Dragon Bewitched Page 4

“How do you feel, Dragon?” she asked gently, as her competent hands raised him so he could take the bowl she was handing him.

  “Better,” he lied. In truth his head ached and his shoulder was somewhere between stiff and numb and throbbing. But at least he was now wearing clothes, however scratchy wool felt next to his skin.

  “Eat,” she cajoled.

  He wasn’t hungry, but for that bell-like voice he would do more than choke down stew. He took some from the wooden spoon. It was good. But he could not identify the meat. Better not to ask. “Thank you,” he said instead. “This is delicious.”

  Freya sat beside his pallet on a low stool while he ate. Her hands were busy with needle and thread. He had noticed that she never stopped working. If she wasn’t cooking, she was weaving or sewing.

  “Don’t you ever go outdoors?” he blurted.

  She laughed. She sounded as youthful and merry as the redheaded girl who teased him in his dreams. “Someone has to nurse you, Dragon.”

  “Then I am keeping you indoors. I am sorry for it, Lady.”

  Her green eyes opened wide. Her fingers continued to push her needle through the green homespun in her lap. She shook her head as if his words amused her.

  “What would you be doing, were I not here?” he asked.

  She smiled. “Turning the cheese. Milking the sheep. Visiting my trees. Waiting for spring. Do not worry, Son of Loki, my brothers are well able to do those things.”

  “Do you keep sheep here?”

  “And cows.”

  He looked around the primitive cabin. Only the elaborately carved wall boards hinted at anything other than direst poverty. Yet Lady Freya and her brothers seemed contented. And her voice and scent made his heart expand.

  She had to be as old as his mother – not that he could remember his mother. Or anything else. Yet he felt as if she had been made for him. That she was his one true love. He had better be careful to keep his lewd thoughts and wayward pecker away from this respectable woman.

  “Aren’t we in a part of Iceland?” he asked as a fact drifted into his pounding skull.

  “Ice Land?” she asked curiously. “What is that country?”

  “It is an island in the North Atlantic.” He began to tell her the story of the founding of Iceland.

  She listened intently with her hands still for once. “Ingolfur and Hjorleifur,” she said thoughtfully. “I suppose they are dead now?”

  “For a thousand years or more, my lady.”

  She sighed. “Do you know any more stories?”

  He did. He might not remember his name or his people. However, he knew many tales that were little more than fairy stories. Freya listened to them as if they were new to her, and no matter how he tried to explain, she treated them as if they were recent history.

  “Who do you trade with?” he asked as the fire burned low.

  “Trade?” Freya threw more driftwood onto the fire and stirred it into a blaze. “No one comes to trade with us. Not in many years. Few are the men who dare to come ashore on Balder.”

  “Yet I came,” he mused.

  “As they say Beowulf went in search of Grendel,” she remarked, picking up her sewing again. “Have you finished your stew?”

  “I have. This is a handsome bowl.” He held up the smooth vessel that had been shaped from burled oak. “Men would travel far to trade for such dishes.”

  She chuckled. Her amusement made every muscle tense with pleasure. “Then what would I and my brothers eat from?” She put the bowl away and returned. “I will help you as far as the shed,” she said.

  Freya was sturdier than she looked. She easily supported his weight to the tiny room so he could relieve himself. He was getting stronger, but he enjoyed the feeling of her arm around his waist, and the subtle perfume that was Freya alone. She smelled like his mate. Like a sorceress of considerable power. Like sex incarnate.

  Yet he was glad when she tucked him back up and ordered him to go to sleep. He closed his eyes and let the lovely dreams gather him into their arms.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Freya~

  The dragon was recovering his senses. He no longer looked pale and ill. But his memories had not returned. Which was probably all to the good. Brand and Valdar still disapproved of their visitor, despite his humble gratitude and respectful demeanor. But then they had every right to be suspicious. Dragons had ill-used their family.

  But the boy was so delicious. His golden hair and softly curling beard adorned the regular and handsome features of a god. He might have been Balder himself come to earth. Surely that was an omen? A good omen. The more she gazed on his muscular form, the more desire, so long dormant that she had almost forgotten the feeling, hummed in her veins.

  She was almost sure she knew why Loki had sent him. Almost.

  She took her sewing and sat beside his pallet. He was sleeping – she had made sure of that. Not just because sleep would heal his mind, but to keep him away from her hostile brothers. They did not know of the soft-voiced conversations she shared with this handsome lad.

  He might not remember who he was, or even his name, but her dragon knew many other things. He was as courtly and learned as the bards of old had been. He knew more stories even than she remembered. He told her of Gudrid the Far-Traveler who had journeyed across the sea to Vinland, a new country where the fish were so thick in the sea that a man could just reach in with his net and pull them out all day.

  He told her of Bujold the One-Eyed who slew the pirate Snorre. That was a tale she had relished, although she did not tell him why. But now she knew that Snorre’s greed had cost the pirate his life. And left her and her brothers to wait in vain for revenge. She liked the stranger’s manners and the way he called her Lady Freya and thanked her for his meat and drink.

  She knew that Brand and Valdar would disapprove even more heartily of what she planned to do. But she was tired of this solitary existence. It was a dragon that had cursed them with exile. A dragon could release them. This beautiful youth was going to slice through the spell that bound them. And it was quite unnecessary that he know what he was doing while he did it.

  Tonight, she had sent her brothers to patrol the shoreline. Ostensibly they were looking for dragons in search of their guest. But she had shrouded the island in mist, so that no rescuers would approach it. Brand and Valdar had been unwilling to leave her alone with the dragon. But they were bound to obey her, and she had commanded their obedience today.

  The dragon was sitting up. His arm was nearly healed. Dragons healed fast. She remembered that – even if their guest did not. She had thought to bespell him to make sure that he did not recover his memory too soon, but it had been unnecessary. The blow to his head had been sufficient. Loki had truly sent her this hero.

  He stood when she approached. Inclined his head, although she could tell it pained him to stand and to move his head. “How do you do tonight, Skyworm?” she asked.

  “Better, Lady.” He hesitated. “But no closer to knowing who I am, or where I’m from.”

  “Sit,” she commanded. She sat on the stool next to his. “You have been punished for trespassing, but I think your memory will eventually return.”

  “I do not recall what happened. But if I offended you by coming ashore, I ask your forgiveness.”

  She shook her head. “It is not me you offended, but the mountain. It is forbidden to climb Bradur without permission. You are lucky, Skyworm, to be alive.”

  “I know it,” he said. “Tell me how I can repay you for rescuing me.” He looked around at the hut. “Tell me what you desire, and if it is in my power, I will provide it.”

  “Are you a rich man then?” she asked.

  “Y-yes. At least I think so.” He shrugged and the powerful shoulders under the green homespun she had clothed him in moved. He made her mouth dry with longing.

  “I do not want gold or silver, Skyworm. But I crave a boon in return for your life.” He was well and truly caught.

  He laid a
big hand on his heart. “Anything that I have in my gift,” he said grandly.

  “I want a child,” she said baldly.

  His handsome face turned to stone. Surely she was not that unattractive?

  His mouth fell open and closed with an audible snap. He blinked his lovely blue eyes. “A ch-ch-ch-child?” he stammered.

  “Yes.”

  He gulped. His neck was a column of muscle that seemed to choke him. His face flushed scarlet. “A child is a precious gift to solicit,” he said.

  “I will be a good mother,” she said indignantly.

  He bowed. “I am sure. But you do not even know my name. How can you give your child a father with no name?”

  “You are a dragon, are you not?” she replied. “It is a sufficient heritage for my child. Why do you hesitate? Are you so ungrateful?”

  “I may be married.”

  She shrugged. “Would your wife begrudge me a spoonful of your seed, in exchange for your life?”

  “When you put it that way.” His voice trailed off. He reached for her hand. “You honor me, Lady. But I cannot lie with you, unless we are married.”

  “But you might already be wed.”

  He frowned as if he were attempting to remember. “I do not think so.”

  “And what name would we tell my brothers?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Nor I. Come, Skyworm, fulfill your vow. Fill me with child.”

  He frowned. “If it is truly what you desire, I can try,” he said slowly. “But in truth, Lady, I fear I have forgotten something.”

  “But not how to pleasure a woman?” No man built like this dragon had failed to have a score of lovers.

  He blinked again. Raised her hands and kissed them. “If I have,” he said in a voice like rough velvet, “You will have to remind me.” And then he kissed her.

  He did not kiss her as she had feared he might, with arrogant reluctance. He kissed her as if she was young and desirable. As if she were the bride he had asked her to be. As if she were all his dreams fulfilled.

  His lips nibbled along the rim of her lips before he probed the seam with his tongue. His breathing was heavy as he slid that tongue into her mouth. She wound her arms around his shoulders and reveled in the glide and sweep, in the musky masculine taste of him. They were both damp with ardor when he lifted his head. He gripped her shoulders as tenderly as if she were fragile and precious.

  “Lady, your brothers may come. Even if they did not kill me, I would not have you shamed.”

  He was correct. They needed more privacy than could be obtained in this drafty longhouse. She waved her hand.

  CHAPTER NINE

  Darius~

  The painted scenes of savage battle and ruthless beasts vanished with the cozy fire and silent loom. He was standing quite naked in a luxurious room. At least he thought it might be a room. It was rather like being inside a gigantic pink flower. The walls curved and glowed softly pink. They rose to an arch above his head. The floor was soft. He looked down. His bare feet were half buried in white fur.

  Freya was as naked as he was. She was looking shyly at him, as if it had been some other woman who had propositioned him so brazenly. Perhaps she thought she was undesirable? But for all she was gray-haired and dumpy, her soft roundness looked beautiful to him. She was broad-hipped and womanly, with soft breasts and full buttocks and a bright red bush. He held his arms open and she flew into them.

  Freya’s skin might look wrinkled, but it was as soft as velvet and her plump curves felt as supple as a girl’s. He kissed her. She had said she wanted a child. But perhaps what she wanted was passion. It must be a lonely life for her here on this remote island. He was pretty sure he could not give her a baby – that for some reason it was not in his power – but he could give her a happy memory.

  Her voice was the most sensuous sound he could imagine. Even before she had made her request, he had had to be strict with himself not to engage in lustful fantasies about his hostess. Now with her bare breasts pressed against his chest, he felt aroused and eager. Was he supposed to take her here on the floor?

  But no. Out of the furs rose a white platform. Their bed. He led her to it. Kissed her mouth. She returned his kisses with enthusiasm. He stroked her back and the curve of her waist. She caressed his arms and shoulders. She was well named. This sorceress who promised as much sensual delight as the goddess Freya herself.

  “You’re so strong,” she whispered. “So handsome.”

  Her words were the sexiest encouragement a man had ever had. He pulled hairpins from her bun and let the braids fall down her back. They went past her bottom.

  “What are you doing?” she squeaked.

  “Taking your hair down.” He ran his fingers through the braids and let them unravel. Her hair was soft and the braids had left it in tight ripples. “It is beautiful. Long and thick and silky.”

  “It’s gray!”

  “Sleek. Shiny. Gorgeous.” He pulled some over her shoulder and teased a nipple. It furled like a rosebud and she gasped. “Did you like that?”

  “You know I did, Skyworm.”

  “I wasn’t sure,” he corrected. “You must tell me if I do something you don’t like.”

  “Be sure of that.” Her husky voice belied the sharpness of her words.

  He teased the other breast with her hair. That nipple puckered and he pulled it into his mouth, scraped it with his teeth and felt her tense against his body. Her belly pressed into his cock and she jumped backward.

  “Did I hurt you?” he asked.

  She was staring at his cock as if it frightened her. “You’re ready,” she accused.

  “I can wait until you are.”

  “Until I am?”

  “Until you are wet and moaning with desire, Freya, of the long hair.”

  She lay down on the white bed. “Do it now, while you still can, Dragon.”

  Freya did not look like a woman who wanted sex. She looked like a woman about to perform some unpleasant duty. Her fragrance had changed. She exuded a faint reek of fear. The flush on her skin had faded, leaving it looking dry and withered. His heart clenched in pity and something else.

  Did she think she was too old for pleasure? A dim memory dawned. She was afraid she was too old to conceive. Probably. But she was not too old to give or receive pleasure. He approached the bed and knelt over her, straddling her body. He lowered his hips until his cock was lying against her bush.

  Her pubes glowed like a red sunset. As though old age had forgotten to fade her beauty there. He supported his weight on his forearms and made a discovery. His arm was no longer broken. No longer in a splint. Realization dawned. He was dreaming. He had better hurry before he woke up.

  Beneath him, Freya squirmed impatiently. “What are you doing?”

  “Getting comfortable, my lady.” He swiveled his hips and rubbed his cock against her soft bush. “Do you like that?” he whispered into her hair.

  “Hmm.”

  “Good.” He swiveled in the other direction. He kept it up while he kissed her throat, moved up to her jaw, and her tender earlobe. Her needy scent returned. He felt her pussy swell. Even her mound felt plumper. He kissed her lips. They too were fuller and softer. This time her tongue wandered boldly into his mouth and sought out the tender flesh of his inner lips and tickled his cheeks.

  He put a hand on her belly. It was soft and supple. He kneaded it gently. “May I touch you?”

  “Touch me?”

  What words would this woman find respectful?

  “Do you mean on my cunt?” she asked.

  “I do.” Cunt, indeed. But it was her right to call it so.

  “I suppose.” She sounded desperately unsure. “What do you call your thing?”

  His what? Oh. “Lots of different names. Cock, or dick, or pecker.”

  “Dik is a boy’s name. I will use that one.”

  “If you like, my dear.” He raised his hips so he could stroke her bush. “It’s like the softes
t flame,” he told her. He delved between her legs and stroked the outer lips of her pussy. They were fluffy too. Her scent rose between them, desirous and desirable. “You smell like the goddess of love,” he told her. “Like Freya herself.”

  “Like myself, in fact,” she said dryly.

  “Like a goddess.” He knew better than to argue even with a dream woman. He circled her hot wet pussy and moved in to the hairless inner lips. They were stiff and swollen and Freya moaned when he caressed them. He rubbed either side of her clit. It was a taut nubbin, and the hood was rolled back. He tapped it lightly with his thumb. Freya spasmed around his roaming fingers.

  “What are you doing?” she gasped.

  “Pleasing you – I hope. May I put a finger inside you?”

  “Not unless you mean that finger that is poking my belly.”

  “Very well.” He was well past ready himself. He just hoped she was wet enough to take him. He caught her mouth with his and let his dragon loose.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Freya~

  This Skyworm did not act much like a dragon. He was altogether too respectful. Of course, Brand and Valdar might have put the fear of Odin into him. And he seemed to want to make a great deal more of the business than she recalled had been the case in centuries past. Of course, she had no idea what bed-sport was like between husband and wife.

  He had asked her to marry him. That was gratitude speaking of course. Gratitude wouldn’t break the spell. She needed love for that. She was a little wary of this melting feeling she had. Her cunt was hot and wet of course, but why did it feel as if her heart was also molten?

  Now he had that huge dragon-maker of his pressed against her cunt. He moved it around as if he didn’t know what a cunt was for, and every time he did, waves of pleasure rolled through her. It was a pleasant business after all. But he needed to be deep inside her if he was to get her with child. She knew that much of the business at least.

  She raised her hips and thrust upward. He slipped in a short way. Bliss. The he moved backward. She clutched him hard. His back was heavy with muscle, and slippery with sweat. “Don’t stop,” she cried.