Now I present to you... Silver and Spice!
View Prologue and chapter 1 HERE, chapter 2 HERE, chapter 3 HERE, chapter 4 HERE, chapter 5 HERE, chapter 6 HERE, chapter 7 HERE, chapter 8 HERE, chapter 9 HERE
Ireland, eleven years
previously
Twelve years since Aisling
left. Eleven years planning his revenge. The deed was done. He had finished the
bitch as she tried to protect her son. They were travelling with other pilgrims
to Clonmacnoise, and foolishly, they had believed that God would protect
them. It had been ridiculously easy to
ambush the group; none of the monks or priests had thought to carry
weapons. Despite the dull colour and
shapeless nature of her cloak and kirtle, Aisling’s beauty shone through. The
lad had her striking auburn hair, but his grey eyes could not conceal the fact
that Kerik Halsrason was his sire. She had recognised her husband, and Peter
knew it. It did not matter now. She was dead and the child was as good as gone.
It was time to celebrate with his true son.
He did not care for any bastard children of the field hands. Sean was
finally becoming a man following in his father's own image and actions. Peter’s face contorted into a twisted smile,
proud of the corruption of his son’s gentle nature. That was almost a month ago.
“What are you thinking
of, Peter?” The woman in his bed playfully
danced her fingers over his shoulders before burying them in his already matted
chest hair. He snorted, and forced his knee between her thighs, before rolling
over and grinding roughly into her, his still-black hair swinging over his face
with each coarse thrust. Spilling his seed, he knelt up, panting and grunting.
He ran a filthy ridged
fingernail down her over her breast. The woman of many secrets had arrived
again in Dubh Linn a fortnight ago, this time with several young men almost
half her age.
'What brings you here
this season, Valkryie?'
'My fosterlings need to
see life outside the north. Since men no longer go a-Viking, they need to learn
of life beyond fishing and farming.'
'And what else do they
learn of at your hands?' He smirked.
'Discipline. Bedsport. To make a success of their lives.' The second
sons of Jarls had a different path in life, much more fluid than that of their
elder brothers. She had been a foster mother for the past seven years, and
prepared her foster sons well for adulthood. Jarls appreciated her taking these boys of
twelve summers and turning them into men over the seasons, returning them to
their families by the time they reached ten-and-seven.
She was waiting for her
next fosterling. Kerik Halsrason made a concubine of her younger sister,
Gertrude, a life of comfort and plenty that should have been hers. To add insult to injury he had taken an Irish
woman too; as if he had his own personal harem like those in Miklagard, or
Constantinople, to those who lived there. Thirteen summers and the bitterness
at his rejection had not softened. She could not foster his first born, but she
would take very good care of his much-loved second boy. Kristr. There had been discussion around the Dubh Linn
settlement that he and his mother had been in Ireland, accompanied by Kerik to
attend one of their ridiculous Christian pilgrimages when she had been ambushed
and killed. She wished it had been Gertrude who died, lying and bleeding to
death with a sword through her heart.
His grating voice broke
her fantasy. 'Perhaps you could take my son into your foster care? He still has
a lot to learn. Discipline and respect have been managed most effectively by
me, and he already is showing the skills of a fine merchant and trader. Perhaps
bedsport could be taught by you? He has passed ten-and-six summers and I know
he has not lain with a woman.' He idly picked the grime from his dirty nails as
he casually discussed his son’s lack of experience with women.
She sat up on the bed
and reached for her linen shift. 'No. I only foster pure Viking sons.
Occasionally a clever half-breed will be welcomed.' She had one in her care at
the moment, a quiet, reflective boy, Johan O’Toole. He was the offspring of an Irish sire and
Norse mother. Johann listened to all
around him, yet gave away nothing. She was teaching him to travel between the
worlds of his parents, inconspicuous in either society yet able to garner
information from both. When Halsrason's boy arrived, that would be two. Enough
mixed blood for anyone.
She stood up from the
bed and washed her face and hands in a basin of water. 'Bring your son to me on
the morrow.' She dried herself with a linen cloth, and with a regal flourish
threw it aside. 'Shall we see if he shares his father's tastes?'
He scraped his greasy
hair back into a leather tie, and gave a mock bow. 'As you wish, Alfhilde.'
Marthe could barely
conceal her delight at the transformation of Roisin, with her mother's help. This
pair was not going to make a suitable match without her assistance.
As the three young women
entered the hall, led by Gertrude, Marthe heard the appreciative murmurs of the
assembly. She looked up to see Kristr's grey eyes staring down the hall in
appreciation at Roisin. Marthe dipped
her head, knowing she could barely keep her satisfied smirk to herself as she
watched her brother from the corner of eye.
He stood to allow Roisin access to the bench, his hand brushing against
the small of her back as she sought her balance on the narrow seat.
Marthe squeezed herself
in on the other side of her brother, and started to pick at her food, but she
was more interested in the conversation going on next to her.
Roisin spoke shyly to
Kristr. 'Marthe and your mother washed me, and dressed my hair in a Norse
style. Do you like it?'
He smoothed his hands
over the waves. 'I like it very much. It is exquisite bound or loose.'
Marthe silently agreed
with her brother. Roisin’s hair was
beautiful. If she were his wife, she would be required to cover it, a married
woman's husband being the only person allowed to see her hair unbound, her head
uncovered. And Kristr would make a good
husband, deserving of such a beauty.
As the meal progressed,
and the conversation moved around the table, Marthe whispered to Kristr.
'Brother, I need your help.' He narrowed his eyes in amusement. If there was
one woman on the Halsrason steading who did not need help, it was Marthe, the
Maker of Mischief. He decided to humour her.
'Help? How can I be of
assistance, you seemingly helpless daughter of Loki?'
She smirked at his
friendly sarcasm. 'As you know, Roisin is learning our language. I need to say
something to her in her own tongue, and you can translate for me.'
'What do you want to say
to her?'
'I want her to know she
can trust me. Give me the words for "Trust me".'
'Sister, I do not know
of what you scheme, but the words you seek are: "Chur do mhuinin
ionam".' Put your trust in me. Kristr knew his sister was plotting, no
doubt his match with Roisin, but with a kiss on the cheek and a thank you, she
repeated the words and bounced off. He caught Erik's eye and shook his head. Erik
shrugged, obviously not part of Marthe's current endeavours. Kristr knew Marthe
and knew that whatever she had planned for him, Erik's fate would not be far
behind in their sister's meddlesome ways.
Marthe’s interfering aside;
he knew that he wanted to be a husband. When he spoke with Flynn and took her
to see her father, he would ask permission.
As the meal came to an
end, Roisin gave a small yawn, and immediately Marthe was by her side. 'Kristr,
Roisin is tired. Tell her that I will take her and help her a-bed.' She turned
to Roisin, and back to Kristr smiling sweetly.
He gave an exaggerated
sigh. 'Roisin, Sweetling, Marthe feels that you are tired this eve and she has
offered to help you to your chamber. Do you wish her to assist you?'
Roisin looked to Marthe
who nodded excitedly. 'Oh, I am a little sleepy this evening Kristr, but do you
promise to come in and wish me good night before you retire?'
'Of course. I will not
be long' He kissed her cheek. He wanted to wish her much more than a good
night.
Roisin could not
understand Marthe's enthusiasm for helping another woman to bed. As they
entered Kristr's hall, she lit a taper from the smouldering hearth and lit a
lamp as they went into Roisin's chamber. Marthe lit three more lamps within the
room, bathing it in warm flickering light. She helped Roisin undress, not
tolerating the smaller woman's reluctance at the removal of her thin linen
shift. As she covered Roisin with a
soft seal fur for warmth and modesty, Roisin frowned as she heard Marthe speak
in her own tongue. 'Put your trust in me.' Why would she say that?
'Ja.' Roisin answered in
Norse, confused.
Marthe squealed, jumped
on top of her and looping a strip of linen around one of Roisin's wrists, then
the other, she bound her hands, securing her to the slats of the wooden bed
frame. Roisin twisted in outrage at her predicament, the fur slipping off her
nude body, whilst Marthe smiled in approval. She placed a finger on Roisin's
lips. 'Put your trust in me,' Marthe whispered again as she rearranged the fur
to protect Roisin's modesty. She gave her a kiss on the cheek and waved good
night.
oooOOOooo
Roisin was left alone,
thoughts of Marthe's mischief spinning through her head. How foolish and naive she had been to be so
easily overpowered by the younger, but much taller woman. What was Kristr going
to say when he saw her like this? He
said that he would come in to bid her good-night, and he would release
her. Or would he? She recalled their earlier embrace in the
woods, and blushed as she realised Marthe’s plan.
oooOOOooo
Marthe sloped back into
the hall, and poured herself a cup of ale.
She gave her brother a chaste kiss on the cheek, but it did not temper
his suspicion. ‘What have you done with
Roisin?’
Marthe gave an
exaggerated shrug. ‘I have done nothing
Kristr. She is abed now, I helped her
dress appropriately, and she is under the furs.’ Marthe giggled. ‘I have left you a gift,
brother.’ She tugged the leather tie out
of his bound hair, letting the waves tumble free. ‘Chur do mhunin ionam,’ she whispered in his
ear. Why should he ever put his trust in
her? He grabbed the leather tie that
dangled from his fingers, and with an exasperated growl, left the hall.
Kristr walked into the
room and saw a wide-eyed Roisin on her bed, her breaths coming in short sharp
pants. Marthe, he thought. It was obvious that Roisin was naked, beneath the fur,
scared to move too much lest the fur slide off and expose her to his ravenous
eyes. Her hands were loosely tied, but the knot was secure.
In her previous attempts
to wriggle free from Marthe's bonds, Roisin was aware that the fur had moved a
little around her legs, exposing her pale skin, slim ankles and calves to
Kristr. He licked his lips as her looked at her as she tried not to writhe
under his gaze.
'Kristr! Marthe brought
me here! She told me to trust her, and now look at me! I am trussed!' She gave a half laugh half sob at her
situation and her play on words.
He sat on the linen
chest. 'She told me she left me a gift in my chamber, this was not what I was
expecting, but much better.' As he moved towards her, Roisin felt her heart
beat faster and her womb tighten. She started to bite her lip in anticipation,
but of what she was not sure. Kristr had promised never to take her against her
will, and now she was willing in heart, soul and body. Her skin tingled as she
looked up at him. He hadn't so much as touched her and she felt like she was
going to explode.
'Easy, Sweetling. He
brushed his thumb across her trapped lip and she released it, her lips parting
as she held his gaze. He sat on the edge of the bed and caressed her cheek, as
she rubbed against her his hand like a kitten looking for attention, pouting
when he stopped. He gave her a chaste kiss on her open mouth, chuckling at her soft
mewls when he moved away.
'What is the matter my
sweet little one? I am very happy with the gift left for me by Marthe; perhaps
I should feast my eyes on you a little longer before I remove the wrapping.'
Her voice filled with
longing as she tugged on her bonds, and twisted, the silky silver fur having no
purchase on her smooth skin, falling a little more, showing her slender thighs.
'Kristr! Please!'
'What do you want?'
'You.' The one word he
wanted to hear.
He removed his tunic,
and bent over to release her, helping her to sit up on the bed. She blushed as
she draped the fur around her shoulders to cover her breasts. Taking her hair,
he smoothed and braided it before securing the braid with his own hair tie.
Turning to face him, her
hands cupped his face before stroking down over his shoulders and arms. Entwining his fingers with hers, she pulled
herself towards him, raising her head and parting her lips, her breaths shallow
and fast. She closed her eyes and felt his warm mouth brush gently over hers.
'Roisin.' His prayer.
'Look at me.' As he lost himself in her eyes, the green was barely visible over
her dilated pupils. Despite the uneven
light, the sparkle of anticipation was there. He was conscious of her trembling
below him, but it was not the shiver of fear.
'Close your eyes.' As
she obeyed, he kissed her eyelids, her nose, touching her lips lightly before
pressing into a firmer kiss. Laying her back on the bed, the fur fell away and
he surveyed every curve of her body, golden in the lamp light. She moved to
cover her breasts and mons with her hands in shame as he caressed her body with
those grey eyes, smouldering with want. He pushed her hands away.
'Nei, Roisin, I want to
look at you in all your beauty.' As she giggled nervously in embarrassment she
went to cover herself again, but Kristr gently took her wrists, and holding her
arms to her side he started to kiss her neck, her breastbone, sucking gently on
her rosebud nipples. She gasped at the unfamiliar sensations, differing
emotions rising within her, her back arching, pushing herself toward him.
He moved down her belly,
licking, nipping and kissing as he reached her mound over the soft curls
leading to secret entrance. She whimpered as he kissed her thighs, easing her
legs apart, murmuring in Norse. The words were unknown to her, but their sound
no longer seemed harsh.
'Easy, Sweetling,' she
barely heard his words as his tongue began to lap at the nectar of her
womanhood. Laving on her sweet bud, she moaned out in confusion and passion,
feeling the tension rising within her womb as he continued his ministrations,
one hand stroking and kneading her sweet behind, the other caressing her
breast. Twisting her fingers into his auburn hair she cried aloud in ecstasy
and surprise as she felt her first release, the waves of passion continuing as
he worshipped her belly and hips with his mouth, alternating firm kisses with
gentle nips.
She gasped as he stood
up to remove his breeches, and she saw him proud and erect above her. She had
seen boy babies, but nothing like this. She could never accommodate anything of
that size. Her eyes widened at the length and girth of a fully grown man.
He sensed her fear, at
her first view of a man filled with longing; he ran his hands down the sides of
her body, delighting in the feel of her sensuous curves. He hissed, breathing
in sharply as he felt her take him in her hands, her innocent exploring touch
making his desire rise beyond anything he had felt before. He would not last if
he surrendered to her touch.
'I will be gentle, all
will be well.' Bracing his body over hers, he leant in to kiss her, his mouth
and tongue caressing her lips, his shaft reflecting the movements of his mouth
as he sought her warm welcoming entrance. He paused as he savoured the
sensation of being with a maiden. She gave a small moan as he entered her, her
cry louder as he felt the breach of her maidenhead. He stilled as her velvet
folds adjusted to his size. Looking into her eyes he saw her desire for him.
This would not last long. He began to thrust, her warmth welcoming him, the
rhythm of her hips meeting his.
Tears of pleasure
blinded her, as she felt her bliss climb once again. She pulled him into her,
her legs curling around his, her hands clasping at his back and as he gave a
final thrust, he felt the ripples of her pleasure collide with his as they
locked in the lovers' embrace, sealing their union.
Thanks go to: For all pictures, E. Paterson,
Bio
Maria MacAuley is from Derry, Ireland and has a degree in Celtic Languages. She is married to the love of her life, and they live in relative peace with two cats.
She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.
If Maria were to choose her favourite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.
She has a secret wish that her husband will investigate his Nordic family tree further and whisk her off on a longboat to Hammerfest to view the Northern Lights.
If Maria were to choose her favourite tense, it should be the subjunctive, and is always keen to discuss same over a pint of Guinness.
email: banbha@hotmail.com
~*"No portion of this story may be copied or shared without the direct permission of the author."*~
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