“What think you of Sister Tostina?” Bolthor asked, slapping his thigh with mirth.
Esme arched her eyebrows. “Sister Tostina?”
“Yea, but you may call me Tina,” Toste said, a smile tugging at his lips.
“This is never going to work.” Esme groaned with dismay. “First, I can’t fit into a barrel. And now, you two look like… like… I do not know what.”
“I have noticed that many nuns display masculine traits, if that is what bothers you, m’lady.” Bolthor patted her arm with comfort. “No offense intended,” he added for the benefit of Mother Wilfreda and Sister Margaret.
“No insult taken,” her aunt said with a laugh. “In truth, many clerics have feminine traits, as well.”
Father Alaric puffed out his chest as if to show he was not one of those.
“Enough about all that. We must get started on our journey,” Toste told Esme.
“But I can’t fit,” she said, practically in tears.
“Never mind, we’ll find another way. Sister Margaret is going with us. It won’t be convincing otherwise, that three nuns, two of them unfamiliar ones, are transporting her brew into the city.”
Esme tilted her head, confused. “And where will I be in this religious troop?”
“On the floor of the wagon, under our feet, covered by a large lap robe.”
“Whaaaat?”
“Come see. It could work.” He walked her over to the large open wagon. The bench seat had been lowered so that Toste and Bolthor’s height would not be so apparent, and a cloth sack of oats sat in the middle—Sister Margaret’s perch, Esme presumed.
Esme peered into the seating area and shook her head doubtfully. “I don’t see how I could fit under the bench, or how I could stay in that position for an extensive length of time.”
“We’ll stop often, and, besides, you won’t be on the floor precisely.” He grinned mischievously as he spoke.
“Enough foolishness, Toste. My father means to kill you and me and possibly all of us. I will do anything to make this work.”
“Good. Do not stand in a place of danger and wait for miracles, that is my philosophy,” he said, slapping her on the back with far too much enthusiasm. And she soon learned why.
As they drove out of the abbey courtyard, Esme knelt on the floor of the wagon, facing Toste, between his spread legs under his robe, with her face resting on his lap. It was the most humiliating day of her life.
But worse was yet to come.
* * *
Chapter Six
« ^ »
Beware of women with plans.. .
It was probably the worst plan Helga had ever concocted.
Or the most clever.
Either way, Helga would have to scrap every inhibition she’d ever held, scrap her morals, scrap her pride and probably scrap her intelligence, or what she had left of it. But it would be worth it, wouldn’t it, if the end result was a child… a precious little being to satisfy her father’s dream of a grandchild?
Oh, she wasn’t in any way contemplating marriage, as her father kept insisting and Vagn kept pretending he might accept. Hah! As if she would ever wed under the best of circumstances, giving up her hard-earned independence, and certainly never to a man who might be talked into accepting her. She was better than that.
All she needed was a man to bed her once and plant his seed in her, then ride off into the horizon. It sounded simple to her. Wasn’t that what every man wanted anyway? Swive a woman to his heart’s content, with no obligations?
And what better man than Vagn, who, truth to tell, knew how to kiss a woman boneless. If he could turn her breathless with his mouth parts—lips, tongue, teeth—what might he be able to do with his other part? Helga knew instinctively that making love with that rogue would not be a hardship.
But in order to accomplish her plan, Helga suspected that she would have to make the first move… be the seductress. Mother of Thor! How was she going to seduce a born seducer, without being too apparent? Of course she could wait for him to continue making advances toward her, at his convenience, but then he would feel guilty when she became pregnant, and he would feel obligated to marry her, or else her father would force him to wed her with a sword at his neck… none of which she wanted. It was essential that she be the instigator, the one to control the outcome.