Stolen Fruits: The Complete Collection (A Historical Viking Erotic Romance Novella) Read online

  He was not nearly as bad as I had expected; he was young still, with bright blonde hair that tumbled around his head and over his shoulders. His eyes were a cold, piercing blue, framed by soft-looking sandy brows. His lips were full, and unlike the raiders and many of the other men in the clan, he didn’t wear a beard or even a mustache, leaving his unscarred face perfectly visible. I could tell that he was taller than me, although he was seated, and his arms and legs were all thick muscle, like bundles of thick cords. I swallowed again.

  “If it please you, sir, I am Hilda,” I said, speaking as loudly as I could manage. “I offer myself as your bride.” The chieftain met my gaze and I saw his lips curve in a slight smile. It disappeared just as quickly, and he looked around at his raiders.

  “She’s lively, and she looks good enough. I take her from you, Einar.” He looked over at a servant standing almost behind him, and the young man—little more than a boy—came forward and led me back behind the chieftain, into a private area of the enormous house. I exhaled, glancing at the boy. He looked at me curiously.

  “Where are you from?” he whispered to me.

  “A small village in the lowlands,” I told him, equally quiet. He nodded. He presented me to a woman who was incredibly old and explained that she managed the hearth and the food. As the chieftain’s wife, I would not be responsible for the actual preparing of meals, but I would be manager of his house—particularly important when he took a mind to go out on his own raids. It wouldn’t be so different from the kind of life that I could have expected in my own village; except that my husband was an utter stranger to me, and the servants were slaves.

  The old woman guided me to a place where I could sit down and brought me roasted meat and a rough tankard of mead. I hadn’t been starved on the journey back to the strange Viking stronghold, but the movement of the ocean underneath the ship had made it difficult for me to eat very much. The old woman patted my shoulder sympathetically, offering me a thick piece of bread while I licked my fingers clean of the meat juices. I drank down the mead and listened to the men in the front of the building wrangling and arguing and talking—dividing the spoils of their various conquests.

  I saw the slave boy drag the chest with my dowry back in the hearth area, where presumably my soon-to-be husband would examine his new riches in detail. I shivered, thinking of what my wedding night would doubtless be. Even if my husband was more attractive than I had had any reason to expect, he would surely be brutal. I would have to withstand it, I told myself.

  My own chest of belongings came next and the old woman glanced at me, asking permission before she opened it. “In this land,” the woman said to me quietly, “you own your own possessions. It’s a small thing, my lady, but at least your husband will not take ownership of your goods.” I shrugged. The old woman smiled at my finery, lifting out my sleeping gowns and bringing a sachet of dried flowers to her nose. “You’re from the lowlands,” she said. “I know these herbs.” I nodded, feeling the tears welling up in my eyes again.

  “If he does not take me, I can return in four years,” I told her. She shook her head, looking at me slowly.

  “He’ll have you, girl. You’re young and beautiful and you have your wits about you.” She grinned, showing me her almost-toothless mouth. “Count yourself lucky. He’s not bad as these people go.” The woman left me to attend to other matters.

  It was a few days later that the wedding took place. I had met the rest of the servants of the chieftain’s household, including two younger women from another raid who would, I was told, be my direct servants. The morning of the wedding, they brought me to a bathhouse and I went from section to section, being bathed and steamed, my hair thoroughly combed until it crackled as it dried. The ceremony passed in a blur for me; the chieftain displayed the bride-price that he would send to my parents before the rest of the village and sent it away with a group. The ritual was conducted in the Viking’s language; the servants helped me with the proper words to say, though I didn’t understand them at all. I was presented with the chieftain’s sword, and he gave me an ornate silver ring. My mother had, fortunately, thought to give me a ring in my goods for my husband, and he looked down at it for a few moments after I had placed it on his finger.

  The feast seemed to go on forever, with the men and women getting progressively louder and drunker as the night wore on. My husband laughed and joked with his men, and I poured his mead for him until he put his hand over the cup, looking at me with a slight smile that went away in a moment. I couldn’t understand anything that was being said around me in the strange Viking language, and at several moments, I felt utterly bereft of my family and home. Even had I married under different circumstances, at least my parents would have ensured that I went to a place where the language was not utterly foreign. I couldn’t speak to the servants—most of whom spoke my language or something close to it. The traditional wedding crown that they had put on my head became heavy; it was a fearsome and beautiful thing made of different metals forged into leaves and flowers and inset with sparkling crystals in red and green. I wanted to take it off, but I knew that I wouldn’t be allowed. Not until the bedding.

  Chapter Three

  Everything was quiet in the Chieftain’s bedchamber. He had sent away all of the celebrating raiders, and the servants were even beginning to go to sleep, finding their alcoves and spots all around the giant house. I had managed to convince the old woman to allow me to bathe; my mother had given me some of her precious rose oil to wear on the night of my wedding, and I wanted my skin to be clean when I wore it. I stepped through the hangings that separated the chieftain’s sleeping area from the rest of the house. It was almost as warm as the kitchen area, with furs piled high on a roughly-made bed along the wall. The chieftain’s bed was bigger even than my parents’ marriage bed, I thought, staring at it a few moments. I knew that in a matter of minutes, my husband would join me, and that I would be in that bed with him. I wasn’t sure I had been calm for more than a few minutes ever since I saw the raiders attacking my village; certainly as I waited for my husband to arrive and complete the act of making me his wife, I was more anxious than I had been before. Somehow, even with my life on the line, I had only had a vague, abstract notion of what marrying this Viking chief would be like.

  I heard the rustling of rushes in the tapestried hall behind me, and I hurriedly moved towards the bed, instinctively curling around myself. I was in nothing more than a sleeping gown. When I had been led to the chieftain’s bedroom, they had allowed me to take off the crown, as part of the ritual. I had washed myself carefully in preparation for my bedding, and I had brushed the rose oil through my hair and dabbed it on the insides of my thighs, my wrists, my ankles. My mother had whispered to me that rose oil was a powerful aphrodisiac, that my husband would be soothed and aroused by the scent and would, with luck, take me gently, and accept me as a wife. I wondered if her old housewife’s magic worked on Vikings; my heart was thundering in my chest, my breath already quickening with the fear of my new husband taking his rights with me.

  Then he came through the tapestries, pushing them aside and entering his bedroom. His gaze lit on me and he smiled slightly. He took off his helm and plate and put it aside, standing very still in his wool and leather clothing. I swallowed, trying to stand straight and remain calm and confident. The man watched me for a few moments before speaking slowly. He spoke in my own language, with a faint accent.

  “Don’t be afraid,” he said calmly, crossing the room. “It isn’t our way to do harm to our wives. Particularly on the wedding night.” His smile spread across his face. I could see that he had very white, very even teeth—his smile was actually very nice. I felt my heart fluttering again—not with fear, but with something like anticipation. He closed the distance between us and put his hands on my waist; they were surprisingly warm, I could feel the heat of him through my gown. “Now that you are my wife, in private you may call me Brynjulf.” He leaned in and pressed his lips to my
forehead. He towered over me, and his hands on my waist were so strong. I was trembling with a mixture of fear and anticipation.

  “What should I call you in public?” I asked, feeling a mixture of bravery and fear. Brynjulf’s hands on my body were moving slowly, testing out the curves of my body.

  “You will call me ‘Jarl,’ which is my title among my people, or ‘husband’ when there is no formality required.” I nodded slowly. Brynjulf smiled again, leaning in and kissing me lightly on the lips. I felt my pulse stirring with the beginnings of lust as he began caressing and massaging me. His hands moved slowly from my hips up to my breasts; he cupped them, squeezing them lightly, running his thumbs over my nipples through the thin fabric of my sleeping gown. “I have never taken a woman without her consent,” he whispered to me, giving each of my nipples a careful pinch. I was surprised to hear myself moan softly at the sensation. I could feel myself getting wet from desire—how had I gone from being so afraid of this man to feeling such a strong pull to him? I licked my lips and very daringly pulled his face to mine, leaning up onto my toes to meet his lips with my own.

  Brynjulf’s mouth on mine was hot, his kiss demanding but not cruel. I felt myself melting into him, leaning and arching into his touches as his hands roamed all over my body, his fingers running through my hair. Brynjulf mapped out my curving shape with his hands, caressing me all over as he kissed me deeply. He slowly raised my sleeping gown and pulled it over my head, tossing it aside. The warm air of his sleeping chamber brushed against my skin everywhere that Brynjulf’s hands didn’t touch; and eventually there seemed to be nowhere that he was not touching me. His lips traveled down along my neck and his hands along my body, finding my hips and then reaching down in between my legs. He gave me a slow, delicate caress along the lips of my pussy before breaking away, taking a step back. “You are lovely, wife,” he said, taking in every bit of my naked body. “I will have to reward Einar for bringing you to me.” I giggled, giddy with the pleasure of his touches.

  “Better you should reward me,” I told Brynjulf. “I made Einar bring me to you as a wife in exchange for leaving my village alone.” Brynjulf raised an eyebrow at this. “I tricked him and stole his sword, and threatened to shame him by killing him in front of his men.” Brynjulf laughed out loud, throwing his head back. He pulled me close and kissed my forehead, his hands massaging my hips and waist.

  “Do you still have his sword?” He asked me. I nodded, still giggling like a child. “Show me!” I went to my chest, which had been carried into Brynjulf’s quarters, and dug the sword out. Brynjulf laughed again, seeing it. “My fearsome Hilda,” he called me, crossing the room and kissing me deeply. “You should have been born as one of us.”

  He pressed my body all along his, letting me feel the hard ridge of his erection in his trousers. He picked me up and carried me to his bed, resting me gently among the furs and linens and pillows. He ran his hands all over my body slowly, kissing me along my neck and down to my breasts. I was quickly becoming aroused as his hands kneaded my thighs, his mouth finding one of my nipples and sucking and licking. I moaned out, arching into his lips, already beginning to writhe underneath him. Brynjulf pulled away from my breasts and smiled at me. “I only take women in the height of their desire for me,” he said, his voice low and sweet. “Do you desire me, my fearsome Hilda?” His fingers stroked my pussy, already wet with need for him. I nodded.

  “Yes, Brynjulf,” I replied, surprised at my own desire. He began nipping at my skin, along the sensitive undersides of my breasts, down along my stomach. I became breathless as he came closer to my sex, kissing along my hips. He slipped his fingers along my labia and spread me open just slightly, exposing me to the warm air in his room. I moaned out loud as his lips came into contact with my pussy, his tongue darting out and slowly licking me up and down. His tongue found my clit and began flicking across it quickly, and I cried out in pleasure, arching up from the bed. “Oh, oh—” I gasped. My mother had told me nothing about this. I think that certainly the church we held to would be against such pleasure of the flesh—but I was quickly learning that the Vikings had no fear of pleasing the flesh. Brynjulf pulled back from my pussy and looked up at me.

  “You are delicious, my little fearsome one,” he told me, leaning in to taste me again. I was writhing underneath him, clutching at the furs, unable to help my moaning in pleasure at his attentions. I was soaking wet, trembling with need. I whimpered, running my fingers through Brynjulf’s hair as he devoured me. Brynjulf brought his hand up under his mouth and I could feel his fingers touching my slit, teasing me slowly before he pushed just one inside of me. I gasped, my hips arching up off of the bed without my even willing them to. The sensation of his finger slowly pushing into my pussy was so unexpected, so thrilling. I felt my pleasure rising quickly, my whole body on fire. Brynjulf began to slowly move his finger in and out of me even as he kept up his attentions with his lips and tongue and even grazed his teeth across my clit, sending sparks of fiery pleasure throughout me.

  Then he stopped, and I keened, disappointed right on the edge of orgasm. Brynjulf chuckled, standing up away from the bed. He unlaced his shirt and pulled it over his head, exposing his muscled torso to my hungry eyes. He had sparse, wiry hair sprinkled across his chest, like coils of gold. He pulled down his trousers and I saw his hard cock spring up immediately. I stared at it; I had seen the cock of one of the village boys when we were younger, and so I was not entirely unprepared, but Brynjulf was much larger than I had thought, and for a moment I was afraid. He climbed back onto the bed and kissed me hungrily, stroking my pussy. “I told you, my fearsome Hilda,” he murmured, inches away from my lips, “Do not be afraid. I will make you come over and over again.”

  He gently pushed me down among the pillows, pinning me onto the bed and kissing all over my face and neck. Brynjulf rocked his hips into mine, and I felt his hot, hard cock rubbing against my pussy, little jolts of pleasure shooting through me with every movement of his body. He guided the tip of his cock up against me. “Remember to breathe,” he murmured, thrusting into me slowly. I felt every inch of him penetrating me. I did breathe, and after a moment of searing pain, I gasped at the pleasure of Brynjulf moving inside of me. Brynjulf moaned out, brushing his lips over mine as he filled me up.

  “Oh,” I breathed, flexing my hips and taking him in more deeply. Brynjulf touched me all over, caressing and massaging, and I let my hands wander over his body, feeling his hard muscles and surprisingly smooth skin. I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him close to me. “You are wonderful,” I whispered, moving my hips in counter-rhythm to his thrusts. Brynjulf smiled, kissing me over and over again until I was breathless, having to pant and gasp to get the air I needed.

  “Tell me you desire me,” he told me, and I felt his fingers moving down my body, finding my clit and stroking it firmly. I moaned out loud and pressed my body as tightly against his as possible.

  “I do, I desire you so much,” I replied in a moan. I felt thrills of pleasure as Brynjulf continued to thrust into me, moving more quickly, pushing more and more deeply into my body. I was panting, my nails digging into Brynjulf’s back as my pleasure continued to rise. I cried out, kissing my husband hungrily. I couldn’t believe how powerfully I was already feeling for this man.

  Brynjulf’s lips trailed over my skin, making a hot path to my breasts. He brought each of my nipples up to his mouth in turn, sucking and licking them, making me gasp and pant in uncontrollable pleasure. I gripped him as tightly possible as wave after wave of orgasm crashed through me. I felt my muscles flex and relax erratically as Brynjulf continued to thrust into me, brushing against an intensely sensitive spot inside of my body. “Oh Gods, oh husband,” I cried, almost sobbing with the pleasure of what his cock did to me. I felt his body tense suddenly and then the hot sticky sensation of his come flooding into me. He shouted something in his Viking language, crushing my body into his. He collapsed against me, panting heavily, his hands wandering ove
r my body slowly as he recovered.

  “My beautiful little Hilda,” he whispered, nuzzling against my neck. He nipped roughly at my sensitive skin, careful not to really hurt, but just enough to make me shiver with pleasure. “I am going to have you over and over again tonight, and every night from now on.” He chuckled, kissing me on the lips.

  “As much as you like, my husband,” I replied, kissing his forehead. Brynjulf’s hands began to tease me, his fingers tweaking my nipples and rolling them slowly.

  “I will give you so much pleasure, my fearsome one.” I was trembling with the aftershocks of my orgasm, and I felt Brynjulf’s cock stirring inside of me again. “Are you sore?” He asked, gently moving his hips just a little bit. I shook my head.