Tykir shrugged.

"I have to stop him." Medana tried to step around Tykir's big body.

"Nay, wench, you are Thork's pirate booty. He wants you to stay here until he can deal with you."

"Pirate booty? Me? Deal?" she sputtered.

"Here, have a drink," Tykir offered, handing her a wooden cup, filled with what turned out to be wine. She didn't want wine, but before she could tell Tykir, the drape had been dropped with a warning that she would be tied to the mast pole if she came out again. In fact, a huge crate was pushed in front of where the opening would be so that she couldn't get out even if the big man was no longer guarding her.

All she knew of what was going on was shouting, laughter, screams, splashing, splashing, splashing, cursing aplenty, and threats. Then she felt the movement of the ship. She could hear male voices, occasionally Thork's, and it appeared they were drinking to celebrate their pirate venture. At one point, Tykir exclaimed to someone, "If I'd known pirating was so much fun, I would have done it long ago."

Finally, the longship dropped anchor. She heard the same loud sound again of wood against wood. The two longships b.u.mping each other. Much talking and laughing. And movement. Then silence.

Were they leaving her here alone on a ship to die of thirst or starvation? Nay, that was too ludicrous to imagine. But what were they about? What was Thork about?

Eventually, she drank the wine and lay down on a rough pallet, never intending to sleep. Just rest. But sleep she did, and soundly.

It was mid-morning by the time she awakened with a dry mouth that tasted like-she licked her lips-oh nay! The sleeping draught!

But that wasn't all. She felt a warmth on her skin. Her bare skin. Slowly, she opened her eyes to find the sun beating down on her. And she was tied to the mast pole. Naked.

Blinking, she was finally able to focus. Thork stood a short distance away, sipping at a drink. Not a sleeping draught, she would wager. There appeared to be no one else on deck, and no other longship nearby. And thank the G.o.ds for that because the scoundrel was naked, too.

"Well, well, well, wench," Thork drawled out. "Finally, you awaken."

"Have you lost your mind?"

He shrugged. "Probably."

"Where is everyone?"

"Gone?"

"And the men you forced overboard. Are they dead?"

He shrugged. "Are you worried about your betrothed?"

"Nay, I am worried about you, and about . . ." She could not mention Agnis and Egil. There might still be a way to save them. "Go back. Get Sigurd and Leistr. Mayhap it is not too late."

"It is too late," he said, and picked up a leather case, carrying it over to set on the deck near her feet.

What was it? Ah! She soon found out.

He undid the ties and opened it to reveal a specially designed velvet lining to showcase dozens of different kinds of feathers.

"What are you going to do?" she squeaked out.

" 'Tis not what I am going to do. 'Tis what we are going to do."

He picked up one long-quilled feather with hundreds of silky tendrils, which he ran sensuously through his fingers. "You have heard of going a-Viking and a-pirating," he drawled out in a s.e.x-husky voice. "But we, my fine wench, are going a-feathering."

Feathering his nest, Viking style . . .

Thork was relieved to have Medana back with him, but he was also blistering mad that she'd chosen Leistr as a husband. In front of the entire Althing. A clear rejection of him. Humiliating.

She would pay, but in his own particular way.

He walked around, studying her nude body from all angles. "Well, well, well, who is a captive now, wench?"

She groaned inwardly, realizing his intent. He was reversing the tables on her.

"I cannot decide which side and which part of your body I like best."

"Hmpfh! I can guess. You are a man. Men home in on one thing only."

He flicked the silky feather over her mouth in reprimand. "I am not every man. I do have favorites, though. Those full, kiss-some lips of yours, for example."

She licked her lips, probably trying to make them less kiss-some. He had news for her. She had done just the opposite.

"Your violet eyes are unusual and attractive."

She lowered her lashes in an attempt to hide their beauty. He fluttered the feathers over her b.r.e.a.s.t.s, causing her lids to shoot open. And she gasped. A good sign, he believed.

"I like your b.r.e.a.s.t.s, but then you already know that from past experience." Her b.r.e.a.s.t.s were arched out nicely with her arms tied at the wrists behind the pole, but he fancied that she arched even more.

He walked behind her. "And, praise the G.o.ds for your lovely a.r.s.e." The twin globes with their matching dimples could be seen from behind on either side of the pole. With mischievous intent, he ran the quill end of the feather along her crack, and she led out a yelp of protest. "Stop that!"

He knelt down in front of her. "Truth to tell, I even like your feet."

Her toes curled in reaction, especially when he fluttered them with the feather.

She whimpered.

"Ticklish, are you, sweetling?"

He glanced up and realized he was facing her nether hair. His c.o.c.k, which had been standing out for what seemed like hours, jerked in appreciation of her beauty there. He brushed the feathery fan back and forth over the blond curls, noticing how she stiffened in a futile attempt to halt what he was hoping was her rising arousal.

"I do not suppose you would spread your legs so I can feather your female folds."

She made a choking sound that he took to mean, Not b.l.o.o.d.y likely! before she pressed her legs tightly together.

"Ah, well. Later." For now, he decided to move on to a different feather. As he surveyed the collection, he remarked, "So you wanted to marry the old man?"

"Wanted? Nay? Decided to, yea."

He practiced painting her lips with a stiffer-bristled feather. Back and forth until she parted her lips and stared up at him helplessly. He leaned in and kissed her briefly. That was all the bodily contact he could allow himself lest this game of torture be over before he had gained what he wanted.

"Why?" he asked. "Why did you do it, Medana?"

"Betimes a woman has no choice. Betimes she makes adult decisions to protect . . . well, just suffice it to say, it was time for me to grow up and accept what women throughout time have done. Accept the marriage that is best for their family."

He was "painting" a thick line up the inside of one leg, from ankle to groin, then down the other leg from groin to ankle. He performed this exercise several times, and was rewarded with a soft groan. "Are you saying that you needed to protect your brothers?"

"Huh?" She stared at him through pa.s.sion-glazed eyes.

"You mentioned protecting your family. Your brothers are your family."

"You are confusing me. Oh, please do not do that."

"What? This?" He was "painting" increasingly smaller circles around her breast until he got to the nipple, which he gave an extra splash of "paint," back and forth, back and forth. Mayhap later he would try the same with wine, or honey. Then he did the same thing to the other breast.

She was keening now. Her violet eyes had dilated and turned almost purple. She was panting. And her chest was heaving.

b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l, he was probably panting, too.

He picked up an even stiffer feather now, almost like a turkey feather. But before he used it on her, he undid the ties that restrained her to the pole. To his immense satisfaction, she did not move.

"The worst thing about what you did at the Althing," he told her then as he used the stiff bristles over all the most erotic parts of her body-b.r.e.a.s.t.s, neck, shoulders, backs of knees, arches of feet, her b.u.t.tocks, and, yea, her nether folds, "is that you showed so little trust in me."

She blinked at him in confusion. He might have gone too far in his torture play.

"You made me feel less than a man when you thought only you could solve your problems. Why did you question my ability to protect you and your . . . family?"

She brought her hands around to the front of her, and seemed surprised that she was free. "You do not understand."

"Nay, you do not understand. Agnis and her son are safe at Thrudr. My men rescued her whilst we were at the Althing."

At first she didn't understand. "Agnis is safe?"

He nodded.

Then she choked out, "You knew why I did it?"

"Not at first. My mother is the one who alerted me."

She sank down to her knees and began to weep. At the same time, she drew her long hair, which had come undone from its braid, over in front to cover her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. Her hands folded over her private place.

Thork felt shame then that he had brought her to this point.

He dropped the feather and went over to pick up his braies.

She raised tear-filled eyes and asked, "Why have you done this?"

She waved a hand at her nudity and the mast pole.

"To punish you a little, I suppose. A bit of t.i.t for tat, I suppose," he said, "and because I love you, I suppose."

"That makes no sense."

He shrugged, his heart aching with the intensity of his thwarted emotions.

"What are you doing?" she asked as he stepped away.

He was about to shimmy up the mast pole to raise the flag that would alert his father's ship anch.o.r.ed in the distance that it was time for them to leave. It was way sooner than his father would have expected. His father and brothers would have a grand time jesting about his lack of charm in the love arts. Not that he had attempted any charming or love play. "I'm going to raise the flag to summon my father's ship." He turned and was about to drag on his braies, deciding bare shimmying might result in some splinters in parts where a man didn't want a splinter.

To his shock, he was tackled from behind, landing flat on his face. And Medana was sitting on his back, pummeling his shoulders. When he was able to breathe, he turned over, and she was still atop him, refusing to budge.

"What in b.l.o.o.d.y h.e.l.l was that?" he asked.

"You do not tell a woman you love her and then shimmy off up into the air."

"I do not?"

"Nay, you do not, you loathsome lout." She was glowering at him in the most appealing fashion.

Loathsome lout? In that moment, he began to hope. Did she mean those words as an endearment? He rolled again, and now she was on the bottom, his lips within breathing distance of hers. "Does that mean what I think it does?"

She nodded. "Can you forgive me for not trusting you?"

He leaned down and kissed her lips, for a long time, before replying, "Can you forgive me for . . ." He waved a hand toward the mast pole and the leather case of feathers. "I will burn the whole lot."

"Are you barmy?" she said. "You are going to finish what you started with that erotic nonsense. And then I am going to try my hand at feathering you."

And he did.

And she did.

Later they lay on the pallet under the shelter, both of them sunburned in some unmentionable places. They could not get enough of each other. Nor could he get tired of hearing the words, "I love you, you loathsome lout." Nor could she get tired of hearing, "I love you, my pretty pirate."

His father came back to the longship, much later, took one look at the two of them, and said, "I always knew I had raised a wild son, but ne'er did I expect my son to get himself a pirate bride. What a Viking!"

Epilogue.

The Viking's wild pirate bride . . .

It was the first wedding ever on the island of Thrudr.

Thork's family was there, of course, and all the pirate women. Bolthor and Katherine had returned for the wedding, as had Alrek and Brokk and Finn. Henry had never left. Jamie had scampered off to the Highlands, summoned home by an irate father who threatened to handfast him, by proxy, to some well-known shrewish la.s.s. Jolstein disappeared to no one knew where.

Even Thork's uncle Eirik and Lady Eadyth had come from Northumbria, carting many crates of bees, to Medana's joy. Their son John of Hawk's Lair accompanied them with his bride, the Viking princess Ingrith. And children, lots of children. To say the island was overcrowded was a vast understatement. But it was a joyous overcrowding.

"There is naught like a black sheep come home," Lady Alinor was overheard saying. To which her husband was heard to reply, "Or a wild child reformed."