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  Cum For The Viking

  By Virginia Wade

  Copyright © 2012 Virginia Wade

  All Rights Reserved.

  Published by I Love Stacy

  Kindle Edition

  Virginia Wade

  http://virginia-wade-erotica.com

  http://twitter.com/VirginiaErotica

  Email:

  [email protected]

  Cover Art by Adelaide Cooper

  Inspired by M. J. Lance

  All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this book is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author.

  Chapter One

  “So, who is my husband, mother?”

  She stared into a bowl, while the wind howled outside, bringing a northern gale. “He’s not from around here.”

  I’d begged her for years to read the leaves, to see my future, and she had finally capitulated. I sat on the end of a rickety chair, waiting anxiously to hear her precious words. Her readings were always accurate. This was why the women in the village harassed us day and night, begging to know their future. Mother, being far too honest for her own good, had angered many with her less than tactful responses. If she saw death, she said so. If she saw misfortune, she said so. Her predictions had always come to pass, and enemies had been made. The future could not be altered; it was predestined, created by the forces of the universe.

  She moved the bowl, rearranging the leaves, her brows drawing together. “I see…an invasion.” This declaration seemed to surprise her.

  “What?”

  “They’re coming,” she whispered.

  “But what about my husband? I’m tired of being alone. I want a man to warm my bed.” The men in the village shunned me, as they did my mother, although some of them didn’t hesitate to come calling in the middle of the night. Witches, the women cried when they saw us. Harlots! I’d had stones thrown at me my entire life. “You said I’d have love. You said I’d be worshiped. I’m tired of waiting, mother.”

  “You’ll be worshipped, my dear. Your husband comes…but he’s not what you think he is.”

  And now she would channel magic and speak in riddles. “Go on.” I watched her carefully, her nearly black hair falling over her shoulders.

  “He’s a great and powerful man—”

  “You mustn’t humor me! I can handle the truth. I know I’ll be a farmer’s wife. I’m fully prepared to yoke oxen to the plough.”

  She held up a hand. “No. That isn’t what’ll happen, Lora. You’re not destined to work the fields. You’ll have all the pretty things you want with a pretty house. I see children. Several. But...”

  “But what?” I rested my elbows on the table.

  “There’s some confusion here. I see two men, but only the dark haired one will be your love, your protector. He’s foreign.”

  “He’d have to be,” I said bitterly. “No one in the village would marry me.”

  Her eyes met mine. “We have so little time.”

  “Will something happen soon?”

  “This means change.” She pointed to the clumps of moist tealeaves around the edges of the bowl. “Great change comes, but you must be careful. I must be careful.” Her gaze took on a faraway look. “I must plan.”

  “Will you travel again?”

  “Yes.”

  My heart sank. “Why?”

  “The future I see isn’t mine. I’d only get in the way. I’m going inland. I’ll stay with my sister.”

  I lay my hand on hers. “Don’t go. You’ve only just returned. I hate it when you leave me.”

  “You won’t be alone for long. He comes soon. He’s going to take you away.” Her eyes watered. “Your future is far away from here.”

  A part of me hoped she was wrong, and the other part prayed she was right. I’d been an outcast my entire life, and my prospects were bleak. Men went out of their way to avoid me, fearing me and the powers they thought I possessed. I wasn’t a witch, but I did know the healing arts and how to derive medicines from plants. My mother was the gifted medium. I didn’t possess her skills.

  “I wish you’d stay.”

  “I leave in the morning.”

  Alarm raced through me. “So soon?”

  “Yes, my dear. I’m sorry.”

  I slept horribly that night, tossing and turning; the straw mattress was lumpy and uncomfortable. The wind howled, the sides of our wattle-and-daub hut shaking. The thatch on the roof would require patching in the morning. My mother was up before me, making the fire and packing her belongings. I gazed at her, feeling a sense of loss.

  “Are you sure about this?”

  She glanced over her shoulder. “Yes.”

  “You’ve been wrong before.”

  “Lady Abbot tricked me with false questions, Lora. She was playing games. I’m never wrong.” She muttered under her breath, “That woman will get hers soon enough.”

  “I wish you’d stay.” I swung my legs over the bed.

  “Take what vegetables you can from the garden. Kill the chickens. Eat well, my dear. Food will be scarce.”

  “Did you have a dream?”

  “Men are coming. The sea will be filled with red sails. Go to the woods when this happens. Stay there as long as you can.”

  Fear lodged in my gut. “How much time do I have?”

  “A day, maybe. Perhaps less.” She came to the bed, touching my face. “You’re the most beautiful girl. You’re my salvation. Your father, God rest his soul, would’ve been proud of the woman you’ve become. I’m proud to be your mother. I’m sorry for the trouble I’ve caused, but it is as it should be.”

  I grabbed her hand. “Don’t go.”

  “I must.”

  She folded a small crust of bread in a cloth. “Use the rest of the wheat. Fortify yourself.”

  “I will.” I hugged her. “Will I ever see you again?”

  She smiled sadly. “No.” Her gray gown hung loosely on her thin frame. A brown cloak went over her shoulders, and leather slippers were on her feet. “Heed my words, Lora. They’ll come to pass.”

  “Yes, mother.” I followed her out, the wind catching my hair and a biting cold lashing my face. I watched her walk down the path, her figure growing smaller and smaller. “Goodbye,” I whispered.

  I spent the day gathering vegetables, making bread, and slaughtering the chickens, which I cut up into a stew. I would feast tonight. It was almost a shame to waste all this food on one person. The wind drove the rain against the side of the house, dampening the clay, water leaking in. The smell of moist earth assailed me along with the tantalizing aroma of chicken stew. I ate until my tummy bulged, satiated on the nourishing supper. Then I heated water and prepared a bath, using a cloth to wipe myself clean. I would wash my hair afterwards, dunking my head in the bucket. When this task was complete, I sat before the fire, warming my bones and drying my hair, using a wooden comb to remove the tangles.

  A scratching on the door garnered my attention. This was followed by a soft, “Meow.”

  “Vincent?” I opened the door, a gust of freezing rain wetting my face. “Where have you been?” The black cat rubbed against my leg. I hadn’t seen him in two weeks. He looked well fed, which was astonishing. “You naughty cat. What mischief have you gotten into?”

  “Purrrr…”

  He sat before the fire and began to
preen himself, licking his black, lustrous coat. I joined him, scratching behind his ears. “I’m so glad you’re back. I won’t be alone now.”

  “Purrr…meow…”

  He slept in my bed, curled up next to me, keeping me warm. A noisy seagull woke me the next morning, and I dragged myself from the bed to light the fire. I ate a bowl of soup, filling my belly to capacity. Then I dunked the bread into the mixture and ate that as well. The gale had died down, the rain stopping for the moment. Wrapping a cloak around myself, I left the house to check for damage. I might have to repair the leaks before they worsened. A mist lingered, the fog so thick I could barely see five feet before me. Remembering my mother’s words, I wandered towards the cliffs to look down into the harbor, although, with the fog, I doubted I would see anything at all.

  The invigorating cold roused my spirits. I loved this walk. On a clear day, the beauty of the ocean stretched out as far as the eye could see, but today the mist had yet to lift. I sat on a rock near the cliff edge and listened. It was eerily quiet. I lingered for more than an hour, the air chilling me thoroughly, and waited. There was a part of me that knew once the fog cleared, I would see my mother’s vision. I feared this, yet I understood it was my future. The sun poked through the clouds briefly, enough to burn away the blanket of haze that refused to budge. It was then that I caught a glimpse of red. I sat straight and squinted, trying to get a better look.

  I gasped. The opening in the fog revealed ships, lots of ships! Were they merchant vessels coming into port? They looked utterly unfamiliar, which was worrying. Their shapes were long and sleek, with dragon-shaped prows and high curving sterns. Billowing red sails filled my vision. Bells began to ring in the village, the inhabitants having seen the approaching threat, but it was too late.

  “God help us,” I whispered. These were no merchant vessels. This was an invading force, and they would wreak havoc, no doubt. I sprang to my feet, hastening to the house, where I packed quickly; throwing whatever food items I could find into a sack. “Vincent? Where are you, you silly cat?” I had the clothes on my back and my cloak. I was fortunate enough to have shoes. My mother had traded her psychic services to a tradesman for leather slippers. Most of the villagers went barefoot.

  I left the house, the wooden door slamming behind me. I knew where I would go, but I dreaded it. Hurrying for the forest, the faint sounds of screams reached my ears. I ran down the path, the heavy sack slung over my shoulder and my heart thundering in my chest. I darted into the safety of the trees, finding the refuge I needed. My legs carried me to a small cave my mother had discovered years ago, while seeking protection from the villagers, who wanted to burn her for witchcraft. She had lived in the hideaway for more than a year, only returning when it was safe. That had been Lady Abbot’s doing, but I suspected it was more out of jealousy, because of Lord Abbot’s attentions towards her. We were hated for a number of reasons. Firstly, my mother’s fortune telling abilities, then my particular success with healing herbs, and then our beauty, of course. The Green women were renowned for their lustrous black hair, pale, unblemished skin, impossibly large breasts, and heart-shaped faces, which were bordered by delicately arching brows. I had always known my mother was stunning, and, after father had died, the men came around. Married, single, and engaged, it didn’t matter. She attracted them by the droves, and they brought gifts: chickens, wine, cheeses, and silver. I would be made to wait in the cold, while she let them have her body, her moans of pleasure seeping through the clay and wattle walls.

  As I grew and my figure filled out, I also received the attention of the village men, who leered at me from their carts and horses, calling me rude names. I’d been attacked once, on the road to Dorset, but I always carried a knife, sheathed on my thigh, and I had stabbed him in the arm, frightening the scoundrel off. The men avoided me after that, but they would stare, hunger flaring in their eyes.

  The cave was hidden behind a rocky outcropping, and I hadn’t been here since my mother’s banishment. It smelled of damp earth, decaying detritus, and limestone. I found a wooden chest against a wall, which held an old blanket, several candles, and a small cauldron. I spent the day collecting firewood and boiling water, and, after the sun went down, I sat by the fire, staring into the bluish-yellow flames, and listened to the sounds of screams from the village.

  Chapter Two

  On the fourth day of my isolation, I became desperate, not having eaten anything substantial in more than two days. I scoured the forest searching for berries and mushrooms. I tried to catch fish in a stream. I collected minnows instead and ate them raw, out of sheer need. Exhausted and weak, I wandered further from the cave, hoping to find anything that would fill my belly.

  The ground suddenly thundered with the sound of horses. This sent me into the underbrush, crouching and hiding from the strangers who approached, but I foolishly stepped on a branch, the wood snapping loudly under my foot. There was movement in the trees, and I fled in the other direction, the ends of my cloak flying out behind me. In my panic, I stumbled, tumbling over knotted roots and falling hard. I struggled to breathe, the wind having been knocked out of me. A boot appeared to my right, scuffed and worn looking. As I gazed up, I felt the cold end of a sword pressed to my neck.

  “What have we here?” said a heavily accented voice.

  Terror gripped me, my body trembling. I will die now or worse. The emptiness of my stomach was long forgotten, replaced by the knowledge that the person who stood over me was one of the invaders. He was shockingly tall, blonde, and heavily outfitted with a helmet, shield, and chainmail. The sword was still pressed to my neck, cold and unyielding. The man with him spoke in a language I didn’t understand, and the blonde smiled, his face transforming into a handsome visage. He removed his sword.

  “Get up.” I struggled to my feet, and he grabbed me, dragging me to him. Interest flared in his pale blue eyes. “It’s a dark angel.” I pushed against the solid mass of his chest, and he laughed, “You’re no match for me, little one. What’s your name?”

  “Lora.” My hand drove into my cloak, to my thigh, where I snatched my knife. “Who are you?”

  “Bram Laxdale.”

  “You Viking scum!” I spat.

  He threw his head back in laughter, his Adam’s apple moving beneath the skin. I took that moment to press the knife to his arrogant throat. His eyes widened with surprise. His friend spoke then, and the blonde answered, his expression was considering. My knife was sharp, and it punctured the pale skin, producing a single drop of blood. He swiped my arm aside, sending the weapon flying. Strong fingers gripped my hair, pulling me nearer. I was so close I could smell his breath, which was laced with the honeyed aroma of mead.

  “This one is mine. She’ll tickle my cock nicely.”

  His friend spoke, the language of Old Norse sounding alien and vulgar. I had been expecting to be raped or worse. I would be lucky to survive the night, but the closeness to this pale stranger had an unusual effect on me. I could feel the vibrancy of his energy, heady and raw. He would be all muscle beneath the encumbrances of war, and this oddly excited me. I’d resented my virginity, wishing it were gone for years now, craving the touch of a man, but none of the villagers would have me. They feared me as a witch, and they cursed and spat whenever I set foot in town. The Green women had always been reviled and spurned.

  “Fríðr,” he breathed, desire flaring in his eyes.

  He spoke to his friend, his grip tightening. Then he dragged me with him, his strength beyond comprehension. A horse waited in the thicket, the animal having been tethered to a branch. I was lifted onto it, the Viking settling behind, his steely arm around my tummy. He called out, and the animal bounded forward, the hooves tossing up clumps of earth. The cold wind of autumn sent my hair flying. We emerged from the forest to gallop across farmland, the greenness of the fields stretching on for miles. Plumes of smoke dotted the landscape; fires burned, undoubtedly set by the marauders. Corpses were left to rot on the side of the ro
ad; most were bodies of young men and farmers, who had fought bravely with pitchforks and shovels, which were no match for battle-axes and swords.

  The harbor had become a fortified Viking camp, outfitted with newly erected walls and a formidable looking gate. The streets teemed with the fair-haired scoundrels, who wore iron helmets and chainmail. The dragon ships dotted the sea, their red sails having been furled. It was an ominous scene, filled with the smell of decomposition and the smoke from a hundred fires.

  “She’s a witch!” screamed an old woman, who sat in the muck on the side of the road. I glanced at the hag, recognizing her. “Your Viking cock will rot off, if you fuck her.” She laughed, the sound grating.

  I glanced at Bram Laxdale, his pale eyes glinting with amusement. “Did you hear that, you dumb oaf? I’m a witch. I’m bad luck. Release me before it’s too late.” Something struck me then, a rock thrown by a villager, no doubt. I held the side of my face, my cheek smarting. Several elderly women loitered, their faces caked with grime. Our horse trotted on, snorting his displeasure at the hostile crowd.

  “Witch!”

  “Evil Green woman!”

  …“fuck her at your own risk, Viking filth!” This was followed by more laughter and insults.

  It was disheartening to know that I might be safer with an invading army than my own people. We dismounted on the beach; an assemblage of tents stretched out as far as the eye could see. The structures were covered in a roughly woven material, hopefully watertight, to keep the rain at bay and protect the inhabitants from the elements. A strong hand gripped my arm, dragging me along, the sounds of chaos echoing in my ears, punctuated by screams. Bram seemed to be in a position of power among his men, because they nodded deferentially towards him, as we passed. He tossed open the flap of the tent and shoved me inside. It was dark, the sun having set behind the clouds, and there was no light. I sat on something soft, feeling the pelt of a dead animal beneath me.