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God of Fire

An Ellora's Cave Electronic Publication in association with author Jaid Black

ISBN # 1-84360-013-7

All Rights Reserved. http://www.ellorascave.com

© Copyright Jaid Black, 2000.

This book/e-book may not be reproduced in whole or in part by email forwarding, copying, fax, or any other mode of communication without author and publisher permission.

Edited by Lee Haskell

Warning:

The following material contains strong sexual content meant for mature readers. "God of Fire" has been rated NC-17, erotic, by five individual reviewers. We strongly suggest storing this electronic file in a place where young readers not meant to view this e-book are unlikely to happen upon it. That said, enjoy…

Prologue

Valhalla (The Hall of the Slain)

Somewhere in Time

Frigg was friggin pissed.

She glowered at her husband from across the room as she stabbed at a piece of mutton with her bejeweled gold dagger and knifed it into her fashionably pouting mouth. Odin was at it again, the lecherous swine, screwing half of the goddesses in the hall. Even now the big jerk was throwing a meaningful glance with his one and only eye toward Jorth, the airhead who had birthed his beloved first son Thor.

Frigg could stand to see no more. She threw her golden dagger down onto her golden trencher and stomped out of the hall with the regality of a queen, or in her case a goddess. She marched past the slain Vikings who stood guard at the Valgrind gate and indignantly made her way toward the river Thund.

It was time for a little revenge.

Frigg fumed through her entire trek, a journey that took her all of one magical second to accomplish. She decided in much exasperation that a mere second wouldn't give her enough time to cool down this go around, so she threw her simmering self to the ground and onto her stomach, beating and kicking the riverbank like a spoiled child.

It wasn't fair.

She, Frigg, was Odin's wife. Not Jorth-never Jorth. She had given Odin Balder, the most beautiful of all of his sons. She had graced the Viking god's hall for more millenniums than she cared to dwell upon, and she had remained steadfast and faithful to him for the duration.

Sort of. Well, most of the time. Okay, so only when she felt like it.

But that wasn't the point.

The point was that her husband, one-eyed bastard that he is, should have eye for no goddess but herself. She was Frigg, damn it. Not some half-witted Jorth who wouldn't know her head from her arse if her son Thor shoved a lightening bolt up it and twisted painfully.

Frigg hoisted her elbows up onto the bank of Thund, plopped her weary head into her palms, and contemplated her pitiful options. She sighed. There was only so much a goddess could do to retaliate against Odin. He was a sneaky god-king, that husband of hers.

Frigg gazed down into the icy waters, placing her hand within the river and swirling it about as her mind reeled through the possibilities. Her revenge had to be subtle. It had to be noticeable, but it had to be subtle. She smiled slowly as an idea came to her.

Odin had been prattling on, excited as of late over the impending arrival into Valhalla of his son Thor's favorite human warrior, Ragnar the Feared. The Valkyries had decided just a few days past that Ragnar was to die on the field of honor whilst raiding a Celtic village a fortnight hence.

Frigg was having none of that.

True, the warrior maidens were the ones that chose who would die in any given battle and who would remain on the earth, but the Valkyries couldn't bring a man into Valhalla who hadn't been injured in battle to begin with.

Frigg smiled, her immortal eyes twinkling merrily. She would see to it that Ragnar never made it to the Celts' shores during the upcoming raid, let alone find righteous death in glorious battle.

Ragnar was young at thirty and two and could therefore wait a little longer to see Valhalla. Frigg, on the other hand, was not. She was beautiful, aye, but older than dirt, and she steadfastly refused to wait any longer to see her revenge through to its fruition. Enough was enough.

Frigg winked a smile into the river Thund, happier than she'd been in ages. It felt good, revenge. In fact, it felt damn good. She clapped her hands together and laughed, growing more excited by her plans every moment.

And then she frowned.

A thought occurred to Frigg that she didn't care for at all. She might be able to stop Ragnar from participating in the upcoming Celtic raid, but she couldn't be there to watch over him and impede him always. She needed something more, something that would make her revenge last longer. A distraction that would keep Ragnar the Feared from her hall of slain warriors for many, many years yet to come. Nothing would irritate Thor, and therefore Odin, more.

Frigg tapped her long, elegant nails on the bank of Thund and wracked her immortal brain for an answer to her predicament. She squealed in excitement a minute later when the answer of all answers came to her.

But she would need aid.

She grinned provocatively into the waters, feeling every inch the goddess to be reckoned with. Loki would help her. He owed her one. Besides, that little twit would do anything for a good blowjob.

Chapter 1

Stavanger Region of Norway, 820 AD

Every set of eyes seated around the long table watched the jarl in anticipation as he paced the length of the thing's meeting place. The thing hadn't planned to assemble again until a fortnight hence, but Erik the Wise had sent messengers to each of the council's judiciary members this rising, summoning them to the hall in posthaste.

Ragnar Valkraad, the first-born son and heir to the great Norwegian jarl now pacing before the assembled men, gazed upon his father with a sense of trepidation. 'Twas never good news when Erik the Wise called upon the council to come together unexpectedly.

Two female Celtic slaves appeared in the doorway carrying pitchers of freshly brewed mead toward Erik Valkraad's seat. They placed the drinks deftly upon the long table, then scurried from the hall as quickly as they'd arrived.

Ragnar smiled slowly. The slaves were not ignorant of the goings on inside of the thing. 'Twas apparent neither of his father's thralls wished to be used as bed sport for the gathered Viking men. Yet Ragnar knew that wenching was the furthest consideration from the minds of all present. They had far more pressing matters to contend with.

The murmurs of the councilmen could be heard throughout the long house, all of them talking amongst themselves at the table, speculating as to why the jarl had called upon them in the first. Ragnar the Feared considered it as well, but arrived at no conclusion. 'Twas not like his sire to be so secretive.

Ragnar watched in silence as his father, Erik the Wise, ran a weary hand through his long silver-yellow mane of hair and paced the dirt floor of the assembly hall. He was a tall man, still thickly muscled and well-honed at the age of two score and eight. He was an impressive warrior, an intelligent jarl, and Ragnar respected him very much.

"Thor's teeth, Valkraad!" the jarl's brother-within-the-law Leif Boerge called out. "You are making us all fretful with your pacing in silence. Tell us now the matter you seek to put before us this day."

A chorus of approval went up like wildfire, inducing the typically stoic jarl to wince. He sighed, but relented with a nod, then strode toward the long table to take his seat of honor.

The room grew immediately quiet. Ragnar stirred atop the wood bench, his sense of foreboding deepening.

Erik the Wise took a long, healthy swallow of mead, swiped his hand across his mouth, and set his tankard back down upon the table then belched for good measure. This was, after all, serious business.

Erik sat straight up in his chair and gazed harshly into the eyes of all present, making the members of the thing realize in no uncertain terms that whatever he was about to say would be countered by no arguments to the contrary. "The Celts shan't be raided by us a fortnight hence."

Shouting broke out amongst the members of the council, all of them speaking louder than the next, vying to be heard above the din. Ragnar raised a battle-roughened palm, inducing the councilmen to silence. "Father," he began, the agitation in his tone apparent, "why wouldst we abandon this trek? We have planned in earnest for three fortnights." He shrugged a broad shoulder negligently. "Our people gain much wealth when we pray upon the weak-kneed Welsh."

A choir of "ayes" rang throughout the assembly hall like songs offered up to the gods. Sven Haardrad slammed his hammy fist upon the tabletop and glowered at the jarl. "Your son is correct, Erik. You wouldst make the time and planning we have already expended for this journey all for naught?" Shouting punctuated the gathering once more, all men present sorely unhappy.

Erik the Wise raised his hand to silence the noise, a hush falling over the thing in the process. "Loki the Trickster has appeared to me in a dream."

Startled gasps rose up, permeating the silence and all but causing chaos to erupt. Every man present believed wholeheartedly in the jarl's visions, for 'twas his second sight and useful premonitions that had earned him the name of the Wise. But never before, not as long as Ragnar had lived, had he ever heard his sire make claim to have had visions of the fire god himself.

Ragnar squirmed ever so slightly on the bench, excited yet apprehensive to hear the rest of his father's tale. The appearance of Loki could mean naught but trouble.

Erik the Wise lifted his heavily muscled arms, calling silence down upon the assembly. He cleared his throat to speak. "Loki has declared that Frigg, the omnipotent wife of Odin, is sorely displeased with us and commands that we make recompense to her. He has said that we have offended the goddess-queen, that all manner of ills will befall our people if we do not obey her decree."

The jarl peered into the eyes of all assembled, demanding that they realize the seriousness and severity of Frigg's displeasure. "The trickster god has promised to aid her in her bid to keep our warriors from reaching Valhalla if we fail to do as we are instructed."

Distraught "nays" echoed fearfully throughout the long house.

When a warrior's soul purpose in life was to die during battle that he might take up residence in the Hall of the Slain, 'twas a fate far worse than death, being barred from glorious Valhalla. The men of the thing didn't want to believe the jarl's words, yet knew more than any that Erik the Wise was speaking in earnest. His visions were accurate, always had been.

Ragnar made not a sound, though his insides were in turmoil. He feared beyond reason what Frigg's recompense would entail.

The jarl stood up and circled the long table slowly. All eyes were transfixed upon his formidable person as he made his way around the group. "We are to call off our raid on the Celts, the loss of the riches we wouldst have obtained a small punishment for offending Odin's wife."

A collective breath of relief let loose throughout the meeting place. Erik shook his head and smiled humorlessly. "I wish that 'twas to be the punishment in full, yet is there more."

Twenty apprehensive Viking marauders watched the jarl circumnavigate the long table, all of them dreading his next words. They knew not what he would say, yet all present were certain that they wouldn't care for it in the least.

Erik continued to walk, circling around them like a falcon going in for the kill. "Instead of journeying to the lands of the Celts, one of us will make haste to the river Thund on the morrow. Upon the northeast bank of the river, the chosen one shall find a woman sleeping and bring her back to our lands with all speed.

"The woman has been branded by the god of fire, thus she sports the image of the dragon upon her right ankle. She shall be recognizable to the chosen one by her unusual, yet comely looks. The wench is gold of hair, gold of skin, and gold of eyes, created in the likeness of Frigg's favorite material possession."

Murmurs and excited chatter rose up throughout the thing yet again. Ragnar made a disapproving face at the men, wanting them to quiet so he could hear the rest of his father's tale.

"What are we to do with this woman once we find her?" Sven asked anxiously, his tongue wagging.

Ragnar rolled his eyes, knowing the lecherous boar was nigh unto erect from the possibilities swimming about his empty mind. He had the urge to thump him on the empty head in question, but his father's voice rose above the shouts, distracting him.

"The golden woman will be sent by Frigg on the morrow as both punishment and second chance," Erik clarified. "She will come to no harm at our hands. Verily, she will know no man's bed except that of the chosen one." The jarl cleared his throat, his eyes glaring daggers at the Vikings. "We must treat her with every kindness, show her every consideration, serve her every need."

Ragnar sensed the gathered men's disapproval as much as he felt it festering within his own body. By Thor's teeth, they were warriors, not serving wenches! 'Twas women who had been sent from the gods to serve men, not the other way around. Ragnar sighed in exasperation. Frigg must be sorely displeased indeed to bring upon them such punishment as this.

"We are to serve her?" Sven asked incredulously. "By Odin's eye, see if I will!"

All Vikings present turned to the wayward Sven and grunted. Ragnar's uncle Leif jabbed an ominous finger toward him. "You will quiet your tongue anon, lest Frigg hears you and brings us added bad fortune."

"Furthermore," Erik expounded, effectively ignoring Sven's blasphemy as though it had never been uttered, "no Viking of our lands shall see Valhalla unless certain events come to pass."

"What events?" Leif asked warily. He took a deep breath, wishing he had never bothered to crawl out of his godsforsaken bedfurs this morn.

The jarl stopped his circling and stood before his warriors. "We are given one year from the morrow to see Frigg's stipulations carried out." He placed his fisted hands on his hips and glowered at the men before him. "The chosen one," - he looked pointedly at Sven - "and only the chosen one, will wed and breed with the golden woman branded by fire. She must bear a golden son within the year, do any of us wish to see Valhalla. The child shall be called Balder, in deference to Frigg's beloved, departed son."

"That shouldn't be o'er difficult," Aran Boerge, Leif's eldest and Ragnar's cousin, called out with a bellow. "We are Norsemen, the lot of us. Our seed is potent."

Lusty laughter rang throughout the hall. Even Ragnar had to crack a stifled grin at his cousin's words. Erik the Wise, however, was not amused. "Ah, how right you are nephew, and yet is there more." The jarl shook his head in resignation and not a little irritation. He took a deep breath and expelled it on a groan. "The golden woman cannot be forced abed."

The hall of twenty smiles evaporated into the hall of twenty frowns. Vikings were known for force, for taking what they would when they wanted it. They did not woo. Not a man amongst them was fit to don tights and spout poetry.

Ragnar ran a frustrated hand through his shoulder-length sunny blonde hair and grimaced. "By Thor's hammer, please be kind, father, and tell us that Frigg desires no more of us."

Erik the Wise smiled kindly at his son, wishing he could say it 'twas so. "There is still more. Though not much, I'll grant."

"Good gods above!" Leif hammered out, "what have we done to offend her? You wouldst think we had spat and peed upon Frigg's image as bad as this is! Tell us now the whole of it, brother."

Erik nodded, as eager to end this tale and begin the preparations as the rest of the warriors. "The golden woman is ignorant of Frigg's stipulations and will remain thusly. None amongst us shall enlighten her of the fact that she must bear the golden son. She can only be told her part after 'tis done."

"Then how do we get her to breed?" Ragnar asked, somewhat stupefied. The wench couldn't be forced abed and yet she couldn't be told how vital it was to their people for her to bear a son either. This was madness!

The jarl grinned, the first sign of good humor any of the assembly had witnessed in him thus far. "'Twill be up to Frigg's chosen one to woo the woman into the marriage bed, to coax her into spreading her legs and allowing him to get her with son."

Erik shook his head, as bemused by the situation as he was terrified of it. "The chosen one must couple with her, must plant his seed deep in her belly, and he must do it quickly, yet with the wench's permission." He shrugged. "The fate of every warrior in this room, verily every warrior in our lands, rests in the seed of the chosen one."

"I could coax the golden wench to open her legs," Sven bragged as he stood up and flexed his muscles. "Let her behold this body nigh unto its perfection and she will more like than not force me abed."

Leif rolled his eyes and shook his head in exasperation. "'Tis more like than not that the only wench you could get abed a'tall is one both blind and unable to smell." He scratched his beard and contemplated the situation. "Mayhap it should be me who goes. I could bed her did I try. They do not call me Leif the Wench Wooer for naught."

Ragnar chuckled as he stood up and stretched out his back muscles. "I cannot say I was aware that you were named thusly, uncle."

Leif shrugged. "'Tis a name from my younger years."

The jarl frowned, crossing his arms over his chest. "My sister called you by that daft name only to cater to your pride, you lack wit." He grunted and waved his hand tersely through the air. "We stray from the topic. All of this talk is for naught, as Frigg has already decided who the chosen one is."

Ragnar felt a chill creep down the length of his spine. He was afraid to ask the next question, but knew that he must. "Who is the chosen one, father?" he said quietly.

Erik the Wise surveyed the room, his eyes making contact with each and every warrior. Finally, his gaze came to rest upon his own son. "'Tis you, Ragnar. You are Frigg's chosen one," he said softly.

"We are dead!" Sven cried as he clapped a hammy hand to his distraught forehead.

"Valhalla will never be ours!" a warrior called Selik predicted forlornly.

"Is this a quest Frigg knows we cannot succeed in?" Aran demanded, worried beyond belief.

The room broke into fits of outraged temper, all of the warriors furious with what they were certain was no escape from their mutually impending doom.

Ragnar took his seat at the long table again, plopping down onto the bench with a weary sigh. He was a warrior through and through, six feet and five inches of raw power and steely muscle. There was little he couldn't accomplish, yet was he fearful that this task set before him, the most important task ever given to any mortal as it had been issued by Frigg herself, was the very feat he would be unable to master.

He knew little of wooing wenches and even less of impregnating them. Ragnar's seed was, after all, the only of the adult males' in the village that had not yet bore fruit.

Chapter 2

Frigg and Loki, naked and spent, gazed into the river Thund and laughed. The woman they had decided upon would never lower herself to sleep with a man she would surely consider a primitive. She was from the future, for Odin's sake! She was used to men who were weaker, less surly, and more obliging. And even if she did succumb to the bed of the jarl's son, Ragnar the Feared would never impregnate her.

Ragnar had known two wives, yet neither had produced an heir. True, they had both died of fevers before the first year of their respective marriages had been spent, but if Ragnar's loins had proved fruitful, they would have carried his issue at some point before their untimely demises.

Frigg rubbed an impatient hand along Loki's chest. She scratched her tapered nails across his flat nipples, causing him to suck in a pleasure-filled breath. "Go fetch the wench, my dearest. I am anxious to let the show begin."

Loki settled himself in between Frigg's thighs and entered her sheath with one powerful thrust. "Anything for you, my pet. You know I cannot resist you."

Chapter 3

Cuyahoga Falls Ohio, The United States of America, 2001

Dara Sabine bolted upright in bed, her eyes glazed over with unquenched lust. Her silk nightgown was drenched in her own sweat, beads of perspiration covering her body like a wet second skin. She glanced around her bedroom, then released a sigh of near disappointment.

She had been dreaming. It was just a dream.

Realizing it would be a long while before she could fall back to sleep, she threw the goose down covers off of her legs and planted her feet on the cold oak floor. Pulling on a robe, she padded downstairs in her slippers.

Ten minutes later, Dara sat before her television set eating a bowl of cornflakes with one hand and channel surfing via the remote with the other. She switched off the TV after scanning all of the channels, dismayed that nothing good was on the tube at four o'clock in the morning.

Dara heaved a dramatic sigh as she drew her spoon up to her mouth and plunged a huge bite of cereal between her lips. Since there was little else to do at four a.m., her mind drifted back to the dream that had awakened her so abruptly this morning. She grinned, thinking to herself how idiotic she'd been to get worked up over a silly dream about a fabled Norse god.

He had called himself Loki, the trickster god, the god of fire.

Devastatingly handsome, this mischief-maker had been. Tall and well muscled, as sexy as sin itself, and a very good kisser. He was the god of fire all right, she admitted wryly. She had felt his fire right between her thighs.

Loki threw her down onto the bed and made love to her with his mouth, his tongue flicking over her clit in rapid darts. When Dara had almost reached climax, she begged him to fill her up, to thrust inside of her. Loki licked her nipples devilishly then smiled down to her. "I cannot, lovely Dara, though I wish I could."

"Why not?"

"You are to wed another."

"You mean Paul?"

The trickster god laughed uproariously, as if she'd just told the joke of a lifetime. "Nay, love. You will not wed with Paul. You will be given to a real man, to a warrior some might say can rival even me."

"No one can rival you," she purred as she reached up and licked his cheek.

Loki basked in the feel of her mortal tongue against his immortal skin, relishing the silk of her beneath him. He trailed his kisses down her body, ending at the wet place between her thighs. He splayed her legs wide and groaned, coveting what would never be his.

Loki took her into his mouth, teasing her clit with his tongue and lips. He brought her to the brink of completion once more, then stopped.

Dara ran her hands through his hair and groaned with need. "Please don't stop again."

"I must."

"But why?"

"You will know pleasure at the hands of your husband and no other. The course has been set."

"I want you to be my first. You will bring me more completion than Paul could ever hope to."

Loki grinned. "I told you, you will not wed with Paul."

"Then whom?"

"You will wed a warrior."

Dara threw her head back and laughed. "A warrior, eh? Too bad there haven't been any around in…oh…I don't know…hundreds of years?" She reached out and brushed her fingers through Loki's mane of hair again. "Please take me," she whispered thickly.

Loki lowered his head, drew her clit between his teeth, and sucked amorously. When Dara began to thrash around on the bed in her passion, he stopped, again not bringing her to completion. He looked up at her and grinned. "Warriors do not exist in your time, but they exist in mine. 'Tis my time to which you will come."

"Your time?"

"Aye. When people still believed. When the gods of Valhalla still ruled."

"You can rule me." She pushed him from between her thighs, sat up on her knees, and drew his hard shaft into her hands.

Loki sucked in his breath as the mortal woman stroked him back and forth. Her caress could only have been borne of him-fire.

He removed Dara's hands from his erection and pushed her back down onto the bed. "Give yourself to your husband." He sighed and shook his head. "I want the mortal Ragnar to win."

Dara knit her eyebrows together, shaking her head ever so slowly. "I do not understand."

"Don't try. I have already said too much."

"But Lok-"

"Nay, love. You cannot know me. Your husband will come for you on the morrow and take you to his bed. Make haste and enjoy the journey. You will know much happiness do you submit to him."

And then the god of fire shape-shifted, evolving into a dragon before her very eyes. "Loki?" she asked breathlessly, somewhat frightened.

He ignored her fear, boring her with his heated gaze. "Lest you believe this a dream, feel my mark upon you." The dragon breathed out fire, singing her ankle with flames that branded her, yet caused no pain.

And then he was gone.

Dara gazed down at her foot and smiled. Upon her ankle was a tiny and perfect image of Loki as the dragon.

Dara sat on the couch frowning, knowing full well why she'd had such an erotic dream to begin with. It was because she didn't love Paul. She was going to marry a man who brought out none of her passion and her ever-efficient subconscious was merely trying to point out as much.

Dara set down her bowl of half-eaten cornflakes and sighed. Passion or not, she would become Paul's wife.

But the passion, the ache…good god! Was it possible for a real man to make her feel the way her dream lover had? She grimaced, realizing that the man she was about to marry never would.

Dara shook her head, clearing it of the last remnants of her dream. There was no way in heaven, hell, or Valhalla that she was going to stop the wedding now. She'd be insane to do so. The man was as rich as Midas and as powerfully connected as Napoleon.

She sighed dejectedly as she picked up the remote and switched the TV back on. This was no time for her subconscious to kick into overdrive. "Hell," she muttered to herself, "at least The Galloping Gourmet is on now."

* * * * *

After lunch, Dara strolled toward the bank of the Cuyahoga River telling herself that she felt better than she had in years. She all but skipped down the leafy path of the lush forest nestled deep into the gorge, doggedly convinced she had done the right thing. She was going to marry Paul. Yeppers. She was sure it was the way to go.

Paul D'Abois was wealthy and sophisticated, everything Dara's doting mother had ever wanted for her in a husband. He had his own lucrative engineering firm, several advanced degrees, a summer home in the Hamptons, and a yacht most women would kill to call their own.

Dara snorted, effectively dismissing her misgivings as trivial. So what if Paul was a little boring? Who should care that he was a proverbial wuss among men? So what if he spent more time preening in front of a mirror than she did? Dara Sabine was going to be rich! Loki be damned!

Dara sank down to the ground a moment later, the weight of her weariness getting to her. She shook her head and sighed, not wanting to contemplate the matter further. She had given up an entire two years of her twenty-six year old life in pursuit of making her mother's dreams for her a reality. She would not, under any circumstances, question the value of the prize she had finally claimed as her own. Paul D'Abois would become her husband.

An hour later, Dara lay by the riverbed as naked as a jaybird, enjoying the feel of the suns rays beating down upon her. It was her own privately held land, so why not? It's not like anyone would ever see her.

She smiled as she closed her eyes and the seconds turned into minutes. Her sun-kissed skin grew more golden as the minutes ticked by, drawing out the color of her tawny-gold eyes and golden, sun-streaked hair rather than diminishing it.

Dara told herself over and over again how elated she was at the prospect of her impending nuptials, of how perfect she would be in the role of the Mrs. Paul D'Abois.

And then she gave up with a sigh.

Who was she kidding?

She didn't love Paul and it wasn't fair to use him to achieve her mother's goals. Hell, they weren't even her own goals. They were the desires and dreams of a woman long dead. A woman who had known far too much heartbreak and poverty in her own short lifetime.

Dara knew what she had to do. Her dream lover Loki had been right. She had to end this farce of an engagement once and for all. Paul wouldn't be devastated, thank god. He was far too rich and had too many willing women surrounding him, ready to jump in and take her place at first opportunity.

Besides, Dara could take care of herself. She didn't need a man to do that for her. She'd worked herself up from nothing to gain scholarship into Harvard. She'd plowed through her courses and bulldozed her way into the halls of Yale graduate school. She was a self-sufficient, modern woman. Not at all the sort to entertain the notion of marrying a man because he held clout.

And money. Yes siree, there were quite a few buckaroos the wuss boy she was giving up could call his own.

Dara resigned herself to the inevitable, knowing that when she rose from the riverbank she would do the right thing and call off the engagement. Paul would never make her feel the way that Loki had. The closest she would get to climaxing in Paul's bed would be arguing with him over the significance of Gaugin's contributions to Impressionism while watching the History Channel.

Okay, okay, she was definitely going to dump Paul. But before dealing with that unpleasant business, she would allow herself to luxuriate in the sun's heat just a few minutes longer. She arched her back, a feeling of pleasure cascading throughout her body as the rays of the hot sun reached down and caressed her nipples, elongating them into tight peaks.

Loki was right. She could find herself a warrior among men.

And then she fell asleep, enjoying every moment of nature's erotic kiss.

Chapter 4

Ragnar Valkraad made his way through the forest, walking swiftly alongside his mount. He was well aware of the fact that he was feeling sorry for himself and wasn't ashamed to admit it to man, beast, or foul.

Why had Frigg done this thing? Why did she hate the name Valkraad so much that she would forsake an entire clan of warriors, barring the lot of them their entry into the much-coveted Valhalla?

He meandered through the forest, his sense of keen awareness telling him he would arrive at the northeast bend of the river Thund at any given moment. And into the sights of the sleeping golden woman.

Were it not for the impossibility of the task set before him, Ragnar knew he would be beyond himself with excitement. As it was, he couldn't help but to wonder what the wench would look like and if she was to be as comely as his father's vision. He felt a tremor of impending conquest course through his war-hungry veins, realizing without any doubt that he was closing in on her. He brought his mount to a halt, commanding it to stay put and not follow behind him.

Ragnar sighed. 'Twas as fruitless as his loins, this mission. He had wed two wives, dallied with every female slave in his father's house, yet to the best of his knowledge he had never been the cause of a single pregnancy. Any wench within the whole of Norway would have run to him in delight were she to breed his child, for they all knew he would wed the woman who could give him an heir, whether she was a free woman or a thrall. Then all the riches of the Valkraad holdings would be hers-and her babe's-to one day command.

He shook his head and frowned. 'Twas useless, this.

Ragnar crept stealthily into the thick of the trees, making not a sound as he approached the bank. He sighed with deep resignation, knowing full well that no matter how ill-fated this quest might be, 'twas still one he must give his all toward achieving. He parted a swaying branch and stepped to its other side, then looked around for his prey.

There she is.

Ragnar sucked in his breath as he walked toward the woman and knelt down beside her slumbering form. His father had been right. Comely did not begin to describe this naked wench. His thick shaft grew painfully erect just gazing upon her slumbering form.

The wench was long and well built, her hair the color of spun gold, her skin glowing like the sweetest of summer's honey. Her eyes were closed so he knew not their color, yet was he certain they would be as golden as the rest of her.

The wench's mons was covered with a triangular patch of silky gold, the same shade as the satiny hair pooling about her head. Ragnar ran a large, callused hand over the curls between her thighs, splaying his fingers in the silken nest.

'Twas hard to believe that a woman so fine had been given to him by Frigg for a wife. Of course, he thought with down-turned lips, that would make the goddess's revenge all the sweeter, giving him a comely woman to mount day and night, but a woman he could never give heirs to.

To be certain he had acquired the correct wench, Ragnar sought out her right ankle and looked for the mark of the fire god upon her. Sure enough, the tiny image of a dragon graced the wench's dainty little ankle, proclaiming the sleeping woman to be his betrothed.

Ragnar let his eyes roam the length of the wench's body, appreciating her beauty more and more with each passing moment. He wanted to take her, to ride her this very moment, yet he knew 'twould be a foolhardy breaking of the rules. Still, she was to be his wife. 'Twas not foolhardy to gentle the golden woman to his eager touch.

Ragnar beheld the sight of her plumped breasts as long as he could without making a motion toward them. Finally, he relented. He had to touch them, needed to know the feel of this body that would belong to him irrevocably. Her nipples were large and puffy, peaked off at the crests with hard pink berries. He ran his roughened hand over her chest, feeling first one breast and then the other.

The golden woman moaned softly in her sleep.

He drew a nipple between thumb and forefinger and pulled gently but firmly at its crest.

She moaned again.

Ragnar grinned, knowing that at least one part of this task wouldn't be o'erly difficult. He was a good-looking man, willingly received by free-women and slave wenches alike, and this golden woman lying at his feet was naturally passionate. 'Twas a good and heady combination.

Ragnar ran his hands over her breasts once more, then over her stomach, and finally back to the pelt of curls covering the place between her thighs. He worked his large fingers between her legs, found her woman's bud, and wiggled it around as he watched her face.

The wench moaned again. Ragnar's staff engorged painfully.

The golden woman writhed and groaned as he rubbed her swollen bud with one hand, then reached out and stroked and tweaked her nipples with his other. He watched in fascination, wanting her to reach her peak before she opened her eyes and realized him a stranger to her. 'Twould help gentle her to his touch did she find pleasure at his hands.

And he would be touching her a lot.

Mayhap he could not mount her without permission, but nowhere in the rules was it said that he could not touch her as much as he desired. Eventually, with enough prompting, the golden woman would spread her legs eagerly and willingly for him. 'Twas then that the real quest would begin.

Hope swelled up inside of his belly as he prayed to Odin that the wench would favor him with a son. Mayhap she wouldn't, but he would enjoy the trying immensely.

The wench's golden eyes flew open as she groaned, her climax relentlessly boring down upon her. She looked disoriented for a few moments as her golden honey eyes met Ragnar's vivid blue ones.

And then she screamed. A bloodcurdling, high-pitched, Odin-cursed scream. Ragnar released his hold on her clit and nipples and covered his ears.

* * * * *

When Dara's eyes had flown open during the most devastating orgasm of her life, she had half expected to see the handsome Loki hovering over her body and loving it. She had certainly never expected to see the scraggly bearded face of a man whose facial hair bore a disconcertingly strong resemblance to Grizzly Adams staring back at her.

A panic like she'd never known coursed throughout her body. It was like being in the middle of a really bad acid trip. Of course, she had never tried acid, but she was certain that this must be what it felt like.

A quick glance over this man's body told her that he was a huge, hulking giant of a beast. His muscles were thick and steely and covered every square inch of his solid frame. Though kneeling, the length of his thighs told her he'd be formidably tall when standing upright. The man was the embodiment of power and strength.

Dara gazed up into the stranger's face and took note. She was good at note taking. She'd worked her way through college doing secretarial jobs on the side. The notes she was now gathering didn't sit well with her. She wanted to crumple them into a ball and toss them into the nearest trashcan. The man was frightening looking.

True, his eyes were the most beautiful sea blue she'd ever beheld and his body was something to be reckoned with, but the man's full blonde beard-which he wore partly braided no less!-covered the majority of his face and was not a turn-on in the slightest. Perhaps if he'd shaved…well it was hard to tell. The man was simply too hairy of face...

Arrg! What was she thinking?!

Dara suddenly became aware of Grizzly Adam's hands clamped onto her nipples and clitoris. Good god, she was going to be raped by one of those crazed, lonely mountain men she'd heard about on Oprah. She'd be damned if she'd go down easily! Oprah never would have gone done easily!

Dara opened up her mouth and screamed bloody murder.

Chapter 5

Ragnar removed his hands from his ears and used them to cover the wailing wench's mouth. By Thor's hammer, the woman knew how to kill a fair mood. "You will stop this noise anon," he commanded her sharply.

When her eyes rounded with a mix of anger and confusion, he had to wonder if the golden woman spoke his people's tongue. By Odin's eye! 'Twould be just like Loki to add yet another complication to this already impossible task.

Ragnar looked down at the wench quizzically, then released her mouth and ran a soothing hand through her hair. "Do you speak my tongue, woman?"

Dara gazed up into the giant's eyes trying to make sense of his words. His voice was stern and booming, and much out of character with the tender manner in which he was caressing her. She took a deep breath, absently thrusting her breasts upward in the process. "I do not understand what you are saying. Can you speak slower, please?"

Ragnar cursed. He wanted to spit nails. The wench definitely did not understand Norwegian, but he most certainly understood her tongue. 'Twas Saxon she spoke! A badly mauled and much butchered version thereof, yet Saxon it 'twas.

He shook his head in disbelief. The woman was too fine of form to herald from the race of little smelly people who were useful to the Vikings as naught but slaves. And yet Frigg had given the golden Saxon for him to take to wife. Surely his people's sins did not warrant this!

Ragnar stood up and sighed as he studied the wench intently. He mentally shrugged, knowing he must wed with her whether she was Saxon, Celt, or a hoof-footed troll. He held out his hand and spoke to her soothingly in her own language. "You will come with me the soonest. Rise up, wench."

Dara's golden eyes flared with righteous indignation. Wench?! Grizzly Adams had dared to call her a wench! She shot to her feet and threw the giant a scathing look of undisguised contempt. "I have risen, mountain man, but I am not going anywhere with the likes of you!" She placed her hands on her hips, heedless of her nudity and much smaller stature. "I am going home. Now!"

She spun on her heel and stomped off in a huff.

Ragnar put out a hand to stop her, whirling her around to halt her leave taking and face him once more. "You will go no further, Saxon. We leave for Valkraad lands anon where we shall be wed upon our arrival."

Dara blinked a few times in rapid succession. She shook her head as if to clear it, then peered up into the face of the man with the scraggly half-braided beard.

She folded her arms across her breasts and frowned. "First of all, I am not a Saxon. I don't even know what a Saxon is, unless you mean those people that have been dead for hundreds of years. And second," she announced with more courage than she felt, "I wouldn't marry you if you were the last man crawling around on god's green earth. I am already engaged to be married to Paul D'Abois. Yes that's right," she swiftly informed him with a slash of her hand, "the Paul D'Abois!"

Ragnar hadn't the slightest notion who or what this Paul D'Abois was, but little did he care. He was pleased to learn that the wench wasn't a Saxon, but the rest of her tirade he dismissed as trivial. "Mayhap you were betrothed to this man called Paul, yet has it been decried by the gods that you will now wed with me, Ragnar Valkraad, known throughout Vikingdom as Ragnar the Feared."

Dara didn't know whether to laugh or cry. She was standing next to the river as naked as sin, listening to some deranged man who fancied himself a Viking tell her of his designs to marry her. And worse yet, his name was downright awful. And he looked like Grizzly Adams. She couldn't believe it. It was just too much.

"Listen Mister Valkraad, I am flattered to no end by your wish to marry me,"-that was a lie-"but as I have already indicated, I am set to wed another." She straightened her back and thrust her chin defiantly upwards. "Now if you will excuse me, I will be going back to Paul immediately!"

She spun on her heel and marched off, hopefully this time for good.

Steely arms coiled ominously around Dara's belly from behind. She gulped, wide-eyed. This escape might not prove to be as easy as she was hoping it would be.

The owner of the powerful arms leaned closer into Dara's backside, pulling her tightly against him. He craned his neck down, whispering softly near her ear. "'Tis best not to fight me, sweet Dara. I hold no desire to bend you to my will by force, yet will I if I must."

"Are you saying you mean to r-rape me?" Dara asked in a fearfully quiet tone, shaking at the very thought of it.

"Nay," Ragnar denied as he stroked her hair in a placating manner. "You will know my bed only when you come to it willingly. On that, you have my word."

She let out a breath of relief. At least that was a start. She'd never go to the mountain man's bed willingly. "Then you will let me go?" she squeaked out hopefully.

Ragnar shook his head, slowly, definitively. "Nay. That I cannot do." He cupped her breasts from behind, stroking the nipples as he spoke. "You belong to me now, sweetings. Best accept it and move forward."

* * * * *

Half an hour later, Dara decided that she wasn't going to accept jackshit. She frowned down at the apple the giant had handed her, then pelted it at him. "I'm not hungry!" she stated defiantly.

True, she had realized this past half-hour that the ogre was much nicer than she had anticipated, but she refused to let herself warm up to the man. She was, she reminded herself, a prisoner. Prisoners don't have to like their captors.

Ragnar, reclining on the ground hoisted up on one elbow, grinned up at Dara. She was sitting on her knees before him, granting him an enticing view of the slippery folds of pink flesh between her legs. He was certain if she'd realized as much, she would have closed her splayed knees abruptly, so he said nothing. "We've a journey that might take a few hours. Best eat now."

"I don't want to eat. I want to go home!"

"And you will," he returned calmly, "to your new home, to my home."

Dara rolled her eyes and frowned. "You do realize this is called kidnapping, don't you? When the authorities find you, you'll do hard time."

"I imagine much of the time I spend with you will be spent hard, my sweet." He glanced toward her slightly spread knees and grinned mischievously.

Dara gulped. Much to her dismay, her nipples tightened and elongated at the mental image the mountain man was painting. She closed her eyes and mentally groaned. She was his prisoner for crying out loud! People don't fantasize about their captors! Especially not ones with yucky beards, she admitted forlornly.

Dara looked away from the giant's gaze and sighed. "Can I at least have some clothes to wear?"

"Nay."

"Why not?!"

"Because I enjoy looking at you." Ragnar pulled her to the ground on top of him, rolled over to reverse their positions, and settled himself between her thighs. Dara gasped. "And because t'would please me did you grow comfortable with me and my touch the soonest."

"I thought you said you wouldn't rape me," she said wide-eyed.

Ragnar grinned. "And so I shall not, yet still will I touch you."

"What do you mean?" she asked warily.

Ragnar shrugged. "I must gentle you to my touch, else will it be too long before you come to me willingly." He leaned down and kissed her softly on the lips. "I will not force you to accept my cock inside of you afore 'tis time, yet will you never deny me the right to look upon you and to touch what belongs to me."

Ignoring her startled gasp, he lowered his head to her chest and drew a plump nipple into his mouth. He sucked on the tightened flesh long and wickedly, knowing she was already responding to him.

Dara shifted beneath him, closing her eyes against the pleasure. Why wasn't she objecting? She should be yelling and screaming at the top of her lungs! She should be, but she wasn't.

She couldn't say it was because she feared he'd hurt her because she didn't feel intimidated by him in the least. He was big enough and strong enough to kill her with his bare hands, but she's gathered from the short amount of time they'd spent together that he wouldn't.

Oh god, Dara mentally groaned, why wasn't she fighting him?

Seeking to remedy the situation, she raised one hand to ward him off, realizing a moment too late that she needn't have bothered. Ragnar had released her nipple and was now drawing his gargantuan body off of hers.

Ragnar gazed down at Dara and smiled as he looked her body over. Her breathing was heavy, her nipples peaked with pleasure. It wouldn't be long before she gave herself to him. "I am going to ready the mount. We leave at once."

He stood up and walked away without looking back.

Dara sat up and watched Ragnar stroll into the thick of the forest. She could scream. She could run. She could try to escape. But she didn't move. She stayed there and waited for him in silence. God, she was going crazy!

Dara shook her head, completely vexed with herself. She gathered her common sense together as she drew herself up, preparing to dash into the trees. It was one thing to behave so recklessly in a dream and quite another to…the dream! Yes of course, the dream!

She thought back quickly on everything that Loki had said to her last night, trying to decide if this was the man he had spoken of.

Impossible! She'd never had a psychic dream in her life, so why start fortune telling now?

Dara gulped in wide-eyed dismay as something else the fire god had said came back to her. "Lest you believe this a dream, feel my mark upon you."

She closed her eyes, refusing to look at her ankle.

"'Tis my time to which you will come," he had said. "When the gods of Valhalla still reigned."

Dara shook her head vigorously back and forth, knowing what she was thinking wasn't possible. When she could endure the suspense no longer, her eyes flew open and she glanced down at her ankle.

She closed her eyes again and cried out helplessly, having seen the fire god's mark upon her.

Shrugging off the perversely eerie feeling that she'd just been catapulted through the annals of time, Dara stood up and dashed for the trees. She had to escape.

* * * * *

"Can I please put some clothes on?"

"Nay."

"Why not!?"

"'Tis only you and I here, sweet Dara. What need have you for clothes?"

"You're not naked."

"Wouldst you like for me to remove my clothing as well?"

"No!"

Ragnar chuckled. He was enjoying the company of the golden wench much more than he had expected to. She sat before him in the saddle, her rounded buttocks pressed against his groin, his right hand wrapped around her belly to steady her and hold her close as they rode astride his mount toward Valkraad lands.

He was taking no more chances. The willful wench had already tried to escape him once. She wouldst never get a second opportunity to do so.

Ragnar knew he would have to clothe Dara before they approached the fjord, so he intended to enjoy the feel of her smooth skin against him for as long as possible. He rubbed his hand across her belly and smiled. "You've the skin of a babe," he muttered more to himself than to his betrothed.

She responded anyway. "And you have the manners of a pig."

Ragnar laughed, but he didn't disagree.

Dara sat in a daze before the giant, not knowing what to think. For the past two hours they had ridden through forests and over lands that should have been familiar, yet weren't. She had lived in the valley all of her life, grown up by the river, and was as knowledgeable of the terrain as she was the back of her own hand. But now as they galloped along, everything familiar was eerily foreign.

The man had said his name was Ragnar Valkraad. Loki had spoken of a Ragnar. The man believed himself to be a Viking, even going so far as to dress the part of one. Ragnar was wearing a long, sleeveless tunic with crossed garter hose and both of his heavily muscled biceps were clasped about the middle with ornately bejeweled golden armbands. Thor's hammer was centered upon the left band and a dragon upon the right one.

Loki had also said that she would marry a warrior. And indeed, this man looked every inch the capable warrior.

Dara closed her eyes as a sense of foreboding stole over her. She was beginning to fear that this was no longer a dream, but a reality from which there was no escape. She sank deeper into Ragnar's arms, unthinkingly seeking his comfort as she spoke to him. "What will we do when we reach your home?"

"You will meet the thing."

Dara harrumphed. "Look buddy, I will not be meeting anybody's thing. Get that thought out of your head right now."

Ragnar chuckled. "Not that thing. The thing is what Norsemen call their council. 'Tis a body of lawmakers over which my father rules and over which I will one day rule. My father is jarl there."

Dara nodded. She hadn't the slightest notion what a jarl was, but decided to explore that issue more in depth at a later time. She had enough on her plate as it was. "And after I meet the…uh…" She cleared her throat discreetly, "thing?"

"Then we shall be wed."

Dara nodded like a marionette, a dazed feeling creeping up her toes and settling into her body proper. Unconsciously, she snuggled against Ragnar, seeking a comfort from him that she couldn't name.

Ragnar smiled. His wench was gentling to his touch already. 'Twould be soon enough he could claim her as his wife in truth. In a few hours, the jarl would say the words that would bind them together by law, and then within a few days, Dara would bind herself to her husband in every way. Ragnar was certain of it.

Dara closed her eyes and laid the back of her head against his steely chest, no longer wishing to have any of these scary thoughts she'd been entertaining. Thoughts like, the Viking was really a Viking. Thoughts like, she had been whisked through time by a handsome god with a wicked sense of humor. Thoughts like, the Viking's hand had moved from caressing her belly to caressing her breasts. She gasped when she realized that the latter was more than just a thought.

Ragnar heard her sharp intake of breath, but ignored it. 'Twas time to accustom Dara further to his hands, that she would no longer fear his exploration of her body. Ragnar released the hold he'd kept on the mount's reigns with his left hand and used both of his large palms to cup her breasts. His horse knew exactly where home was, so it wasn't necessary to lead him.

Dara sucked in her breath as Ragnar's fingers began tweaking her nipples back and forth with fluid strokes, inducing them to swell into painfully erect points. His touch felt so good. So impossibly good. She should stop him but she didn't. She couldn't.

What was she doing? She didn't want him to make love to her, did she?

Dara took a deep breath in an effort to clear the cobwebs from her brain. She grabbed Ragnar's hands and pushed them from her body, then folded her own arms over her breasts, making it difficult for him to resume his touching.

Ragnar merely chuckled. If the wench thought to stop him in his quest by concealing her nipples from him, he could find other ways to arouse her. He used one large hand to gather her hair and brush it to the side out of his way. When he secured a direct path to her neck, he bent his head and nibbled upon her seductively.

Dara moaned, as turned on as she had been when he'd played with her nipples. Her hands dropped defenselessly to her sides as she closed her eyes and felt the pleasure overwhelm her body.

Ragnar continued to kiss and nibble upon Dara's neck as his hands sought out the nipples she'd tried to deny him. He pinched them between thumbs and forefingers, grabbing each one at the root and pulling upward toward their tips, over and over again. Dara bucked against him, her buttocks grinding into his erect groin.

Ragnar released one of her nipples, freeing a hand to roam down her belly and toward her mons. She whimpered out a ragged breath as his callused fingers ran through her pubic hair, petting her down there like a favorite kitty cat.

"'Tis like silk, your pelt."

She moaned at his words, then groaned when a large callused finger found her clitoris and began manipulating it.

Ragnar rubbed Dara's soaking wet bud in circular and agonizingly slow motions. She writhed in front of him astride the horse, wailing her need into the encroaching night. And then she reached the point of passion overwhelming sanity, of her body's need no longer caring what her brain had to say concerning the situation. "Faster! Rub faster!" she thoughtlessly groaned.

Ragnar grinned, and complied. He increased the speed of the circles, his hand growing drenched from the downpour of honey between her legs. She would burst at any moment.

Dara had never felt so excruciatingly aroused in her life. She threw her head back against Ragnar's chest and screamed in ecstasy as her orgasm ripped violently throughout the whole of her body. She shuddered and convulsed, writhing against her captor as the waves of pleasure rippled through her.

Ragnar ran his fingers through her velvety pelt, petting her like he had before. "Good girl," he murmured thickly, his deep voice husky with lusty approval. "Good girl."

One hour and five orgasms later, Dara lay face down and exhausted across the horse, feeling anything but a good girl. Her arms were stretched up toward the mount's neck, her nipples still aroused from the feel of the horse's coarse hair brushing against them.

Ragnar rubbed her buttocks from behind, kneading them like two silky balls of golden-honey dough. He slipped two fingers from one hand into her climax-flooded flesh, while his other hand continued to rub her lush derriere.

Dara bucked up against his hands, closing her eyes against the inevitable. She wondered vaguely as her sixth orgasm roared through her belly just how many climaxes she could possibly endure before dying of pleasure.

She smiled into the night, knowing that her Viking would find out.

Why not? This had to be a dream.

Chapter 6

"Wake up, sweet Dara. We are almost home."

"Hm?"

Ragnar grinned as he pulled his sleeping betrothed up tighter against him. He nudged her chin up so he could force her gently to awaken. "Open your eyes, sweeting. We will be in the heart of my sire's lands the soonest."

Dara opened her eyes slowly and smiled up to him, replete. She closed her eyes again, unable to stay awake. She was so exhausted from the endless stream of orgasms Ragnar had given to her that she felt as though she could hibernate for a week straight.

He cradled her possessively against his chest, but did not back down from his command. "Wake up, Dara. You can sleep in our bedchamber when we reach it."

That woke her up. She gazed up at Ragnar with rounded eyes. "But I thought-" She looked away, saying no more.

Ragnar rubbed her back soothingly, crooning to her as though she were a small child. "Have I not gentled you to my touch yet, sweeting?"

Gentled her? Was he kidding? She was as gentle as Jell-O at the moment. "Yes, but it's just that I-I am not ready for the other yet."

"Why not?"

Dara shrugged, but said nothing.

He lifted her chin and surveyed her expression. "What do you fear from me? You must realize by now that I wouldst never hurt you."

And this has got to be a dream. "Perhaps not intentionally," she heard herself mutter.

"What do you mean with those words?"

Dara pulled away from the hold Ragnar had on her chin and looked away. She sighed. "I've never been with a man before."

"Never been where with a man?"

"To bed!" she seethed.

Dara broke from his hold and turned in the saddle to sit astride the mount, as she had before sleeping. She simply couldn't hold his gaze after having admitted to being a virgin. How embarrassing, admitting her state of innocence to a man she'd known only a day! Of course, this was also the same man who had brought her to orgasm more times than she could count in the past few hours.

Ragnar sat behind Dara atop the mount, his shaft swelled with desire and near to bursting. His mouth was semi-agape, his eyes glazed over with lust.

She was a virgin.

No warrior had ever claimed the golden Dara before. She was unused, untouched. And she was all his. His was the only cock that would ever ride her. He was the only man who would ever pour his seed into her belly. By Odin's eye, he could live without ever seeing Valhalla if a long life with innocent Dara at his side was the alternative.

Ragnar gripped Dara's nipples between thumbs and forefingers and clamped down possessively on them. They rode that way in silence for another ten minutes before Ragnar released his hold on her peaks and patted her on the bottom. "I will give you my tunic to wear until we reach our chamber."

Dara's head whipped around, her gaze piercing him accusingly.

Ragnar sighed. "I will say this once more, but then I shall never repeat these words. You shan't be forced, Dara. I will wait until you are ready to give yourself to me."

"Then why are we sharing a bedroom?"

"Because 'tis what married people do. And make no mistake, sweetings, we will be wed on the morrow."

"I thought you said we were marrying tonight?" Dara gulped, wondering if it had been foolish of her to remind him of something she didn't particularly want to do. A little sexual touching in a dream was one thing, marrying him was quite another.

Ragnar shrugged as he pulled his tunic from over his head and put it on Dara for covering. "I rode slow so you could sleep peacefully, thus are we arriving late into the night. All will be abed by now."

Dara let out a slow breath, feeling both relieved and anxious. Relieved because she wasn't prepared to meet anybody new, anxious because it occured to her that this dream was a bit too detailed to be a dream. "Good," she said weakly, "I'd like to have some decent clothes on before I am forced to be introduced to anybody."

Ragnar nodded. "Even though we are not yet wed, you still will share my bed for sleeping tonight, Dara. I will take no chances that another might steal you away and claim my prize."

"Your prize?"

Ragnar smiled humorlessly. "Your virginity."

* * * * *

Fifteen minutes later, Ragnar and Dara stole quietly into the long house and crept soundlessly down the corridor leading to Ragnar's private chambers. He had insisted he didn't want anyone to hear them come in, not even a slave, for he wanted to keep her all to himself this night. He refused to have her expend even a moment of her time or attention on another.

That was perfectly fine by Dara. She had no desire to meet up with any strangers tonight anyway. She was having enough trouble adjusting to Ragnar. And to the discomfiting thought that Loki's appearance hadn't been a dream. And to the equally horrifying thought that even now she was wide awake. It was a fact that was getting harder and harder to deny.

As soon as they were safely squirreled away inside of his bedchamber, Ragnar walked toward the sconce on the wall nearest the door and lit a single beeswax candle. That done, he pulled his tunic from over Dara's head and discarded it into a nearby chair, leaving her fully naked in his presence once more. He turned away from her and strode to the side of the huge, plush bed, then patted it, smiling at her. "Come, sweetings, and get your rest."

Dara nodded, glancing around at the furnishings in his bedchamber to see what the big room looked like. To her utter dismay, she couldn't make out much. Perhaps Ragnar could divine details by the light of only one candle, but she couldn't. If it hadn't been for the moonlight pouring into the room and resting upon Ragnar's form, she wouldn't have even seen him pat the bed and beckon to her.

When Dara reached the bed, she climbed on top of it and made her way slowly toward its center on all fours. Ragnar reached out and patted her bottom as she crawled, then slipped his hand lower and stole a quick feel of the swollen flesh between her legs.

Dara sucked in her breath, but kept moving. She fell to her side, curling up like a cat, and faced what she strongly suspected was one of the chamber walls. She felt dazed. Completely overwhelmed.

Ragnar climbed into bed beside her a moment later, reaching out for her as he laid down. "Come and sleep near me."

Dara nibbled on her lower lip, eventually releasing it to sigh in resignation. If she didn't go to him, he'd simply come to her. Huffing, she sat up on the bed, turned toward him, then plopped back down facing him.

He patted his chest. "Lie your head here."

She did so stoically, too drained to argue.

And she was scared, more frightened than she'd ever been before in her life, for she'd come to realize that this was no dream. Ragnar was very, very real, and she didn't know what to make of that fact.

She also didn't know what to make of her own behavior. She hated how compliant she'd been acting these past several hours. Dara had always been one to stand her ground, yet in the Viking's presence she found herself merely relenting to his demands without protest. Of course, it was one thing to form an opinion on how one should behave in such a situation and quite another reality when faced with it.

She sighed. This was the most confusing and frightening day she'd ever lived through.

She was a prisoner, a captive of a huge man who had decided to marry her upon first sight. Furthermore, she didn't know where she was or if she'd ever see her own home again. But by far the most frightening concept for her to come to terms with was Loki's ominous prediction, his insistence that she was to be wed to a warrior from the fire god's time.

Dara had never been much of a European history buff, but she'd retained enough information from her requisite courses in world history at Harvard to realize that the Vikings had ruled mainly in the 800's and 900's.

Dara closed her eyes firmly against her fear, snuggling herself in closer to Ragnar's side. Odd, but the very man who had captured her was the same man who was able to breach some of her unease. Burrowing into his warmth somehow managed to make this fate more tolerable. A fate she had slowly come to fear over the past several hours might just might be inescapable. She closed her eyes in confusion of her feelings, her hand absently resting on his washboard stomach, her face near his flat male nipple.

Ragnar placed his hand over Dara's, holding it firmly but gently against his stomach. It felt good, cuddling with his woman. Her body was finely sculpted-lush, soft, and pillowy just as a warrior preferred. He couldn't have chosen a more desirable mate for himself had he tried.

Ragnar yawned in contentment and offered up a silent thanks to the gods that had brought his Dara to him. If she was to be his punishment, he couldn't ask for a better sentence of judgment. He nestled himself against her and smiled.

Ragnar had almost drifted off to sleep when his father's words from the last rising echoed through his mind. "The chosen one will wed and breed with the golden woman. She must bear a golden son within the year, do any of us wish to see Valhalla."

A year.

And his beautiful wench was a virgin.

Ragnar couldn't have been more delighted by Dara's innocence, yet did he also realize 'twould cause much apprehension of mating on her part. For one thing, the size of his cock would likely intimidate her. 'Twould make it more difficult to get between her legs if the sight of his manhood frightened her needlessly. He would have to accustom her the soonest. He grew immediately erect just thinking about it.

Ragnar gripped Dara's hand more firmly, then slid it slowly down his heavily muscled stomach and onto his jutting shaft. At her intake of breath, he knew she was not yet asleep. "Ragnar, I-"

"Shh, love," he whispered. "'Tis best to have you know what will be inside of you, that you grow to not fear it." He leaned down and placed a soft kiss on her furrowed brow. "Just touch me," he commanded her hoarsely. "No more will be asked of you this night." He released his grip on her hand, wanting her to explore him of her own will.

After what seemed to Ragnar to be endless moments of hoping, he at last felt Dara's fingers curl around his thick shaft as best they could, accepting him. He let out a sigh mixed with relief and longing.

Dara had to admit that she was wickedly curious about Ragnar's body. She'd never been in the presence of a naked man before, Loki aside. She knew now, without a doubt, that Ragnar's entire body was built on the same massive scale. The Viking was huge. She secreted a smile into the dark, perversely curious as to whether it was his sword-wielding or lovemaking that had earned him the nickname Ragnar the Feared.

Dara curled her fingers around Ragnar's shaft tentatively at first, but grew bolder when she heard him suck in his breath. She stroked him slowly from root to tip, exploring the sensuous feel of rock hard muscle covered in satiny silk. Ragnar moaned softly as Dara continued to fondle him, his body tensing at her touch. Her nipples grew tight in response to the sounds he elicited, the power she felt over him quite heady.

She picked up the speed of her perusal, stroking up and down the length of his shaft with greater urgency. She could feel the tip of his penis growing wet with pre-ejaculate and she knew she was close to taking Ragnar to the same heights he'd taken her so many times today.

She drew her head up from his right bicept and licked one of his nipples as she masturbated him, her strokes getting faster and faster. Ragnar groaned loudly, no longer caring if he woke up his entire household or not.

And then he burst.

Ragnar growled savagely as his orgasm coursed through his body and spurted out all over Dara's hand. He breathed in long, deep breaths as he steadied himself from the impact of his climax. By Thor's hammer, if he burst like this at the touch of his betrothed's hands, he could well imagine what it would feel like whilst inside of her.

Ragnar reached for a piece of woolen cloth sitting near the bed and cleaned up his wench's saturated arm. He then patted his chest, directing her to lie her head upon him once more. He held her close, enjoying the cuddling more now than he had before.

He smiled wryly into the night as he drifted off to sleep, his last coherent thought a beatitude of thanks to Frigg for cursing him.

Chapter 7

When Dara awoke the next morning, the first thing she realized was that Ragnar wasn't in the bed with her. She was alone. Naked and alone.

She glanced down to her ankle on the off chance that the Viking had been a dream, then sighed in acceptance when she spotted the dragon still branded upon her. No dream.

Now that daylight was pouring into the room, Dara was able to see the contents of the chamber quite clearly. She wasted no time in her inspection, but drew herself up from the bed and stood up to have a peek around.

The first thing Dara noticed was the elaborate paintings and artwork that donned every wall. No, she thought as she examined the wood closer, the artwork didn't merely don the walls, but was an ingrained part of them, etched by a master artist. The scenes depicted hunts and what she gathered to be raids. There were also creatures she didn't recognize carved and painted into the walls, along with a few that she did. It was the gold-gilded dragon that called out to her, beckoning her closer.

Dara strode closer to the symbol of the dragon and ran her hand over the intricately detailed carving. The creature was etched deeply into the pine log wall, then painted with magnificent colors and gilded with a gold overlay. It was beautiful, simply breathtaking. And it resembled the one upon her ankle down to the most minute of detail.

She walked toward the hearth next and admired the fine tapestry that had been woven and placed above it. It was bright and bold, magnificent with color. And like the walls, it depicted a hunting scene. She grimaced when she realized that the prey was a woman. She could only assume that this was the medieval equivalent to porn.

Dara walked toward Ragnar's side of the bed next and took note of the massive gilded and bejeweled chest lying on the floor beside it. She was no more a medieval history buff than she was a European history buff in general, but she knew enough of it to realize that a chest served the dual purpose of closet and dresser drawer in this time.

Dara's perusal of the chamber was cut short when a knock sounded at the door a moment later. Her eyes widened in dismay, realizing immediately that she was naked and had no clothing here to speak of. She reached up onto the bed and pulled an animal skin off of it to cover up with, then quietly bade the intruder to come in.

A short, round woman of middle years waddled into the room a moment later. She closed the door firmly behind her, then turned to study Dara. She eyed Dara up and down, beaming a brilliant, toothless smile her way. "Me name is Myra. The master did send me to ye because I am the only slave here that speaks yer tongue."

Dara snorted. She could hardly agree that they spoke the same language, as she could barely understand a word the woman had said. Wait a minute! she thought in dismay, had she heard the word…"Slave?"

Myra shrugged, seemingly not bothered by her status. "Aye. I was thrall to the jarl, yet now do I belong to his son." She grinned, patting her belly. "When Ragnar took to his own lodgings, he refused to give up me cookin'."

"Slave?" Dara repeated, still trying to get beyond that fact of early medieval life.

Myra frowned, shaking her gray head in puzzlement. "Do ye not have slaves where ye come from, milady?"

"No! That's awful! Barbaric! Uncivilized! You should run away!"

"Run away?"

"Yes! Run away!"

"And go where, pray tell?"

Dara bit her bottom lip as she contemplated the matter. Hell, she didn't know where to go. How could she tell Myra here to do the impossible. "Let me get back to you on that one."

Myra dismissed Dara's ranting with a wave of her hand. The master's betrothed was curious indeed, but it wasn't a slave's place to point out as much. "Ye do that, mistress. Now as to the reason I'm here…"

"Yes?"

"I will have the Celtic thrall Maron bring in yer tray of food and the Finnish thrall Brun will bring yer bath in."

Dara sighed, hating the idea of anyone in bondage serving her. She was an American for goodness sake! Americans don't like to think on that hideous part of their own past, let alone have it confront them in the flesh. She sighed, realizing that nothing she said or did would make a difference to Myra. "Fine. And then?"

"After ye have finished, I will bring in a dress I've been sewing for ye for two risings, then Brun will escort ye to the thing."

She thought to ask Myra how she could have worked on a dress for her for two days when she'd only just met her, but found herself distracted by the last bit of information the older slave had imparted. "The thing? Is that where Ragnar is?"

"Aye, milady. He awaits ye with the jarl and the rest o' the council at the long house."

Dara gulped visibly, not at all pleased with the notion of meeting more men of this time. She'd read the stories. The word "gang-bang" echoed morosely throughout her rattled brain. She felt dizzy, realizing that this situation was just too much to take in all at once. Still, this was no fault of the older woman's. And the slave was not likely to help her find a way out of it. "Fine. Thank-you for coming to explain things to me, Myra."

Myra beamed another smile her way, putting Dara more at ease. If she hadn't missed her mark, and she was pretty sure she hadn't, she'd just made an ally of the older woman. And heaven help her, she knew she'd need all the friends she could muster around this place.

"Think nothing of it, milady," Myra insisted as she waddled toward the chamber door. "I am always here do ye have need of me."

An hour later, Dara was fed, bathed, clothed, and more afraid than ever before. Now she would have to deal with an entire hoard of Vikings and not just with the one she'd grown semi-accustomed to. It was enough to drive her to drink. Realizing that that was the best idea she'd entertained all morning long, she picked up the tankard of ale Maron had left on her tray and emptied it. It tasted awful, but it would have to suffice for the moment.

Myra knocked on the chamber door, calling out to her that the thing was anxious to make her acquaintance and that she and Brun needed to depart the soonest.

"I'll be there in a moment!" Dara shouted back, as she turned to a gleaming silver platter to study her reflection. She sighed in distaste, thinking the metal plate was the poorest excuse for a mirror she'd ever encountered. The only aspects of herself she could make out for certain were the ones she could look down and see with her own eyes.

Her gown was a long, velvet green that she had to admit contrasted brilliantly against her skin. A gold chain was roped about her belly, riding just below her hips and clasped at her mons with a gold and ruby dragon. Her shoes were leather half boots that were designed to fit either foot and were well hidden under her dress.

She had no idea what her hair looked like, but gathered from Myra's preening eye that Maron had done a good job with it. It was unbound, yet secured away from her face by a gold headband that sported rubies, emeralds, and sapphires all over it. She didn't have to see her reflection to know that Ragnar had made certain she would look good on her wedding day.

Wedding day.

Good grief! How could she marry a man she'd known barely a day? Of course, how could she not? He'd left her with little choice.

And at some godforsaken point during the night, perhaps when Ragnar had climaxed on her hand, she had arrived at the irrevocable conclusion that she was definitely not dreaming. This was real. Very real. Dreams were broken and bizarre, lacking detail. They weren't vivid and colorful, depicting huge Vikings and toothless slaves. Dara mentally winced, realizing she'd been left in a year she didn't know the date of to wed a man she barely knew.

And she didn't have the first clue how to escape.

Like an idiot, she'd slept through over half of the journey to Ragnar's house, so she hadn't any clue how to make it back to the magical river if she tried. It was hopeless. Purely hopeless. For now she would simply bide her time.

Dara sighed, supposing she should be grateful that she'd been brought here as a bride-to-be instead of as a slave. That's right, she was slated to become a wife. She could rightly assume that becoming a wife ruled out gang-bangs, thank god. And speaking of becoming a wife…

"Sorry to take so long Myra. I'm a little nervous."

"Not to worry, milady," the older thrall called from the other side of the door. "Ye will not be spillin' yer virgin's blood until the sun sets."

Dara gulped roughly, her mouth having never felt quite so parched. Good god. Now she had even more to worry about!

Chapter 8

Ragnar paced back and forth in front of the long table as he waited for Brun to bring his betrothed to him. Only members of the thing had been invited to witness the impending nuptials. The celebratory feast to follow would take place afterwards in the jarl's home, where one and all of the village would attend. 'Twas a time of great revelry for slaves and freemen alike, for no work would be done this day. The village would feast until the wee hours of the morning, carrying on for the higher-ranking families of the village for three full sennights.

Ragnar continued pacing as he scratched his beard in thought. He was nervous, restless, and he couldn't contain his reaction. The fate of an entire clan of warriors rested in his hopelessly inept seed. It was enough to drive him daft.

He just prayed to Odin that the gods would see fit to grace his future wife with his babe. That thought only served to lead him to another nerve racking one. His bride was a virgin and he couldn't force her to submit to him. Thor's teeth, between one dire predicament and another, he would soon be as crazed as a frothing mouthed boar!

"By Balder's toes, son, would you quit your pacing?" Erik the Wise frowned over to his heir as he watched him prowl back and forth on the dirt floors.

"Aye, cousin," Aran grinned, "I have never seen you so worked up o'er a mere wench afore."

"She is not mere!" Ragnar bellowed in her defense as he quit his pacing and went to stand next to his father, cousin, and uncle. "Indeed, she is the loveliest creature I have ever laid eyes upon."

"'Tis your good fortune," Leif announced. "My first wife-not your aunt Brekkhild mind you-was chosen for me. The woman was nigh unto a pig with her eyesore of a build."

Erik snorted in reaction. "You didn't say that whilst you courted the wench."

Leif shrugged, thereby dismissing his observation as trivial. "Her father was as rich as you, brother. Besides, she was the only free wench in yon village that wouldst spread her thighs awillin'."

"Ah," Erik grinned as he reminisced on the days of youth gone by, "the low depths a young man will sink to whilst in the fever of his need."

The laughter in the thing was brought to an abrupt halt when Brun knocked on the door and entered. He searched out Ragnar, smiling compassionately when he noticed how nervous his master appeared to be. "Yer betrothed is just outside, master," he offered in Norwegian. "Do ye bid her to enter anon?"

"Aye," Ragnar confirmed as he let out an anticipatory breath. "Bring her in the soonest."

Brun bowed low, then turned around and scurried outside.

"By Odin's eye!" Sven exclaimed as he walked closer to the conversing group of four nearest the long table, "I am nigh unto bursting with excitement! I cannot wait to see the woman created in the likeness of gold!"

Ragnar frowned, giving Sven the thump on the head he had wanted to give him during the meeting where his father had first announced his dream of Loki.

Sven rubbed his temple and grunted. "All I wanted to do was see her," he muttered.

A few moments later, the door to the long house opened up to reveal the golden woman of the jarl's dream. The mouths of the thing's men went agape, all of them believing they'd never seen a more comely woman.

She was just as he'd envisioned, Erik thought to himself. Golden of hair, golden of skin, and as she drew nearer, he realized she was also indeed golden of eyes. The trickster god had revealed to him the truth. He walked up to her and smiled, then spoke to her in Saxon. "I am Ragnar's father Erik, milady, and soon to be your father as well. 'Tis an honor to make your acquaintance."

Dara let out a breath of relief, pleased as punch that the jarl could communicate with her. She was still quite nervous about marrying a man she barely knew, but she forced her skittish thoughts from her mind and dealt with the reality of the situation. She smiled up to the huge Viking, who looked just like an older version of Ragnar, and nodded. "Likewise, sir."

She braved a quick look around, her gaze finally settling on Ragnar. He grinned as he scanned the length of her, liking very much what he saw. "The gown becomes you, Dara."

"Nay, 'tis she who becomes the gown."

Dara shifted her gaze to the man standing next to Ragnar and beamed a dazzling, pearly white smile his way. Here, after all, was another man who could communicate with her.

Ragnar frowned, not caring at all for the predatory gleam in his cousin's eye. He knew Aran would never dare to touch what belonged to him, yet realizing that he even harbored such a thought was enough to put Ragnar in a jealous rage. He clamped his arm possessively around his betrothed's shoulders and stared daggers at his bemused cousin.

The men of the thing bellowed with laughter, thoroughly enjoying Ragnar's show of jealous temper. Dara scanned their faces, curious as to what had made them all laugh, then shrugged, realizing that she was unlikely to figure that particular puzzle out. The Vikings had an odd sense of humor, she decided.

Ragnar's father smiled down gently to his soon to be daughter-within-the-law. She was a fetching wench, this woman. He almost envied his son the task Frigg had set before him, but relented with an easy grin, remembering that there was no other love for him save his sweet Jaron. "Tell us, Dara, was your journey here a pleasurable one?"

Dara blushed profusely, remembering all too well how pleasurable it had been. Ragnar caught her reaction and couldn't help but to be tickled by it. "Yes," she admitted weakly, "it was."

"From where did the gods bring her?" another warrior asked Ragnar in Norwegian, as he looked Dara up and down.

The remaining members of the thing encircled the couple, curious as to what his answer would be.

Ragnar shrugged, just now realizing he'd never gotten around to asking. "I cannot say," he admitted. "I have not yet asked her."

Erik the Wise shook his head in amusement, his eyes twinkling their merriment. "You must be besotted indeed, my son, for it wouldst have been the very first question I put to the wench."

Leif and Aran nodded their agreement.

Erik the Wise turned his attention back to Dara and inclined his head down to her. "From what land do you herald, daughter?" he inquired in Saxon.

Dara swallowed roughly, her eyes wide with apprehension. How exactly was she supposed to answer that question without the lot of them thinking she was insane? Did they have madhouses in Viking times? She shuddered as she envisioned herself locked away in a foul smelling chamber with nothing to eat or drink save stale cheese and old mead for the rest of her natural born life. She wrung her hands together, her nerves overpowering her sensibilities once again. It was an action that didn't go unnoticed by the assembled warriors.

Ragnar squeezed Dara's shoulders affectionately, knowing instinctively that she was riled and needed to be calmed. "It matters not from whence you came, sweet. Tell us the truth of it."

Wide-eyed, she looked up at Ragnar and realized then and there that he'd never allow these men to harm her if they thought her crazy. "I'm from…someplace else," she offered meekly, losing her nerve to tell the truth.

The warriors of the thing who spoke Saxon laughed gaily, joined in by the ones who didn't after Dara's words had been translated for them. Erik the Wise shook his head and grinned. "We have figured out as much, Dara. But from where did Loki bring you?"

"You know about Loki?" she breathed out, not quite believing the jarl.

"Of course."

"But how?"

Erik Valkraad shrugged his broad expanse of shoulders, not minding the telling of it in the slightest. "He did appear to me in a dream to tell me of your imminent arrival."

"He appeared to me in a dream before Ragnar brought me here as well!" Dara spouted her remarks excitedly, happy and relieved to not be the only loony toon around here that had been visited by the god of fire.

Dara's comments elicited a round of excited chatter amongst the councilmen. All of them were even more interested in her tale now than they had been before. "Truly?" Ragnar asked as he gently squeezed her shoulders again. "And what did the trickster god do in your dream?"

Dara shifted nervously on her feet, realizing innately that she had better stick to what Loki had said and not to what he had done. Otherwise, the man she was about to be forced into marriage with would want to kill her.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow at Dara's telling anxiousness, but said nothing because he wasn't certain what to make of it. "Well?" he asked when she made no move to speak. "Tell me the whole of it."

Dara lifted one shoulder in an elegant shrug, feigning her innocence to Ragnar. She frowned up at him when she realized what she was doing, sore with herself for acting as though she had betrayed the Viking when she hadn't even known him at the time. Besides, she had thought it was a dream. And she was a prisoner for crying out loud! Still, for some reason she couldn't name, she didn't want to hurt Ragnar's feelings.

Now where did that thought come from? she wondered idly. Here she was, having been plummeted through the veils of time, captured and brought to the village naked, forced to marry her gigantic captor, and she was worried about his feelings? Jeez, she was an idiot! And yet the concern she felt for Ragnar didn't lessen.

Dara forced her attention toward the jarl and smiled complacently. "The fire god told me he was bringing me here." She tapped her finger against her cheek and squinted her eyes in contemplation. "Come to think of it, he even mentioned Ragnar's name specifically."

The chatter in the long house erupted immediately.

"He did?" Ragnar asked quizzically.

"Yes."

Erik the Wise waved his hand impatiently through the air, demanding with his gesture that the room revert back to silence. Satisfied, he nodded down to Dara. "What did he say to you of my son?"

Dara shrugged, knowing that Loki hadn't said much of him. "Not a lot. Just that he wanted Ragnar to win. I didn't understand what he-"

Dara was cut off by the loud cheering that rose up throughout the meeting hall. She glanced nervously up to Ragnar to gage his reaction, and felt immediately calmed by the look of triumph smothering his features. "That was a good thing I take it?" she asked, thoroughly bewildered by such a loud response.

"Aye," Ragnar laughed as he bent his neck and craned down to kiss her atop the head. "'Twas a very good thing."

The cheers and shouts in the long house grew to pandemic proportions once the warriors who didn't speak Saxon had been filled in on Dara's announcement. She clapped her hands over her ears, suddenly feeling very frightened. The jarl noticed her action and immediately raised his hands to silence the gathered men. "You are scaring the tiny woman," he shouted in Norwegian, "control yourselves."

Leif, for one, couldn't seem to get his eagerness under his own command. He was too cheered by the news to pay heed to the unwritten decree that 'twas the jarl's right to question the wench and not his own. He spoke out of turn. "What else did Loki say? Anything of us going to Valhalla?"

"No," Dara denied, realizing the subject of death had thankfully never come up. "He said nothing of it. Why do you ask?"

Erik jabbed his brother-within-the-law in the ribs, frowning at him for asking questions before thinking. "You forget the rules," he chastised Leif in Norwegian. "She cannot know that our fates rest in her womb."

Leif flushed red, but nodded.

Erik the Wise smiled down at Dara and reverted his speech back to Saxon. "Do go on. What else did Loki say?"

Dara felt inexplicably skittish. She couldn't place a finger on the why of it, but something inside her was screaming out that these men were hoping to hear something specific from her lips, some sign of…something. She flushed awkwardly on her feet, wishing she had more to tell them, but knowing that she didn't. Unfortunately, Loki had said little about them. "All he said was that I was going to be brought here to his time and that I would be married to Ragnar."

The groans of disappointment throughout the meeting hall were so loud and noticeable that Ragnar was the only man present who immediately picked up on what his betrothed had just thoughtlessly uttered. "His time?" he asked as the room finally quieted down again. "What mean you, Dara?"

Dara's head shot up, her wide golden eyes piercing Ragnar's blue ones. She sighed, shrugging her shoulders with as much nonchalance as a woman frightened out of her wits could summon. "I don't know."

"You don't know?"

"No."

"Dara," he gritted out, more exasperated than she'd seen him yet, "from what time do you herald?"

She straightened her back rigidly and thrust her chin defiantly upwards. "I refuse to answer that question!" she exclaimed.

Ragnar narrowed his eyes into menacing slits as he regarded the tiny golden wench next to him who dared to refuse him anything. "Why?" he asked quietly. Too quietly.

Dara braved a glance his way and visibly gulped when she took in how irritated he had become with her. "Because," she protested in barely a whisper.

"Because why?" he prodded.

"Because," she admitted as tears welled up in her eyes, "because if I tell you what year I am from and you tell me it is that year no more, I will probably cry!" She sagged against Ragnar's hard body, the admission behind that truth hitting her weary mind full force.

Ragnar felt immediately contrite, sorry that he'd yelled at her when she was obviously very frightened and mayhap confused.

And it was true. Dara was frightened. Somewhere in the back of her mind had been the hope that she was in some distant land she'd never seen, but still in her own time. Until she actually heard the damning words that would reveal otherwise, she carried that tiny kernel of hope deep within her.

Ragnar smoothed his large hand down Dara's back, letting her know without words that she could depend upon him always. Odd, but the small token of caring comforted her. "'Twill be alright, sweet," he coaxed, "tell us from which year Loki brought you."

Dara folded her arms across her chest and rubbed the shivers from them. She slowly averted her gaze from the floor of the hall to the man looming above her. She lowered her eyes to his chest and admitted aloud, "2001."

Chapter 9

Ragnar had told her that the year was 820. 820? God in heaven! A series of chills raced down the length of her spine.

Dara stood stoically at Ragnar's side, pale as a sheet-or as pale as a woman with a golden tan was likely to get. She listened with half an ear to the words of the ceremony that were even now legally binding her to Ragnar for life. Laws that gave the Viking absolute power over her life and livelihood, at least within the confines of this time and place.

And when it was done, Ragnar and her new father Erik took to either side of her, led her from the meeting place of the thing, and into a procession that led the entire party to the jarl's longhouse.

The Viking version of the wedding reception took Dara by complete surprise. Fighting amongst the men was commonplace and seemingly encouraged, wrestling bouts and sword matches breaking out over the tiniest of perceived offenses. Dara tucked herself closer into Ragnar's side as a match of sword-letting broke out behind them. The warriors were cursing each other in Norwegian, so she hadn't the foggiest notion what they were dueling over.

Ragnar, much to her amazement, didn't even seem to notice. He was laughing and jesting with his father and the other warriors seated closest to them as he ate the foods that had been set out before them. Chagrined and more than a little peeved, she elbowed him in the ribs to gain his attention.

He cocked his head in her direction and raised a brow. "Aye, sweeting?"

Dara huffed. She cast her gaze nervously behind them, then back to her husband. "What if one of them trips and accidentally severs my head from my body?" she hissed under her breath.

Ragnar turned on the bench to behold the battling warriors for the first time. He shrugged his shoulders dismissively. "Both Aran and Selik are skilled with the sword, my love. No harm shall befall you."

Her eyes narrowed menacingly. She didn't care how skilled they were. The men were fighting right behind her, and on her wedding day no less! Besides, accidents do happen. And any accident with a sword was bound to be trouble.

She was about to point out as much when Ragnar's mother came to her aid. Until that moment, Dara hadn't even realized her mother-in-law could understand her English, or "Saxon" as they called it. "Instruct your cousins to be seated, son." Joran smiled sweetly at Dara as she set her dagger down to lie upon the trencher she'd been eating from. "'Tis upsetting to your lady wife on this the most important day of her life."

Dara didn't know if she'd go so far as to call it the most important day of her life-perhaps the strangest one-but she smiled at Joran nevertheless before grunting something reproachful up to her husband.

Ragnar sighed, but relented. He had much work ahead of him this night and desired to concentrate his energies on thinking up a plan to woo his wife into spreading her legs for his pleasures when they would take to the bed later. Still, he wanted Dara's happiness as well, so he rose from the bench and turned to deal with his sparring cousins.

"Aran!" Ragnar barked. "You and Selik will cease your battling anon, for it distresses my lady wife sorely."

Surprised by the interruption, after all 'twas common to sword-let whilst feasting, Aran tripped over Selik's foot, fell back into Ragnar's arms, and did the Feared's face a harm by scratching it with the point of his sword. Ragnar cursed and let Aran fall to the ground as he clutched at his bloody face.

"By Odin's eye, cousin!" Aran accepted Selik's hand up as he took to his feet. "You could have been killed whilst sneaking up upon me in such a manner!"

Ragnar muttered something in Norwegian under his breath as he glowered at his wide-eyed wife. Good. At least she looked sorrowful over the agony she'd unwittingly caused him. "'Tis naught but a scratch, cousin."

"Oh my god Ragnar!" Dara jumped up from the bench and turned to appraise the extent of his injuries. "It's bleeding very badly," she said sympathetically. "You could have lost your eye!"

If Ragnar didn't miss his guess, his captured bride actually cared that he'd been injured, though in truth 'twas just a bad scratch. Still, knowing as much did wonders for soothing his ill mood. He returned her gaze and smiled. "'Tis naught to trouble yourself over," he murmured.

Dara, however, was paying him no mind. She forced him down onto the bench where he no longer towered over her to such extremes and she could more readily surmise the damage that had been done to him. She shot a look that spoke volumes toward Aran and Selik, causing the warriors to look chagrined. "We really need to get something on this so it doesn't get infected." At Ragnar's bewildered look, Dara tried to explain. "A salve or healing ointment?"

"Ahh." He nodded. "'Twould be Myra who knows what I've the need of." He scanned the room, then motioned for a young-and gorgeous-female slave to come forward.

The girl, who was eighteen if she was a day, smiled coyly and immediately rushed toward Ragnar's side. Her large breasts jiggled seductively from beneath her rough, low-cut dress as she threw him a look that Dara immediately guessed meant that the two of them knew each other intimately. She shook off the staving of jealousy she experienced, telling herself she didn't care who Ragnar took to his bed.

The other warriors present noticed the slave's jiggling assets as readily as Dara had. Leif, now her uncle by marriage, patted the thrall on the bottom then reached up, drew the top of her dress down and cupped a breast in his palm. He rolled the nipple between his fingers and laughed before he released her.

Rather than appearing offended or even worried by what might next transpire, the slave girl giggled. Not even bothering to draw her dress back up to cover her exposed breast, she sauntered up to Ragnar's side and bowed her head reverently. Dara rolled her eyes.

Grinning, Ragnar shook his head. He knew Karil was a lusty piece, as he'd ridden between her thighs more times than he could count, so he could not blame his uncle for wanting to get inside of her. His aunt, a lovely woman he held in much esteem, would care not a wit. She preferred for Leif to find his pleasures elsewhere, as she'd never carried a fondness for the bed sport.

But Ragnar had been taught differently. He'd had the example of his parents set before him the whole of his life and wanted the closeness with his own wife that they shared. Neither of his parents took to the beds of another and neither ever would. The closest Erik had ever come to being with one of his thralls was in accepting a suckling from Karil, the lusty piece standing before Ragnar now.

That cock suckling had almost cost his father a happy marriage, so Erik had never allowed as much again. It had taken many sennights to coax Jaron into forgiveness and his sire had vowed to never touch another thrall again. He had even gone so far as to give Karil to Ragnar, so now she was thrall to him instead of his father.

Ragnar inwardly sighed at the sly look Karil was giving him. Was she daft, making eyes at him in front of his lady wife? He could feel Dara stiffening up beside him, and although it did his heart good to know that she was afflicted by jealousy, he didn't wish to start out married life on so bad a foot. 'Twould bring naught but trouble. "Karil, send for Myra that she might tend to my wounds." He kept his voice short and clipped, not wishing to hurt her feelings, but neither wishing to cause bad tidings with his wife.

Karil raised a brow, but said nothing. She turned on her heel and made to find Myra.

Dara visibly relaxed, even going so far as to release a pent-up breath without realizing she'd done so. Ragnar held back a smile. "Do not fret over me, sweeting," he said, pretending that her concern was over his scratch, "Myra will see to it."

Dara glanced up at his face, remembering the scratch. She grimaced. "I hope so, Ragnar. It looks pretty deep."

He shrugged, but didn't comment.

Ten minutes later, Myra stood at one side of her master and Ragnar's mother Jaron at the other. Dara smiled at her husband from over her shoulder as two thralls led her away to prepare her for the wedding night, a thought that caused butterflies to do a number on her belly. Ragnar winked back, shooing her away with his hand, letting her know there was nothing to worry over. He had, after all, promised not to take her unwillingly.

Back over at the bench, Myra clucked her tongue, worrying over Ragnar like a grandmother would. "'Tis too deep to leave be with naught but herbs, master. Ye needs must remove yer beard, leastways then I can better get to the cut."

Ragnar groaned. "Remove my beard? Nay! I will not!"

"You will," Jaron said forcefully. "Warriors have been known to expire from less than a cut such as this one."

Myra harrumphed. "'Tis true."

Ragnar slashed a terse hand through the air. "'Twill give me the face of a babe, not that of a man!"

"Why the worries, master?" Myra asked, dumbfounded.

Jaron made a sound, half snorting, half laughing. "He worries what his bride will think, I imagine." She shrugged dismissively. "Dara seems a lovely girl, but even should she spurn you, take heart, my beloved. She is yours now. You captured her in fairness and she belongs to you. Her body is your vessel, made by the gods to ease your needs. You need not her permission to make use of it. This you well know, Ragnar, so why thrash yourself for naught?"

It was on the tip of his tongue to tell his mother she was wrong, that such was not the way of it, but remembering the rules, he held his own council. His mother believed Dara to have been captured through raiding. She knew naught of anything else and never would. Leastways, not until Dara had bore his son. Seeking to end the conversation, he nodded. "Aye, of course, mother." He then turned to Myra. "Tend to my beard anon."

Chapter 10

Dara bit down hard on her lip as two beautiful, not to mention very naked slaves went about the task of removing her clothing. She understood why they were trying to remove her wedding dress, so Ragnar could claim "his prize", but she didn't understand why the thralls were naked. Nor did she care to contemplate the matter to any great extent. She had enough on her mind as it was.

Namely, how was she going to get through her wedding night with her virginity intact? And then again, should she even try? The feel of her nipple being rolled between the fingers of one of the slaves pulled Dara out of her musings. Her head snapping to attention, she sucked in a sharp breath as an unwanted tendril of desire passed through her body.

A beautiful red-headed thrall with pearly porcelain skin and large, creamy breasts met Dara's bewildered look with a grin. Pushing Dara's naked body gently back upon the bed covers, she explained. "I am Brenna, milady, and this is Ana"-she indicated the voluptuous naked blonde on the other side of Dara-"'tis our duty to prepare ye for the lord's penetration."

"P-penetration?"

Brenna threw her an odd look. "Aye." She cocked her head as she accepted an opened vial of exotic oil from Ana and emptied part of its contents into her palm. It smelled of mints. "Do ye understand what will happen this eve, milady?"

Dara ran a tongue over her suddenly parched lips. Her voice quivering a bit, she admitted, "um, yes. I'm supposed to make love with Ragnar." Brenna nodded. "He has a very long and thick rod, the master does. Ye will be glad we've prepared ye when he dips it between yer legs."

Dara's spine went rigid. She cocked a golden eyebrow. "Oh? And you've seen his penis many times to know this?" she sniffed. The thought was not a pleasant one though she couldn't say why.

Brenna squinted, shaking her head slightly. "His what?"

"His penis," she repeated. At the thrall's confused look, she sighed. "His cock," she blushed.

Brenna waved that away. "Oh, aye, all his thralls have suckled and ridden the master to pleasure. Though I am thrall to him no more, for he gave me as a gift to his uncle," she added. Brenna shrugged dismissively. "'Tis Master Leif's cock I suckle and ride every night now."

Dara shook her head and sighed. "I see." The way Brenna had said that, as if it was an accepted duty no different than making breakfast or ironing, well and truly rankled. Her jealousy was forgotten in a trice as her feminist instincts became utterly offended. "That's just awful that he makes you do that."

Brenna shrugged. "In truth, I love him now. Leastways, he's good to me and does not let his friends put their cocks inside of me as is the fate of so many other thralls captured in battle." She tapped her cheek thoughtfully. "The only other warrior he allowed to touch me was his father whilst he lived, but how can a man say nay to his own sire?" She grinned. "Leastways, all I ever did was suckle his father. The master never allowed his sire to poke me with his cock."

"How thoughtful of him." Dara rolled her eyes, then sighed dramatically. The year 820 was deplorable! "You know something Brenna? I-ohh."

Whatever she had been about to say was forgotten as Ana drew Dara's breasts up into her palms and began massaging the exotic, minty smelling oil into them. Paying special attention to Dara's nipples, the slave tweaked and pulled at them as they grew elongated and hard. Shocked, and not having the first idea what to make of this, Dara sucked in her breath, trying in vain to stave off the feelings of pleasure Ana's hands were giving her. A moment later when Brenna's oiled up hands found Dara's clit, she gave up altogether and moaned.

"Open yer legs wider," Brenna whispered. "'Twill feel so good, milady."

Dara did as she'd been bade, spreading her thighs open, moaning as Brenna's fingers expertly massaged her labia and clit. Ana continued to roll Dara's nipples between her fingers, causing the climatic feeling to heighten.

Just when Dara was about to come, Brenna eased up on the pressure she'd been applying to her clit and rimmed the folds of Dara's labia instead. The intensity immediately lessoned, causing Dara not to orgasm.

Panting heavily, she eyed Brenna speculatively.

The thrall grinned. "Not yet," she whispered. "'Tis a beautiful berry indeed, yet does it need further ripening." And with those words, her head disappeared in between Dara's thighs.

The first touch of Brenna's tongue to her swollen clit caused Dara's hips to rear up off of the bed. It felt so wonderful. So wicked and wonderful. Ana's lips and mouth found one of her nipples as Brenna continued to tease the nub of her womanhood with her teeth, lips, and tongue. "Mmm," Brenna praised, "'tis a tasty berry too, milady." Grinning, she flicked her tongue across the hardened bud.

It occurred to Dara-somewhere in the back of her passion heavy mind-that she shouldn't desire this. She shouldn't want this. It should feel dirty, awful. Not like the next best thing to ambrosia. "Oh god," she sighed. Arching her hips, she closed her eyes tightly as her climax drew nearer.

But then Brenna stopped, frustrating her orgasm once again.

Dara's eyes flew open. She grunted. "Why do you keep stopping?" Blushing, she realized she'd just all but admitted that she wanted Brenna to continue to give her pleasure.

Brenna stifled a smile as she kissed the inside of Dara's thigh. "'Tis the job of the thralls to prepare ye, milady, not to complete ye. The master will do that."

Dara's eyes widened. She was afraid to hear the answer to her next question, but knew it needed to be asked. "Wh-what do you mean?" she breathed out.

As an answer, Brenna's head disappeared in between Dara's legs once more. She groaned, both from the exquisite feeling, as well as from the knowledge she now harbored.

So this was how Ragnar meant to seduce her, to get her to come to him willingly. If things were as she suspected, then what her husband had done was commanded the slaves to work her up into a sexual frenzy with strict instructions to allow her no release.

Oh he was wretched! she thought, her hips rearing up seemingly of their own volition to give Brenna's mouth better access. By the time this torture was over, she'd probably screw anything that walked upright! He was evil incarnate, the devil's own son. And, she conceded with a frown, he was also incredibly intelligent. "Oh god."

Splaying her thighs as wide as they would go, Dara arched her back and allowed the slaves to fondle her. They continued down the path of Ragnar's choosing, bringing her to the brink, then allowing her no release. Over and over. Again and again. The feel of tongues on her clit, her nipples being sucked on, hands everywhere.

A half-hour ticked by. And then another. Tears of frustration welled up in Dara's eyes. She needed release like she needed to breathe. She needed to spiral over the pleasure precipice and she needed to do it now. Arching her back, she closed her eyes and moaned as she used one of her hands to shove Brenna's face in closer to her clit.

This was how Ragnar found his bride.

Motioning to Ana to help him remove his tunic and braes, he devoured the sight of his wife's needful body until he was drunk with it. "Fear not, sweeting," he murmured from just beside the bed as Ana dropped to her knees to remove his crossed garter hose. "Your lord husband will take care of your need." He paid no attention to Ana, who was clutching his thick shaft by the base while removing his pants, mindful not to let the material chafe him as it gave way. He stepped out of them, then absently patted her on the head before making his way to the bed.

Dara clutched her eyes shut tightly, refusing to look at her husband. Damn the man for knowing exactly what he was doing! Her resolve firm, she pinched her lips together in a gesture of disapproval as she continued to keep her eyes firmly closed. "I will not," she said acidly, "make love with you."

Ragnar shooed away the slaves with a flick of his wrist, indicating 'twas time for them to take their leave. Giving them no more thought than he'd given his wife's proclamation, he climbed up on top of the bed and settled himself between her legs as best as he could manage.

Dara gulped.

Ragnar grasped his erection by the base and swirled the tip of it across her swollen clit. She whimpered.

"Spred lеrene dine," he murmured. "Spread your thighs."

"N-no." Dara bit down hard onto her lip.

Ragnar retaliated with another swirl across her clit. She groaned, but quickly stifled it. He grinned. "Spred lеrene dine, sweeting. And spread them wide."

The tip of Dara's tongue darted out to moisten her lips. "N-no," she squeaked.

Grabbing a heavy breast in either palm, he proceeded to roll both nipples between his fingers. She moaned, her hips arching upward even as she sought to keep her legs from widening further. "Ragnar, damn it!" Indignant, her eyes flew open. "I said n-"

Dara's eyes widened in shock, desire, and not a little dismay as she beheld the sight of her husband's clean-shaven face. Good god in heaven, the man was powerfully breathtaking. Resisting him had been difficult at best when he'd been sporting that atrocious mountain man beard. Resisting him now would be impossible.

"I said…" She began to pant as her thoughts seem to allude her alongside her willpower. "I said…" She gulped, her panting growing worse. "Shit," she muttered under her breath.

Ragnar raised an eyebrow, but chose not to comment. His wife wanted him. This he knew. 'Twas all he cared to know. "Spred lеrene dine," he said firmly, definitively. "Now."

Dara's thighs immediately opened, giving her husband the access to her body that he'd commanded. She felt her body stiffen as he lifted her hips and poised the tip of his erection at the entrance to her vagina. She'd never done this before. And he was huge. Her gaze shot up to meet her husband's. "Ragnar," she breathed out, "I…"

"Shh, sweeting, 'twill be naught but a pinch, then 'twill feel like bliss." He penetrated her with his gaze, his jaw rigid, his ice blue eyes unrelenting. "I will take my prize now," he informed her. "'Tis mine."

Dara's breathing grew more and more shallow. She was experiencing mixed feelings of desire and fright, a powerful combination. When she found the nerve to make eye contact once more, she could see that Ragnar was waiting for her to give him approval. And it wasn't easy on him in the least. His muscles were bunched and corded, his nostrils flaring, a sheen of perspiration covered his face. For some reason or another, knowing that she held a degree of power over the situation did much to calm her nerves. She relaxed her muscles, her breathing growing calmer. "Yes."

"You want me?" he asked in low tones.

Her resolve strengthened. She nodded briskly. "Yes."

Ragnar smiled. The gesture was one of arrogance, dominance, and knowing. "'Twill be bliss," he said thickly. Grabbing her hips, he resituated the tip of his erection at the entrance to her vagina, then with one powerful stroke, surged into her, ripping through her hymen in the process. Dara screamed.

"Shh shh, little one. 'Twill be bliss."

"Bliss?!" she sputtered. "That hurt! It was awful! It-ohh."

Ragnar grinned down at Dara as she welcomed the rubbing of her clit with a look of rapture smothering her facial features. When he felt her vaginal muscles relax around his shaft, he began to move slowly within her. She moaned, then arched her hips and splayed her legs wider, inviting him to take what he would.

"Mmm, 'tis good, your sheath." Picking up the pace of his thrusts, Ragnar grabbed her hips and stroked in and out of her in long, deep movements.

"Oh god, Ragnar."

"Ja, smеen elsk med meg." He thrust harder, his orgasm drawing nearer. "Aye, little one, make love to me," he drawled hoarsely.

Dara reached up toward his face and pulled it down to her own. Opening her mouth, she invited him inside, accepting the thrusts of his tongue even as her body accepted the thrusts of his cock. Ragnar picked up the pace of their lovemaking, giving her everything, holding back nothing. Their slickened skins made slapping sounds as their bodies grinded into one another's.

"Ja, baby." Pulling his mouth from Dara's, Ragnar breathed heavily as he reached once more for her clit and began circling it with his thumb. He continued thrusting, possessively pounding into the depths of her body. Her moans of pleasure made his climax draw closer. "Give me everything."

"Oh god." Dara threw her head back and groaned as her orgasm ripped violently through her body. Moaning wantonly, she gave herself up to the pleasure. It seemed to go on forever, the intensity of her climax all-consuming and powerful. She reached for her husband, drawing his body down to cover her own even as she screamed from the pleasure of it.

Ragnar's thrusts became lightening quick, deep and primal. Burying his face in his wife's neck, he shouted hoarsely as his own climax stole over him. His heavily muscled body shuddered as he spurted himself deep within her womb. Panting, he held her tightly in his arms while his body came down from the high. "Mmm, wife. Jeg elsker deg."

Dara turned her face to meet his gaze. Not understanding what her husband had just said, she shook her head slightly.

Ragnar's face colored. He looked away and cleared his throat. Turning back to his wife, he smiled. "We will talk of that later," he mumbled.

Dara bit her lip. She really wanted to know what he had said, but decided to be patient and ask him later. Besides, her husband had been right. It had been bliss. And she wanted more.

Grinning, she entwined her arms around his neck. "I don't know about the pinch part, but you were right about the bliss." She arched her hips and rotated them, pleased to find that he was already growing hard for her again.

Ragnar kissed the tip of her nose, then grinned back. "'Twas a worthy prize, little one." Thrusting deeply inside of her, he groaned. "And 'twill like as naught be the death of me."

Dara giggled. "But what a good way to die. Beats the heck out of dying in battle."

"Aye." Ragnar laughed, a rich booming sound. "Valhцll can wait."

Chapter 11

One month later

Satiated, Dara smiled sleepily as her husband's face emerged from between her legs. He'd spent the better part of an hour down there, licking and sucking on her until she'd come so many times she could scarcely hold a thought in her head. Now she needed to feel him buried deep within her.

Luckily, Ragnar agreed.

Dara moaned as he slid inside of her, then grinned up at the face she'd grown to adore over the past month. Pulling his body down to cover hers, she kissed him sweetly on the mouth. "You know," she whispered, too exhausted to do much else, "we've spent practically every hour of every day in this bed since our wedding night."

An arrogant eyebrow arched. "You are complaining of this, sweeting?"

She half laughed and half groaned. "No."

He snorted. "I thought not." When his wife rolled her eyes, he countered with a chuckle. "'Tis a Viking you have as husband. Our needs are great."

"Oh? How great?"

"Very great." He craned his neck to gently sip from her lips. His expression turning serious, he raised his face to meet her gaze. "Spred lеrene dine," he murmured. "I want you to take all of me inside you."

Dara readily complied, spreading her legs wide, then wrapping them around his buttocks after he came down on top of her. He rotated his hips, grinding his jutting erection deep inside of her. She moaned. "Oh god," she whispered, her breath hitching, "you always make me feel so good."

Ragnar rotated his hips again, hitting a particularly sensitive spot. Her groan of pleasure turned him on to an even greater degree. "'Tis naught," he rasped out, "compared to what you do to me."

Situating his body so he could grab a breast in either palm, he plucked at her erect nipples while he pummeled into her slickened flesh. "Ah, little one, Jeg elsker deg." Picking up the pace of his thrusts, he bore into her mercilessly, branding her with every stroke. The muscles in his arms and neck bunched and corded as he groaned. "Jeg elsker deg."

Moments later, Dara was orgasming yet again. She dug her nails into the flesh of his buttocks, branding him in her own way. And then he was climaxing with her, hugging her body tightly to his as he emptied himself in her womb.

A few minutes later, when the couple was lying together, holding one another, Dara ran her hand over Ragnar's jaw. "What does it mean?" she murmured.

He didn't pretend not to understand her. He knew precisely what she'd meant. "Jeg elsker deg." He cleared his throat. "I love you."

* * * * *

Dara stood outside the longhouse staring at seemingly nothing. She watched the goings on of the village absently, concentrating more on her own thoughts than on her surroundings. Not that she particularly cared for the events unfolding around her anyway. It wasn't a sight she wished to dwell upon, but a fact of life in 820 nevertheless.

There was a celebration today, twenty warriors having just returned from battling in Saxony. The Norseman brought with them hordes of gold and jewels that had been confiscated from "one god" churches, as well as thirty new slaves to add to the already impressive number cloistered within Valkraad lands. Dara could live with the thieving of material possessions…material possessions didn't have feelings, nor did they have families worrying over what had become of them. It was the slavery that bothered her more than words could express.

A chill raced up and down the length of her spine as she watched a slight girl, a maiden that couldn't have been more than thirteen, weep into her hands as Ragnar's uncle attempted to remove her dress. Dara closed her eyes, not wanting to watch, feeling powerless to stop it as a child was mauled before her eyes.

"What troubles you, daughter?"

Dara's head shot up. Startled, her eyes momentarily widened. She hadn't realized that Joran was just behind her. Grimacing, she threw her hand toward the offensive scene. "That," she said wearily, looking away as she nibbled on her lower lip. "That."

"Ah." Sighing, Joran placed a gentle hand on Dara's shoulder. "He will not rape her if that is your fear. Leastways my youngest brother Leif has never been one in need of taking what women so willingly give to him."

"Then why is he removing her clothing?" she gritted out.

"Lice. The Saxon prisoners tend to come to us filled with the vile things." She smiled. "If you would but look, you would know that my words are true. Leif will bring the child no harm. On this you have my vow."

Reluctantly, Dara raised her gaze to where her uncle-in-law was struggling with the child. And indeed, now that her clothing had been removed, he was handing her over to an older Saxon thrall, instructing the slave to have the child cleaned up and attired. Absently throwing the frayed sack-like garment the girl had been wearing onto a lit pyre, he turned to the next prisoner and repeated the process.

Dara expelled a breath of relief. She could never condone keeping other people as property, yet knowing that the girl wasn't about to be raped did much to alleviate her anxiety. Of course, there was no guarantee that whatever man she became a slave to wouldn't take her virginity at whim once he owned her. And that was one of the reasons she was standing outside today, looking but not seeing, hearing but not listening, a prisoner of her thoughts. As much as she'd come to care for Ragnar, this period in time was brutal, harsh, and far from ideal. In love with her husband or not, she wanted to go home.

In love? Was she truly in love? Dara sighed, her eyes absently flicking over the revelry taking place but a short distance away. She knew she was in love. There was no point in denying it.

"Dara, are you listening to me?"

"Hm?" Shrugging off her dismal thoughts, she turned to face her mother-in-law. "I'm sorry Joran," she apologized sheepishly, "I guess I have a lot on my mind."

Her smile was understanding. "Mayhap so."

Silence ensued for long minutes, neither of the women speaking. Both of them turned to watch the unfolding festivities, but made no effort to join in on them. There was music, laughter, dancing, and food galore.

Young maidens flirted coquettishly with young warriors they hoped to entice into marriage. Young warriors showed off their prowess, impressing the girls with their manly ability to excel at sword-letting, as well as demonstrating their ingenuity while playing the favored board game of Hnefatafl. Slaves scurried about serving meade, trenchers of mutton, and honeyed sweets. But all Dara saw was the little girl, now cleaned and clothed, and still looking utterly frightened and helpless. Her heart wrenched painfully just looking at her.

"Did you know," Joran murmured from where she stood adjacent to Dara, "that before I was wed to my husband I had been naught but a thrall to him?"

"No I didn't." Her eyes rounding, she cocked her head to study her mother-in-law. Her forehead crinkled contemplatively. "I thought it was against the law here for a man to marry a slave?"

Joran shrugged, her gaze never wavering from the sight of the little girl. "So it is." She turned her head at last to study her daughter-in-law. "Think you the law matters to a warrior besotted?"

Dara had the feeling that they were talking about more than Joran and Erik, more even than what might become of the little girl. She sighed and looked away. "What is it that you are trying to tell me?"

"I love my son," she said simply, quietly. "And my son loves you. There is little a man in love won't do for the object of his affection and desire. Leastways, if you want the child given to you as a gift, simply ask Ragnar for her. But don't," she said pleadingly, "leave him."

Dara closed her eyes briefly, biting down on her lip as she did so. She spoke not a word for a suspended pause, her gaze flicking back and forth between the child standing with a group of thralls at one end of the celebration and her husband sitting at a wooden bench laughing and jesting with his father and friends amidst the revelry. "I love him, Joran," she murmured, breaking the silence, "but I'm frightened."

A soothing hand found Dara's shoulder and remained there. "From what time do you herald, daughter?"

Surprised, Dara whirled around to face her mother-in-law. Joran chuckled. "I am like as not many things, yet never the fool." She searched her gaze. "You haven't the speech of a Saxon, yet 'tis the only tongue you speak. Your thoughts are odd, your grievances misplaced-leastways for a woman born to this time." She cocked her head to regard her. "From what time, daughter?"

Dara cleared her throat. She studied the regal image her beautiful golden-haired mother-in-law made as she considered how it was she could have known. Lots of people had to have noticed how different she was from the other women of the village, yet Joran was the only one to have picked up on the why of it. "2001." She smiled, showing off her pearly white teeth. "But really Joran, the way I speak and behave aside, how could you have known?"

She chuckled. "Because I prayed every night to Freya that she might bring you here. I love my son. I want his happiness. I cared not where Freya found it for him so long as she did indeed find it."

"Freya?"

Joran nodded. "Aye. The goddess of sex and fertility." She shrugged. "Leastways, 'tis well known throughout the Norse lands that Freya is the possessor of a magical feather coat."

Dara smiled. Rather than acting as though Joran's religious beliefs were unfounded or ridiculous, she took a genuine interest in them. Besides, after dreaming of Loki, being branded by fire with the image of a dragon, and catapulting over one thousand years into the past, she was hardly in a position to say it wasn't possible. Eyeing Joran quizzically, her nose crinkled in thought. "What can the feather coat do that makes it so special?"

"'Tis what enables Freya to travel between worlds," she stated matter-of-factly. "'Tis what enabled her to find you."

Dara chuckled, a rich sweet sound. "And do you think that's what happened? She brought me through the river Thund with her feather coat?"

"Mayhap."

"Hmm."

"Leastways, Freya appeared to me in a dream." Joran tapped her cheek, her eyes squinting reminiscently. "She assured me that my diligent devotion wouldst be rewarded and that my son wouldst receive a wife he treasured dearly." She shrugged bemusedly. "She said something about tricking Frigg and Loki into doing her bidding."

Dara's face drained of color. She almost choked on the very air, so startled she was. "L-Loki?"

"Aye." Joran waved dismissively. "Some call him the god of fire, some the god of mischief-making, and some call him both."

Dara harrumphed. Her lips pinched together disapprovingly. "That's understandable," she muttered under her breath.

"No matter." Joran smiled over to Dara, her blue eyes searching Dara's golden ones. "My point in telling you all of this is simple. I see in your eyes the desire to flee, to run from all in this world you do not approve of." She shook her head. "Ask Ragnar for your heart's desire. Ask him for the moon and the stars if you will, but give life here a chance. Do not seek out Freya's feathered coat just yet."

Dara closed her eyes and sighed. When she opened them, she gave Joran the respect of her honesty. "I cannot make any promises to stay here if given the chance to return home," she said quietly, "but I can promise to give it a lot of thought."

Joran nodded, expecting as much. "'Tis all I ask."

* * * * *

'Twas a long day indeed, Ragnar thought to himself as he shrugged out of his tunic and braes. Naked, he padded over to his and Dara's bed and plopped himself tiredly onto it. Fully erect, he placed his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and awaited the ministrations of his wife. He fell asleep that way, waiting for her to come to him, but she never did.

An hour later, Ragnar awoke to the feel of a warm hand wrapped around his jutting erection. Smiling, he kept his eyes closed and enjoyed the experience. He sucked in his breath as the hand began to masturbate him up and down. "Mmm. 'Tis good. I missed you, sweeting."

"I missed ye too."

Ragnar's breathing stilled. His eyes flew open. That voice didn't belong to his wife. It belonged to Karil. Regarding the naked thrall in his bed, he attempted to sit up, only then realizing that she still had his staff in her palm. Reaching toward her, he gently removed her hand. "What do you here?" he asked in a droll monotone. "I am wed now. This you know."

Karil smiled impishly as she shrugged her shoulders. "It has been two full fortnights since ye've wed, master. Ye waited not this long to return to me the other two times ye took a wife." She cocked her head. "Why wait now?" she murmured.

Ragnar sighed. Running a beleaguered hand through his long sunny blonde locks, he shook his head. Thinking better of it, he threw an animal pelt over his groin as covering. "'Tis different this time, Karil. The other unions were arranged." He secreted away a smile. "Mayhap this one was to an extent as well, yet am I content with my wife." He met her gaze directly, definitively. "'Twill be no more rutting with you. Not now or ever. On this, you must understand."

Karil's eyes narrowed, but she looked away from him, conceding-for now. "Ye will change your mind," she haughtily returned. Standing up, she made for the door to the bedchamber without looking back. "Ye will change your mind."

Ragnar shook his head as he watched the lusty Karil exit his rooms. Beautiful she might be, but Dara she was not. And Ragnar knew he wanted none but his wife.

* * * * *

Dara exited the longhouse quietly, closing the door behind her. Shutting her eyes, she rested the back of her head against the pine door and inhaled deeply, attempting to steady her breathing.

Ragnar had done the right thing, she reminded herself. He hadn't touched Karil. Her husband had no idea that she'd came upon them, that she'd seen everything, witnessed the entire attempted seduction, yet still he had done the right thing.

This time.

But what if Karil was correct in her self-important assumption? What if Ragnar eventually did tire of Dara and turned to Karil for his pleasure in the process? Could Dara stand that?

No, she told herself, as she sucked in a breath of air, she couldn't.

Anything could come to pass if she continued to remain in 820. What, for instance, would happen if she was to become pregnant and then Ragnar turned to his oh-so-willing thrall? Her lips pinched together as she considered the answer to that all important question. She would be stuck in the year 820 with a philandering husband, reticent to leave him because he was the father of her child is what would happen.

Dara shook her head firmly. No! She could not allow that to happen. And what's more, she would not allow that to happen.

As much as it grieved her to do so, she knew there was but one course to follow if she wished for her sanity to remain intact. She had to leave her husband. Now. Tonight. This moment. Before they fell any further in love with each other than they already were.

Dara bit on her lip as she considered the lay-out of the housing quarters. The most direct path to the forest lay opposite her parents-in-law's longhouse, Erik and Joran's dwelling being connected to Ragnar's via a short corridor.

She would have to chance it. She would have to find an escape route from Erik and Joran's.

She would take nothing with her besides the betrothal ring on her hand-the one item she refused to give up. After all, Dara sniffed, she would want to have something to remember her husband by when she was back in the future, alone and missing him.

She shook her head, castigating herself. She would not, Dara told herself firmly, dwell on how miserable she already felt. If she did so, she'd never go.

Swiping away a renegade tear, Dara lifted her chin up a notch and took a steadying breath. She would do this. She could do no other. It was time to find the magical river Thund and go home.

Chapter 12

Dara crept quietly through the corridor that led from Ragnar's longhouse and adjoined to his parents'. If she was going to escape, the time was upon her. It was now or never.

As she rounded the corner, Dara heard voices closing in on her. Frightened of being found out, she scurried into the nearest chamber and closed the door quietly behind her.

The voices drew nearer.

She glanced desperately around the room, looking for a place to hide when it became obvious that the voices planned to enter the very chamber she was currently inhabiting. Terrified, she breathed a sigh of relief when she espied bed curtains she could easily hide behind. She ran into them, gaining her hidden position the instant the door came crashing open.

Leif Boerge made his way into the bedchamber, two giggling female thralls in tow, including the auspicious Karil. Leif had a heavily muscled arm planted around both of them, squeezing their breasts and grinning as they giggled.

Dara sucked in her breath. As the handsome man drew nearer, a man she guessed to be no more than forty-years-old, she prayed to the heavens that he wouldn't find her out. But she needn't have worried. He was too busy concentrating on the now naked slaves who were disrobing his well-muscled form.

Envious feelings ensued as Dara got a good look from behind the bed curtains at Ragnar's former blonde bedmate Karil. She was, in a word, exquisite. Her breasts were high, yet so enticingly large-Karil probably would have taken a double D cup if bras existed in this time. Her buttocks were perfectly rounded, her tummy flat, her face every man's dream come true.

And she wasn't shy about her body at all. Just the opposite, she reveled in it. She giggled as Leif instructed her to lie upon the edge of the bed and splay her legs wide for his viewing pleasure.

Karil did as she'd been bade, opening her legs in a wide vee, then parting the lips of her vagina open with her fingers so he could get a better look. But then, how could he not? His face was scarce inches from her vagina.

Karil's clitoris stood out as her vaginal lips were folded away, causing Leif to smile. He flicked the taut bud with his tongue, then instructed the other naked thrall to drop to her knees and suckle his shaft while he probed at Karil's pliant body. The other slave, the beautiful red-headed thrall that had oiled down Dara's body in preparation for Ragnar on their wedding night, dropped to her knees before him and took him into her mouth. Apparently neither slave understood Norwegian, for Leif continued to give his sexual orders in Saxon.

"Mmm 'tis good Brenna. Take the whole of him into your mouth." Leif sucked in his breath as his impressively endowed cock elongated and thickened. "Ahh yes, just like that," he rasped out. "You've a sore talented mouth, sweet."

"Don't give her all of yer juice," Karil semi-teased, smiling as she continued to lay with her thighs spread open. "I wish to suckle of it too."

"'Tis plenty for both," Leif assured her. He shook a finger at her. "I will not abide your jealousies, Karil, for my nephew warned me of how greedy you were for his cock. Brenna is the longest of my bed thralls and I will continue to give her much of my cock to be assured."

Karil pouted for a brief moment, but apparently thinking better of it, relented with a small moue. Leif grinned down at her as he plucked her nipples between his fingers, inducing the slave to release a shuddered breath. "Fear not, my beauty, for I've been desirous of rutting in you for nigh unto a year."

Craning his neck, Leif flicked his tongue over Karil's swollen clit. She cried out, begging him with the sound to continue. He lowered his head in response, then suckled vigorously on her swollen clit. Karil thrashed about on the bed, moaning and groaning until the pleasure stole over her and she burst. Moments later, Leif raised his head and shuddered violently as he emptied his ejaculation into Brenna's mouth.

Leif took to his feet, motioned for Brenna to stand, and pointed toward the bed. "Join Karil. I shall lie between you whilst the deuce of you work to bring my staff back up. 'Twill not be as easy this time," he said with a wink. Brenna giggled, then took one last suckle from his sated cock before alighting to her feet to comply.

Dara felt her body responding, both to Leif's words as well as to the scene unfolding before her. She'd never seen anything like this, at least not outside of what one might see on the Playboy channel.

Leif was lying on the massive bed, his eyes closed, his hands behind his head. The look on his face was intense as the two thralls shared of his body, one sucking on his erect penis while the other one licked and sucked at his scrotum. Every now and again Karil and Brenna would trade jobs, but they never removed their mouths from Leif's body. This warrior held all power over their lives and he didn't balk at putting such privilege to use. Not that the slaves seemed to mind.

"Mmm, 'tis a fetching mouth you have, Karil." Leif opened his eyes to rake her body with his gaze. "Now let us see if the rest of your body is as sweet. If you desire me to purchase you from my newly wedded nephew, you best give me good reason to do so."

Dara's eyes widened from where she watched behind the bed curtains. Ragnar was giving up Karil for her? Her jaw tightening, she forcefully told herself that such knowledge not only didn't change her mind, but that she was in the process of running away, albeit very badly.

A moment later, Karil impaled herself onto Leif's jutting erection and moved up and down atop him with practiced ease. He groaned in reaction, apparently pleased by the slave's efforts to satiate him. Brenna popped one of her translucent pink nipples into Leif's mouth as she ran her hands over his sleekly muscled chest and smiled down at him. It was obvious that she loved the man. And just as obvious that she didn't mind the fact that Karil was screwing his brains out. Amazing, Dara thought. She could never accustom herself to sharing Ragnar's body.

Dara stiffened at the mental concession, refusing to dwell on the fact that leaving her husband was already killing her inside…and technically she hadn't even left him yet, she thought morosely.

Time travel. The river Thund. Dara forcibly removed her attentions from the mйnage a trois unfolding before her and concentrated instead on how to ease herself from behind the bed curtains, out the door, and into the woods…and all of it while remaining undetected.

From this angle, the only one who'd be able to see her if she inadvertently made her presence known was Brenna. She decided to chance it, hoping against hope that the red-headed thrall was too busy seeing to her master's pleasure to notice her scurrying out from behind the bed curtains.

Tip-toeing out from her hiding place, Dara crept on light feet from the enclosure. She had almost made it all the way to the door when Brenna happened to glance up and met Dara's rounded eyes. The slave removed her nipple from her master's mouth and sat up slightly on her knees.

Dara gulped nervously. Would the slave make her presence known? Would she alert Leif, bringing down all kinds of trouble on her head in the process?

Much to Dara's amazement and relief, Brenna did neither of those things. Instead, she smiled slowly, conspiratorially, and winked at her, telling her without words to hurry along. Unfortunately, Leif picked that moment to turn his head, no longer having Brenna's nipple in his mouth to snag his attention. But Brenna saved the day once more, popping her other nipple into his mouth to both distract and placate him. Leif closed his eyes and groaned, contented again.

Dara exited the bedchamber to the sounds of Leif's hoarse cry of completion, apparently having emptied himself into Karil's body. He rumbled something or another about wanting both thralls to suckle his cock again, and then Dara heard no more, for she was making her way through another door and closer to freedom.

Her heart rate sped up when at last she located the tiny unguarded alcove that would take her to the woods. The woods would lead her to the river Thund. And the river Thund would take her home.

Chapter 13

Dara sighed forlornly as she ambled about the dark forest having no idea where she was, no idea where she was going, and no idea how to go back to Ragnar. And perversely, or perhaps inevitably, she did want to go back to her husband.

She'd spent the last three hours doing a great deal of thinking and had made some sound decisions. First of all, she had to be in the year 820 for a reason. Fate, Freya, Loki, or whatever power had done this thing to her wouldn't have whisked her back through time just because. There was a reason behind it…there had to be. And she wanted to know what it was.

Dara's other conclusion was far less pragmatic and a thousand times less logical, but it existed nevertheless. She could try to sugar coat the truth, she could continue to play the coward and run from it, but facts were still facts. And the fact was that, for better or for worse, she was in love with her husband and she wanted to stay with him.

And was it so bad, being in love with Ragnar? she asked herself in a nostalgic moment. It was true that 820 was not exactly a prime vacation spot let alone a happening place to move to. But then again, she asked herself for the hundredth time, did staying in the past have to be such a bad fate either? Dara took a deep breath and expelled it on a groan. Who, in all honesty, could answer that question?

The year 820 was far from ideal. No TV, no books, no chocolate mousse royale from Baskin Robbins, no emancipation proclamations. But there was one thing that 820 possessed that 2001 didn't and that claim to fame was her husband.

Ragnar was a great warrior, an honorable husband that deep down she knew she could trust with her heart, and better yet, he was also her very best friend. She enjoyed his company, anticipated his lovemaking, and she thought dreamily, his smiles could light up the darkest of nights.

He would always care for her, he was fiercely attracted to her, and he would always love her. And, Dara admitted with a grin, she felt the exact same way. The man could do things to her emotions and libido that no man besides Ragnar could ever hope to lay claim to.

Dara chuckled at her own musings as she sought out the path that she hoped would lead her back to the longhouse, to her real home. If a month ago someone had told her she'd be running back to her Viking captor instead of away from him, she would have called them nuts. But that's just what she was doing. Now if only she could find her way back…

* * * * *

Ragnar crept quietly through the trees, careful to make not a sound. 'Twas a feat he was ever accomplished at, needing such a skill to be a capable hunter. He narrowed his predatory gaze when he caught his quarry within his sites. He was angry-angry that the game he was hunting today was none other than his very own bedamned wife.

Ragnar took a steadying breath, knowing 'twas necessary to calm himself before he forced Dara back to their longhouse. Leastways, his temper wasn't always pleasant on a good day. This was not a good day.

For two hours he had hunted for his wife, knowing she had fled from him and realizing she had a good hour's head start. It hadn't been o'er difficult to track her down, knowing as he did that she would make haste for the river Thund.

What had been difficult was the chastisement he had thrashed himself with for having been the fool to think Dara held a care for him. She had feigned it well-pretending concern over the scratch Aran's sword had dealt him, clinging to him in her passion as they had made love, snuggling into his side and smiling up at him with the moon in her eyes-oh aye, she had feigned it well.

But, of course, the very moment Ragnar turned his back, his bride fled from their home and took to trekking the woods in the hopes of leaving him behind. 'Twas not the actions of a woman who loved her husband, but the actions of a woman who loved none but herself.

Did she not understand by now that the gods had decreed their union? Did she not realize that she could never go back to her future, that she was bound to him for all times?

And was that so bad a fate? Ragnar asked himself as he balled his hand into a tight fist. He was, after all, heir to one of the most important jarldoms in Norway. And, he admitted in grim resignation, he was also besotted with his liar of a wife.

A tic in his cheek began to pulse as Ragnar watched Dara duck under branch after branch to make her way into the next clearing. The idiot wench was obviously unawares that she was almost upon a warring jarl's lands. He best take her now before the situation turned bloody…and before the neighboring jarl found his wife and decided to take Dara to his bed.

Moving up behind her so quietly that not even a fallen leaf rustled in his wake, Ragnar clamped his hand over his wife's mouth to stave off her screams, swept her flailing body up into his arms, mounted his steed, and sprawled her unceremoniously across the horse, that her legs hung from one side of the mount and her arms dangled about the other.

"Ragnar!" Dara cried, trying unsuccessfully to maneuver herself so she could better see his face. "I'm so glad you found me! I was lost-"

"Silence!" His hand shaking with anger, Ragnar hiked up the back of his wife's finely woven dress, placed a large palm on her bare backside, and swatted it soundly. He ignored her yelp of protest and commanded his mount to gallop away. "I will hear no more lies from your tongue this day," he snarled. His nostrils flaring, he instructed her further. "Indeed, I desire not to hear your voice at all, leastways 'til I say 'tis permissible for you to speak once more."

Dara harrumphed. "Now wait a-ouch!" She flinched as the palm of her husband's hand met her bare bottom again. The sting was sharp enough to render her speechless for a moment or two, but only a moment or two. "Hey! Who do you think you-ouch! Damn it! That really hurts Ragn-ouch!"

Ragnar grunted. "Are you simple of the head or do you begin to see the way of it, wife? Each time you open up that liar's mouth, your arse gets spanked for disobeying your lord and master."

"Lord and master? I-ouch! Damn it! Stop-ouch!-spanking me-ouch! I'm not a child-ouch!"

Ragnar rubbed a roughened palm across her raised arse. He couldn't stop his betrayer of a groin from growing erect at the sight, but he refused to dwell on as much just now. "Hmm. 'Tis growing red down here, sweeting, best bite your lying tongue before it prattles off more words that will serve to get you naught but a spanking from your lord husband. If you are a good wench, mayhap I will allow you to peak instead of to feel the brunt of my hand."

Dara grew wet at those words, but otherwise ignored them. "Why do you keep calling me a liar? I have never-ouch!"

"Aye, you are a liar," he gritted out as he gave her bottom another whack for good measure. "You pretended to have a care for my person even whilst you plotted ways to escape me." His nostrils flaring in remembered hurt and anger, he swatted her backside again.

"Ouch! Damn it! I didn't even speak that time, Ragnar! And I did care. I do care. I-ouch! You can smack me as many times as you please, but on this I am telling you the truth! I ran from you because I'm afraid, Ragnar, because I'm terrified of how much I love you and of what's happening to me. Can you understand that?"

He said nothing, but neither did he swat at her backside, so Dara continued on with her explanation, simultaneously praying that he would forgive her. "Can you even begin to imagine what it would feel like to fall asleep in one time and wake up twelve hundred years in the past?" she asked semi-hysterically. "Can you? Because if you can then you can understand why I am so incredibly scared. I didn't run from you, Ragnar! I was afraid and I was merely running from everything!"

She closed her eyes and sighed forlornly. "Okay, maybe on some level I did run from you, because loving you means that I have to give up all hope of returning home and I just don't know that I'm ready to give up all hope yet."

Dara waited for him to respond, but he ruthlessly maintained his silence. She wished she could see his face, perhaps then she'd have some clue as to how he was feeling. Giving up, she sighed and closed her eyes. She was surprised when, a moment later, she was hoisted up into Ragnar's embrace and placed before him on the galloping mount, her back to his chest. He spoke not a word, but lifted the skirt of her dress up and began stroking her clit, swirling his index finger about the bud.

Dara moaned as she arched her back and spread her legs wider atop the mount. His strokes became vigorous and brisk, unrelenting, over and over and over again. "Oh god. Ragnar. Yes." Crying out, she rocked back and forth on his hand, stimulating herself further, until she spiraled over the edge of the precipice and into orgasmic oblivion. She groaned deeply, sagging against him a few moments later, limp and pliant in his arms.

The next thing Dara knew she was being lifted up and impaled from behind on her husband's jutting cock. She sucked in her breath and expelled it on a low moan.

"'Tis mine," Ragnar said thickly, his own need sounding in the gruffness of his voice. "This sheath, this wench…'tis mine."

Dara was about to make a reply, but her husband picked that moment to order his steed to slow its pace from gallop to canter, the end result causing her vagina to jiggle up and down on Ragnar's erection in quick, fast, deep thrusts. "Oh god."

Ragnar's fingers dug into the flesh of her hips as he groaned. "Take more," he ordered roughly. "Take all of me."

Dara gave herself up to the moment, just as she always did while in her husband's arms. She relaxed her legs, allowing them to go limp, providing deeper and better friction as the canter continued. Closing her eyes, she threw her head back against Ragnar's chest and moaned wantonly.

"Such a lusty piece," he murmured into the whorl of her ear. Lifting his hands further up her dress, he cupped a heavy breast in either palm and plucked at her nipples with his thumbs and forefingers. Her heightened moans caused his jaws to clench as he drew nearer to his own release. "Come for your lord and master," he ordered in low tones.

As if on cue, Dara cried out as her stomach muscles clenched hotly and her insides erupted into climax. "Oh yes. Oh god Ragnar. Oh yes."

Dara's vaginal tremors set off Ragnar's own release. With a hoarse shout of completion, he grabbed her breasts possessively as he spurted his seed deep inside of her.

Smiling contentedly, Dara tried to turn around far enough to kiss Ragnar on the lips. Her smile faltered when her husband refused the token of affection. Hurt and bewildered, she cocked her head as she glanced up at his face. The sight that met her eyes gave her the chills.

Ragnar's face could only be described as harsh, his features unrelenting. It was as if a mask of stone had been chiseled over her husband's face, letting her know that all was not yet forgiven.

Dara turned quickly toward the front. She couldn't bear to witness the wall that her thoughtless running away had erected between them. Ragnar's hands continued to roam the curves of her body, his fingers occasionally tweaked at a nipple, but his face showed no such desire for closeness with her.

Her heart sinking, she bit her lip as the canter erupted into a gallop. She had brought this on herself, she knew. All of this was her own doing.

Chapter 14

The minute they were within the confines of their private bedchamber, Dara braved a glance upward at her husband and offered him a shaky smile. Moonlight poured into the chamber, casting his features in grim light. "Can you give me another chance, Ragnar?" she asked quietly. "I'm sorry I ran from you. I never meant to hurt you."

The stony silence that greeted her question caused Dara to flinch. She splayed her hands at either side in a gesture of helplessness as she watched her husband take a dagger to one of his tunics and cut it into strips. She was too distracted with her own thoughts to give much consideration to his peculiar actions. "What can I do to make things better?" She sighed deeply. "I'm trying, Ragnar. I'm trying but you're not."

Ragnar turned to look at her then. He cocked a brow, but spoke not a word. He came toward her slowly, stealthily, reminding Dara of a predator honing in for a kill. Her eyes went wide and she gulped uncertainly. "Ragnar?" she said nervously. "Why won't you talk to m-me? Why are you l-looking at me like that? I'm-oh!" She gasped, watching in horror and confusion as her dress was cut from neck to waist with one long slash of her husband's dagger, exposing her breasts to his view. "What are you doing?" she asked, her voice hitching. "Wh-"

Whatever Dara had been about to say was cut off as a strip of cloth was fastened over her mouth, wound around the back of her head, and tied into a knot. Her tawny eyes widening, she shot a glance toward Ragnar's hands and surmised on the spot that the bolt of cloth concealing her mouth wasn't the only strip of fabric her husband was carrying.

Ragnar's unrelenting blue gaze bore into hers. His face was expressionless, his tone of voice low and methodic. But his eyes were on fire, like heated ice. "I am your lord and master. Now. Yestereve. Always." His eyes raked over her exposed breasts possessively, eventually settling once more on her face. "'Twill be a lesson not soon forgotten after this night."

Reaching toward her, he gripped the tattered ends of her dress and pulled it apart with one rip. The frayed remains of a once finely made Viking dress fell to the ground, exposing her total body to his view. The gold circlet about her head was next discarded, her long tawny hair spilling down around her body as a result. Running the fingers of one callused hand through the golden pelt between her thighs, his jaw tightened. "'Tis mine by decree of the gods. 'Tis all mine."

Dara closed her eyes briefly, steadying herself as desire coursed through her entire being. His words were undeniably provocative, his visible desire for her like an aphrodisiac.

When she once more opened her eyes, it was to watch as Ragnar plucked her up off of the ground. He then carried her across the bedchamber, deposited her into a thatch of animal hides scattered about their bed, and methodically went about the task of tying up all of her limbs to various places on the bed. By the time he was finished, her arms were secured high above her head, thrusting her breasts up and out. Her legs were pinioned spread eagle, causing her swollen labia and clitoris to come prominently into view.

Ragnar ran his fingers over her exposed nether parts, first rimming the folds of her labia then flicking back and forth at the taut little bud nested in its center. Dara closed her eyes and groaned, unable to speak of her desire because of the cloth tied over her mouth. Ragnar then placed two fingers at the entrance of her vagina and thrust them inside of her. When he pulled them out a few seconds later, they were drenched.

"Who has fucked this lusty little body but me?" he asked arrogantly. The blue ice of his eyes broached no argument, the grim slash of his mouth took no prisoners. He wasn't in the mood for making love gently and sweetly. He wanted to claim and conquer, brand and possess.

Dara swallowed nervously, realizing as she did so that her husband would accept nothing less than her total surrender. He meant to dominate her will and he was demonstrating as much by dominating her body. He didn't want her to leave him. He would never let her leave him. She could see it in the set of his jaw, read it in the icy fire of his eyes. She was his possession. Now. Forever. There was no going back.

Dara knew that Ragnar didn't expect her to answer his question, for her mouth was bound and she couldn't had she tried to. But she also realized he understood that she had taken his point. He grunted with the learned arrogance of a warrior long accustomed to having his way, then stood up to divest himself of his clothing.

Ragnar's eyes scanned over Dara's vulnerable form, lingering at the better parts. He walked toward her laying position in a few long strides, took to the bed, and sat up on his knees between her splayed legs.

Dara's eyes widened involuntarily. He didn't have the appearance of the man she'd married, the one who'd loved her so gently on their wedding night. He was all warrior now, all predator. His heavily muscled body was tensed, the battle scars upon it prominently displayed. One side of his hair had been braided back at the temples-oddly she'd just now noticed that-letting her know that he had taken his job seriously when he'd set out to hunt her down this afternoon. She swallowed nervously.

Without saying a word, Ragnar lifted a breast into either hand and kneaded them possessively. Plucking at the nipples, he massaged them from root to tip, back and forth, over and over, until Dara's hips flared up as far off of the bed as they could manage. She moaned behind the cloth that covered her mouth, clearly needing surcease. He offered her none.

"'Tis my vassal, your body, given to me that I might avail myself of it at mere whim." His gaze flicked up to meet hers. "I've the whim." His hands and fingers still working her nipples into a fever pitch, Ragnar took to his stomach and buried his face between her legs. The first touch of tongue to clit caused Dara to whimper and buck up as far as the bindings would allow. From there it only got worse.

His tongue, lips, and teeth roamed everywhere, toying with her like a cat would with an injured mouse. He sucked at her clit, licked and kissed her labia, made her convulse in orgasm more times than she'd thought humanly possible. But it wasn't enough, and her husband knew it. She wanted-no needed-him inside of her. She needed the thrusting, the deep invasion, the silken steel grinding into her.

Arching her hips up off the bed with a show of force that made the bindings give way a bit but not nearly enough, Dara moaned behind the cloth, begging him with both movement and sound to mate with her. She felt like a caged animal, his body there and visibly wanting her, yet she was unable to impale herself upon him and reach the ultimate pleasure. Worse yet, her mouth was bound, so she couldn't even vindicate herself by cursing him aloud.

Ragnar's lesson in obedience went from nearly unbearable to completely intolerable when, a moment later, he raised his head from between her legs and rubbed the head of his thick erection against her slickened clit. Psychologically, the experience felt like she'd been denied candy that had been dangled in front of her. Her teeth gritted from behind the cloth covering her mouth.

Ragnar raised one arrogant brow. "What vexes you, my love? Mayhap I have spoiled you too greatly, so now you think you have the right of it to command my cock at will?" He shook his head slowly. "Nay," he murmured, flicking a nipple back and forth with his index finger. "'Tis I who commands your body and not the reverse. Aye, little one?" He met her gaze dead-on. "Nod your head aye and I will allow you to peak." He said the last as if he knew who would emerge victor in this contest of the wills.

Stubbornly, Dara refused to meet his demands. Glaring at her husband murderously, she muttered something from behind the cloth that sounded rather crude and threatening. Ragnar merely smiled, infuriating her further. Swirling the head of his erection around her clit, he waited for her to whimper before asking her again. "'Tis I who commands your body and not the reverse," he said firmly. "Nod your head in agreement like a good girl and I will allow you to peak."

Dara was beyond the point of caring who won, so great was her need. She remained silent a suspended moment, but in the end, she relented with a nod. Immediately she was rewarded as Ragnar thrust his large cock deep inside of her. She moaned, her eyes rolling to the back of her head as she instantly climaxed.

"Mmm," he purred, his thrusts long and lingering, "'tis my favorite possession, this sheath." Burying his face in her chest, he resurfaced moments later with a nipple securely in his mouth. Tugging at it with his lips and tongue, he sucked at the crest while he continued to bore into her with slow, leisurely strokes. "Mmmm."

The effect was to drive Dara crazy. The lingering lovemaking was forcing her to become incredibly wet and needful, yet without faster thrusts she would never reach a hard climax. Half delirious, she ground her hips upward, her eyes flaring as she moaned like a mortally wounded animal.

He released her nipple, a popping sound echoing throughout the bedchamber as he did so. "How greedy you are for a pummeling." Rotating his hips, Ragnar ground his erection deep inside of her, but didn't quicken his movements.

Dara moaned and groaned, begging without words for completion. She was startled when, a moment later, the cloth was ripped unceremoniously from her mouth and her husband's primal gaze was boring into hers. "Say it," he gritted out, his emotional needs as great as his physical ones. "Say you will never attempt to leave me again. Vow it this moment."

Dara licked at her lips, which had grown parched from the strip of tunic. Breathing heavily, she studied her husband's features and knew she could not nor would not do or say another thing to hurt him. Her actions earlier in the day had felt like a betrayal to the closeness that had developed between them over the past month of their marriage, obviously hitting him hard.

"I love you, Ragnar," she whispered, desire no longer the only motivator to give him what he needed to hear. "I love you and I will never, ever leave you again…so long as you are always faithful," she added feelingly.

Ragnar smiled so fully that a dimple she'd never noticed before popped out, giving his hardened warrior visage the look of a mischievous boy. "I love you too. And never will I be with another. On this you have my solemn vow."

And then he was thrusting deeply into her, grabbing her by the flesh of her hips and pounding into her depths. With her arms tied above her head and her legs pinioned spread eagle, the resulting feeling was that of submissive pleasure. She was completely at his mercy, totally within his power, and what's more, she was reveling in it. He loved her and would never hurt her, of this she was certain. Dara threw her head back and moaned, her breasts jiggling with each rapid thrust.

"I wouldst have come to the future to find you, Dara," he rasped out while thrusting. "I wouldst have brought you back and bound you to me."

Dara gave a half laugh and a half groan. "I wouldn't have complained."

Moments later Dara was climaxing, her vaginal muscles pulsing around his steel hard shaft. "Aye, wife," he said hoarsely. "Give me everything." Ragnar thrust into her once, twice, three times more, then threw his head back as his seed gushed into her womb.

A little while later as the couple lay snuggling together, Dara thought back on that night in 2001 when she'd dreamt of the fire god."You will not wed with Paul," he had said. "You will be given to a real man, to a warrior some might say can rival even me."

Grinning, Dara rubbed her palm across the chest of her sleeping husband. Loki had gotten that part right. Ragnar Valkraad was a god of fire if ever there was one.

Chapter 15

Nine months later

Aran, Selik, and Sven dusted the snow off their animal pelt coats before accepting the invitation of Ragnar's thrall turned adopted daughter Milla to enter into the longhouse. Milla, brought from Saxony as slave at thirteen years, had carried that status for all of a day before Ragnar and Dara had freed and adopted her. The men had never heard tell of a wife asking for a slave to be freed as their bride gift-the gift rendered to a wife in exchange for her maidenhead-yet this was precisely what the bride of the future jarl had requested and received.

Sven Haardrad slapped a hammy hand over his heart. "I daresay you get prettier each time I see you, Milla. You are fourteen now, aye? Fourteen and marriageable, I daresay. I-ouch!" Sven rubbed the spot where he'd just been thumped over the head by Ragnar, then glowered at him. "I did not see you here."

"'Tis obvious, dunce." He wrapped a hand around Milla's shoulder. "And I shan't be wedding my eldest to a warrior three wives deep."

"That's right," Selik said, grinning from ear to ear, "he'll be wanting to wed her with me instead."

"Nay lack wit," Aran boasted, "'twill be to my longhouse Milla becomes mistress."

Milla blushed and looked away. Ragnar harrumphed. "'Tis doubtful. Leastways, fourteen or no, my wife will hear no talk of marriage until Milla reaches eighteen summers."

"Oh?" Aran cajoled. "And she rules you so easily?"

Ragnar grinned. "Aye."

The warriors laughed. Sven winked at Ragnar, then motioned for him to get out of his way. "Shoo, boy. I've babes to meet."

Ragnar smiled as the warriors filed past him, all of them making beelines to the great chamber with the warmest hearth. Here Dara sat on a carved chair next to his parents, a newly born babe in Erik's muscled arms and another resting in Joran's smaller ones. Dara looked up as she heard the bevy of men approach. Smiling, she stood up to greet them. "Come on in, Sven. Aran, Selik, there's meade right over there."

"We came not for meade," Aran grinned, "but to see the fruit of Ragnar's fertile loins. Isn't that right, Selik?"

"Aye." Selik lifted an eyebrow as he regarded Milla. "That and other things."

Milla returned his look with a haughty one of her own. Giving him the cut direct, she sauntered toward her grandfather's chair, stopping only briefly to kiss her mother on the cheek en route.

Erik's laughter boomed throughout the chamber as he pulled Milla down onto his lap. "'Tis sorely apparent, boy, you'll have need of better lines do you hope to gain my granddaughter's affection."

Joran winked at Milla as the others in the room broke into laughter. Even Selik laughed as he accepted a tankard of meade from Myra. "Aye, 'tis apparent, my lord."

"Do not be greedy," Sven said to his longtime friend as he swaggered up to Erik's side. "Let me hold a babe. Think you I walked this distance in the snow to look upon bald heads and no more? I've an arm in sore need of a babe."

"And a head in sore need of a thought," Erik teased good-naturedly. "Aye, dunce, hold my grandson a moment, but only a moment, as Joran and I just got here."

"I'll take my time, I'll have you know," Sven bragged as he hoisted the bundled babe up into his arms. Rubbing the tuft of golden hair atop the infant's head, he chuckled. "'Tis definitely a Valkraad, this one. Balder already possesses your overly large ears, Erik."

"You know what they say about the size of a man's ears…" Erik let the sentence trail off as the other warriors laughed uproariously.

Dara thumped Sven on the arm. "My son does not have big ears!" she laughed. "He's perfect!"

Ragnar came up behind Dara and circled her into his arms. "Perfect, aye, just like his papa." Dara rolled her eyes as she met her husband's gaze, but she didn't disagree. Grinning, Ragnar leaned down to kiss the tip of her nose.

"I've big ears," Selik announced as his eyes settled on a blushing Milla.

Erik chuckled. "As I said, boy, you're sorely in need of better lines." He glanced past Selik and grinned. "Ah, here comes my brother-within-the-law now. Leif the Wench Wooer will mayhap give you some tips."

Leif frowned as the room dissolved into laughter. 'Twas well known throughout the village that his thralls Karil and Brenna were wearing him out on a daily and nightly basis. Those two could not get enough of his manhood. Greedy wenches, the both of them. "Give me a babe," he growled, effectively ignoring his brother-within-the-law's jest.

Joran stood up to greet her youngest brother, pecking him on the cheek as she did so. Lifting the babe she was holding up to him, she boasted over her granddaughter. "She's a beauty, is she not?"

Leif accepted the infant's bundled form from his sister and cradled it in the valley of his arm. He grinned. "Aye. She's the look of our mother, Joran." Leif glanced over to where Ragnar and Dara were standing. "What name did you give her, Ragnar?"

Ragnar realized that the question had been directed at him for 'twas custom among Norsemen for the father to name his babes. Yet at his wife and mother's prodding, Ragnar had agreed to hear their suggestion and in the end had decided 'twas his favored name as well. "Freya."

Leif nodded. "'Tis a good name. The goddess will be well pleased."

Dara bit her lip. She glanced over at Joran and shared a secret smile with her. "A very good name," Dara murmured.

* * * * *

Ragnar groaned as his wife's mouth worked up and down the length of his shaft. Reaching for the nape of her neck, he sucked in his breath as he watched his erection emerge from between her lips, then disappear once more into the depths of her throat. "Mmm, sweeting. Aye. Just like that."

Dara teased him with slow strokes, moving up and down his length at a leisurely pace. Ragnar placed his hands behind his head and enjoyed every moment of it. Awhile later, Dara picked up the pace of her sucking, taking him into her mouth greedily as she used her hands to massage his scrotum.

Ragnar opened his desire-heavy lids to regard her. "Mmm. Aye. Love me with your mouth," he said thickly.

Dara did just that, her head working up and down rapidly, her fingers massaging his tightly drawn sac just the way he liked. A moment later, her husband's hoarse shout of completion echoed throughout their bedchamber as his body shuddered and his climax spurted into her mouth.

Raising her head, she grinned up at him. "I told you having to wait a few weeks before we make love wouldn't be so bad."

He chuckled, swiping at his brow with the back of his arm. "And your lord husband appreciates the demonstration." Finding a burst of energy, he jumped up and reversed their positions, Dara now on her back, her thighs spread wide. She smiled.

Craning her neck a bit, her expression turned serious. "Are you happy, Ragnar? Do the children and I make you happy?"

Ragnar stilled, surprised as he was by the question. The look on his face broached no argument. "Never in my life had I thought to be so happy. I love you, Dara."

"And I love you, Ragnar."

"Good. Now hush your tongue, wench, and let a man enjoy himself." And with those sage words, his face disappeared between her thighs.

Dara sighed contentedly, stretching out her muscles and throwing her arms over her head. Grinning up to the ceiling, she said a quick thank-you to Freya, then got down to the rather important business of enjoying her husband's ministrations.

Oh yeah. Long live the Vikings.

Epilogue

Valhalla (The Hall of the Slain)

Somewhere in Time

Frigg pinched her lips together in a gesture of disapproval. She threw her arm toward the image unfolding in the Valkraad's bedchamber as she glowered at Freya. "Well at least you have gained something from this bedamned experience! A beautiful golden girl-child dedicated in your name!" She harrumphed. "And here I thought 'twas Loki gifted at mischief-making and bedevilry."

Freya raised an eyebrow. "Like you, mayhap?"

Frigg's mouth puckered into a frown. "I've half a mind to rip that bedamned feather coat of yours into shreds," she sniffed. "You tricked Loki into choosing Dara," the queen goddess accused, wagging her finger at Freya. "I had my eye on a hideous mortician sporting an obscenely large mole, but Loki assured me that Dara wouldst be perfect for the role!"

The goddess of sex and fertility smiled slowly. She looked from the image of the two mortals making love then back to Frigg. "I think we both won this go around, old friend."

Frigg harrumphed. "Oh? And how so?"

Freya placed a gentle arm around Frigg's shoulders, then gestured toward the mortals' image. "A beautiful boy-child named out of deference to your beloved son Balder."

Frigg's chin went up a notch. Unwillingly, the heat around her temper gave way a bit. "He is rather winsome," she conceded somewhat shrilly. "Even looks a bit like Balder," she admitted, the heat lessening more and more.

Freya grinned. "Besides, old friend, 'twas your desire to keep Ragnar the Feared from Valhalla for many moon-risings yet to come." She licked her lips as she studied the mortals' image once more. "Tis safe to say 'tis done. You have bested Odin on this matter. Think no more of it."

Frigg giggled, a sound that made her age seem more like a couple of decades old rather than that of several millenniums. "Aye, I have, have I not?" She glanced toward the image one final time, a wicked grin smothering her lips. "Ragnar the Feared is mayhap Thor's favored, but 'tis obvious he was borne of the wily one."

Freya raised an eyebrow.

Frigg waggled hers. "Dara Valkraad has the right of it. He's a god of fire, that one."

Author's Note:

I used a little artistic liberty when writing the wedding night consummation scene. Although it was common for ancient Viking brides to have their bodies oiled down by other women in the village prior to consummating their marriages, it is unlikely that such a task was carried out by slaves, but rather by women within their or their husband's family. It was also unlikely that anything sexual ever occurred between the women, but then again, you never know…

Nevertheless, I hope you enjoyed God of Fire as much as I enjoyed writing it. I'd like to take a moment to thank Ragnar Grimstad for his Norwegian translations. I'd also like to thank everyone that has emailed me for all of their kind and supportive letters. As long as you'll keep reading my books, I'll keep writing them J

Jaid Black

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