Page 90 of The Bewitched Viking

“Oh!” she said on a whooshy exhalation, reeking with disappointment. “Rape it is to be, then.”

“Nay, it will not be rape.”

A charged silence followed, during which Alinor was permitted to register the meaning of his words.

Rape? Tykir thought. The lackbrained woman thinks I intend to rape her as punishment. Even in his greatest fury in the past—and he was nigh approaching that level now—Tykir would never have raped a woman. What pleasure would there be in that? The shame afterward would have far outweighed the merits of any momentary physical release. Nay, he would not rape her, but he was so angry he feared that he might go berserk and accidentally kill her in his rage. He had to calm down. Think. Calm down.

He put the torch back in a wall bracket. Taking her by the elbow in a pincer-grip, he guided her forward and slammed the door behind them, then pushed her along the corridor toward his bedchamber. Did she deliberately take baby steps to his giant ones? Or was his stride that much different from hers?

From the open side of the passageway, with its waist-high stone banister, he could see at least two dozen soldiers and servants staring up at them from the great hall, wide-eyed and silent. Already the gossips would be churning out juicy tidbits about his being defeated by a mere wench. For a certainty, no matter how much he threatened, Bolthor would be sure to write sagas about a mad Viking bested by a witch with chair-and-hair-braiding skills. People far and wide would hear of this incident, even as far as Northumbria. His brother Eirik would never let him forget. Selik and Rain would be telling children’s versions of the event to the orphans in their care. Adam would carry the saga to the Arab lands. He had to redeem himself in his people’s eyes or he would be the object of so much jesting he would be unable to hold up his head.

The wench had forced him into this untenable situation. It was all her fault.

Instead of guiding her now, he moved ahead impatiently, dragging her along till they reached his bedchamber. Kicking the door open with one booted foot, he shoved her inside, then locked the door behind him, pocketing the key.

She stood in the middle of the room, staring at him through wide green eyes glinting with resistance. Holy Thor! Even when the ravens are circling overhead, the witch will not admit that she has lost the battle. Her hair, mussed by her stay amongst the furs in the storage room, stood out like a wild red bush. If such a bush exists, I would like to plant one in the herb garden to remind me of how she looks right now. Skin, which was paler than usual, provided a white backdrop to her freckles. Have the freckles increased, or are they just more apparent with the blood drained from her flesh?

In truth, she was a mess.

In truth, she held much too much appeal for him.

She was afraid. But even so, the stubborn streak she rarely attempted to rein in was apparent in her jutting chin and pike-stiff body…a body that was a shadowy, tantalizing temptation to him through the thin linen shift, despite his anger.

“You must understand, Tykir—” she began.

“Do…not…talk,” he said through gritted teeth, and picked her up by the waist, tossing her high in the air and onto his stout-timbered bed. She landed on her back, legs and arms splayed comically, as the mattress straw crackled beneath her. Well, not quite comically, he corrected himself. It was hard to smile when even more of her body was revealed with the chemise hitched up to her thighs, exposing exceptionally long and shapely legs, and with one shoulder of the undergarment draped down over her arm practically to her breast.

“It’s not necessary for you to be so rough,” she griped. Rising to her knees, she adjusted her gown and rubbed the upper arm, where his fingermarks were already beginning to show against her creamy skin.

“Do not move,” he ordered, pointing a finger at her for emphasis as he turned his back on her and began to build up the fire once again. As he worked, he noticed that his hands were trembling with inner wrath. Or was it something else?

“Where would I go?” she said sarcastically.

He crossed his eyes at her lackwit refusal to obey his orders. He should lop off her head and be done with it. “I thought I told you not to speak,” he answered icily. “And as to the where of it, you would no doubt fly through the window, witch that thou art.”

“You don’t for one minute think I’m a witch,” she accused.

He turned to glare at her. She still knelt in the middle of his massive bed, looking smaller and more frail than he knew her to be. “Nay, I do not,” he admitted. “But that does not matter. You are capable of a woman’s sorcery.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged and went to the corner, where he’d placed some boxes earlier—the “gifts” he’d given Alinor the day they’d left King Anlaf’s court. From the smallest box he took four velvet ropes, each the length of a woman’s arm. With slow, deliberate care, he tied one to each of the four bedposts. Through his side vision, he saw Alinor watching his every move, saying nothing but wetting her suddenly dry lips—a gesture that he found oddly arousing and guilt-provoking at the same time.

“That’s not necessary, you know. I’ve been beaten dozens of times by my brothers and never had to be tied down.” Her voice shook in spite of her best resolve.

Dozens of times! Nay, do not feel sorry for the wench. Do not feel sorry for the wench. Do not… “I told you that I was not going to beat you,” he snapped.

“Oh,” she said. “Well, I did not have to be tied down for the coupling with my husbands, either. I just closed my eyes and spread my legs.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “And said the Pater Noster,” he reminded her.

“That, too,” she agreed, casting a quick glance his way, no doubt thinking his mood toward her had changed because of his small jest. It had not.

“Give me your hand, Alinor,” he ordered, taking one rope in his fingertips.

“I don’t want to,” she resisted.

“Give me your hand, Alinor,” he repeated more firmly.