“One step at a time,” Rona agreed.
As she walked away, Helga tried to tell herself that it was all nonsense, but how could she explain away her aching breasts and the woman-dew gathering between her legs? Truth to tell, she’d become aroused just thinking about seducing Vagn in all the ways Rona had suggested. There must be some merit in what Rona and the other women counseled.
But did she have the nerve to try it herself?
“Come see my web,” said the spider to the fly…
By the time Vagn followed a dozen of Gorm’s men-at-arms into the great hall for dinner that night, he was physically and mentally exhausted. By design. If he was too tired to think, he could not dwell on his brother’s death and how little he had left in this world.
Gorm had called for him and several dozen of his bird of guardsmen to ride out with him that morning, circling the far reaches of his estate. They’d patrolled against intruders; after all, Gorm was a Viking residing in the midst of Saxon lands. But they’d also gathered up stray lambs, some of which had the dimwittedness to get themselves stuck in thorn bushes and mud holes. They’d even repaired a few fences that confined a small herd of beef cattle. And, in the end, the bowmen had shot three wild deer, which were now roasting on spits.
Once they’d arrived back at the Briarstead keep, filthy and weary beyond belief, they’d immediately filed into Gorm’s bathhouse, which had been built over a natural hot spring. Now, at least they were clean.
In the old days, he and Toste would have relished a day like this. Good, hard work provided satisfaction to a man. But Vagn felt nothing. Nothing.
He had no desire to go a-Viking come spring.
He had no desire to amass more wealth.
He had no desire to soldier in battle.
He had no desire to rekindle old friendships.
He had no desire to gain a wife and children.
In truth, he had no desire, at all.
Well, that isn’t quite true. I have a wee bit of desire, low down in my belly, he told himself, chuckling aloud even as his eyes scanned the great hall and lit on the object of his desire.
Then he looked again.
Bloody hell, why is Helga gazing at me like that?
She sat at the high table with her father. Nothing unusual in that. She wore a scarlet gunna, embroidered with gold thread, and her long blond hair lay loose about her shoulders… a bit unusual attire for an everyday dinner, but not extraordinary. After all, Helga dealt in fine fabrics. It was the expression on her face that caused the fine hairs to rise all over his body, even those short hairs betwixt his legs… especially those short hairs. Even as he watched her—probably with his tongue hanging out and drool dripping to his chin—she darted her little tongue out and made a wide, slow lap of her parted, sinfully delicious lips. Her eyes were glazed and her nostrils flared with what appeared to be passion, though he must be mistaken about that. Helga the No-Longer-Homely stared at him as if he were a sweet confection and she a starving glutton.
His cock came immediately to attention, not that it took much to get a rise there, and heat licked out from his core to every extremity. He made his way toward her, but not before he heard Ragnor beside him exclaim, “Holy Thor, why is Sigrud looking at me like that?” And behind him, Bolli the Blacksmith said, “Why is Bera looking at me like that?” And even farther back, Sleipnir the Stable Master concurred, “Why is Eve looking at me like that?”
They all had silly grins on their faces. Vagn wiped a hand across his mouth to make sure he wasn’t grinning, as well.
“Gorm, Helga,” he said, nodding to the two of them as he sat down at the high table and reached for the horn of ale that a housecarl poured for him. He drank it down thirstily and held out his horn for a refill.