married.
Still, because Wulfgar wished it, she gave in to his demand, and preparations
for the ceremony went forth. It was to take place in the
templum
in the Sacred
Grove on Wulfgar's markland. The feasting would last for nine days, and
sacrifices would be made to the god Frey, who was the god of fertility and
sexuality. To her horror, Rhowenna learned that the customary sacrifices for
such an important occasion as the marriage of a
konungr
or
jarl
were nine young
male slaves.