Wet & Wild

CHAPTER ONE

1010 A.D.

Tupping his life away, looking for a better day . . .

Ragnor Magnusson was in the midst of swiving the most beautiful woman in all the Norselands, and he was bored.

In, out, in, out, in, out, ho, hum. He barely stifled a yawn.

On the other hand, Inga Sigundottir, young widow of a Norman jarl and daughter of the Danish King Svein Forkbeard, said, Oooh, oooh! You are soooo good, Ragnor, but must you go so fast? I want this to last forever.

Of course I am good. But fast, you greedy wench? Forever? Hah! I have been plowing the field betwixt your thighs for an hour at least. Bloody well reach your peak already, m’lady. That was what he thought, but what he did was slow his strokes to a snail’s pace.

Inga’s eyes rolled back in her head.

No surprise to Ragnor. He was an expert at the bedsport when he chose to be. After all, he was a Viking.

Then, whilst Inga moaned and writhed beneath him, even as he did his in-and-out exercise, he scratched his buttock, wondering idly if there were fleas in the royal linens. Then he squeezed one of her nipples, knowing it was expected of him, thus producing more moans and writhing. He pondered whether there might be any roast boar left from the evening meal down in the castle kitchen. Yea, a slice of boar on a piece of manchet bread, washed down with a horn of ale, would go over nicely about now, even though it was well past midnight. But, alas and alack, he had work yet to complete . . . bed work.

For a brief moment, Ragnor entertained the notion that he might be getting old. He was only seven and twenty. That was too young to lose the enthusiasm for coupling. Wasn’t it? But then, he’d lost enthusiasm for just about everything these days . . . a-Viking, trading, running the royal estates at Norstead, even fighting. That last was particularly alarming. He was born and raised to be a warrior. If not soldiering, what?

It had all started when his comrade-in-arms, Skorri Leifsson, died last year in battle. Ragnor had held his best friend in his arms while sword dew flowed steadily from the neck wound delivered by a Saxon blade. Nay, truth be told, Ragnor’s low spirits had begun long before Skorri’s death. There had been a hole in his heart and in his life since the death of his father, Magnus Ericsson, and nine siblings in a presumed shipwreck more than ten years past. Before that, he’d lost his beloved uncles Geirolf and Jorund Ericsson, Geirolf’s wife and twin daughters, and his grandparents Lord Eric Trygvasson and Lady Asgar. So many deaths!

Why did you stop? Inga asked peevishly.

With a jolt, Ragnor pulled himself back to the present. He smiled down at Inga, her blond hair spread prettily about the pillow, her blue eyes staring up at him with a mixture of concern and arousal and impatience. She wrapped her long legs around his hips, not about to let him escape. Her lips were red and swollen from his earlier kisses.

His manpart was buried in her sheath. He might have lost the enthusiasm, but his cock had not. In fact, it twitched.

She smiled up at him, as if he’d just paid her a compliment.

He waggled his eyebrows at her. It was not her fault he’d lost the enthusiasm. She deserved better.

Lifting her legs over his shoulders, he began to pound at her then. Short, hammering strokes that brought her to her peak, and then beyond.

Inga nigh screamed with pleasure.

Seconds before he reached his own peak, he withdrew and spilled his seed upon her stomach with a long sigh of satisfaction.

Noooooo! Inga shrieked and grabbed his wilting staff in both hands, trying to jam him back into her body.

Huh? His eyes bulged at the agony as she squeezed him hard and pulled. Every man knew . . . and every woman of experience should know . . . that a sensitive organ such as a cock deserved better treatment after being the instrument of milady’s pleasure. Quickly he pried himself out of her viselike grip. If he hadn’t been wilting afore, he would be now. The pain was excruciating.

On her knees, she now whacked him about the head with her pillow. By your leave, milady, have you gone demented? he asked between whacks. Sex affected people in odd ways betimes; once, Ubbi the Ugly claimed he broke out in boils afterward, but perchance that stemmed from another cause. Ragnor had ne’er heard of sex turning a woman demented, though. Some men, yea, but that was usually from lack thereof.

She still reached for him, trying to pull him back inside her . . . which was ridiculous, really. Trying to put a wilted lily back in a slick pod was like . . . well, putting an egg back in the chicken. Impossible.

He laughed, which made her even more angry. Baring her perfectly white teeth at him, she snarled, You bastard! You cur! You lying, cod-sucking, too-charming son of a whore!

Have a caution, Inga. Your true character is showing. I never lied to you, he proclaimed indignantly as he grabbed her in his arms and lifted her so that her feet dangled off the rush floor. Stop squirming, Inga, and tell me what this is all about.

Tears welled in her eyes. Why? Why would you not give me your seed? Am I not beautiful enough? Was I not pleasing in the bed furs? By the gods, my father will thrash me for failing. And he will thrash you, too, for compromising me.

I don’t think so. Ragnor was referring to the thrashing, as well as the compromising. But then he went stiff with alertness. Setting Inga down, he backed up a bit. Your father . . . he sent you to my bed furs?

Of course, she wailed, swiping at the tears which now overflowed and ran in rivulets down her cheeks. Dost think I would dare such scandalous behavior without his blessing?

Hah! ’Twas not I who made your virtue forfeit. Ragnor had heard of Inga’s scandalous behavior with several other men; she was no untried virgin. Understanding dawned slowly. It had been a trap, set by the wily Danish king, ruler of all Jutland. Ragnor was not a king in his own land, but he was of noble birth . . . a chieftain of wealthy estates left by his grandsire in Vestfold, the rich southern region of Hordaland. Forkbeard schemed to join their families in wedlock . . . lock being the key word. He wanted to ensnare yet another Norse family into his spiderweb of intrigues.

But Ragnor was no fool. Ever since he’d lain with his first maid at age thirteen, he had tried to be careful not to breed babes hither and yon, and as far as he knew, he’d been successful. He had been taught a harsh lesson about the perils of virility by his father, who begat thirteen children. Children who gave him no end of trouble.

Ragnor grinned and gave himself an inward pat on the back at his escape.

You dare to find mirth in me? Inga narrowed her eyes at him and looked as if she might punch him in the mouth.

Not in you, sweetling. Do not take it personally.

And why not? Would it be such a horrendous thing if your seed took root in my womb?

Yea, it would. I do not wish to wed . . . yet.

Yet?

Not ever. For years and years.

If your father were here, he would force you to marry . . . to carry on his line.

If my father were here, he would not need me to carry on his line. He would have any one of my six half-brothers do the deed. My father would understand my reluctance, he insisted.

But would he? Ragnor mused. Or would he tell me that family is everything, and it is time for me to start my own?

Well, if you will not wed with me, you had best do me a favor, Inga declared. You owe me that at least.

Ragnor had to laugh at her turnabout. They were both standing there, stark naked. She no doubt wanted to couple with him again.

Torolf, where are you when I need you? Where that thought came from, Ragnor did not know. His brother had been dead these many years . . . the last time he’d seen him, they’d both been rogues to the bone and both sixteen years old—born a mere sen-night apart to the same father but different mothers in different locales. Often folks mistook them for twins, so identical was their appearance, except his hair was black and his eyes blue, while Torolf’s hair was blond and his eyes brown.

Their mischievous personalities had been the same, too. Ragnor recalled more than one occasion when the two of them had taken one lusty lass betwixt them in the bed furs. That was what Inga needed now. Two men to satisfy her needs. Torolf would have been up for the game . . . Ragnor just knew he would, his brother’s preference ofttimes being for blond-haired women, while he preferred the rarer red. He liked his women to have a brain, as well, whilst Torolf had claimed it took no brain to spread one’s thighs. By the gods, you can still make me smile, Torolf, even when you are in far-off Valhalla.

He glanced at Inga, standing afore him in all her blond, naked glory, a pensive expression on her face. His brother would not have said her nay.

Inga stamped her small foot in the rushes to mark her impatience.

For the love of Frey! She does want me to swive her again. Can I? He glanced down betwixt his legs. Turned out the lily was not dead after all. Turned out he did not need his brother after all.

Still, he thought, I miss you, Torolf. Even after all these years.

About that favor, Ragnor, she said sweetly.

Yea, she wants me again. Oh, well! A Viking’s work is never done.

But then, Inga surprised the spit out of him.

Dost think there is any leftover boar down in the kitchen? Could you bring a little late-night repast for me to sup on?

He laughed. What else could he do when his lady friend was more interested in meat than . . . well, meat?

Six months later, and deeper in the doldrums . . .

Stop wallowing, Ragnor.

Madrene! By the gods, I am trapped now.

Wake up, you lazy lout. ’Tis well past dawn, and much work to be done.

Work? What work? He tried to look at his sister, but his eyes seemed to be glued shut.

Have you smelled the garderobes lately? They need to be limed. The outside privies, too. The mound of manure by the stables resembles a mountain.

I thought I was in the fires of Muspell afore, but, nay, hell is yet to come.

And have I mentioned the moats? Holy Valhalla! We must needs start digging a trench to drain the stagnant water lest it breed pestilence. Not to worry, brother dear, I will show you how.

Dig a moat? Me? Now? I cannot open my eyes, let alone pick up a shovel.

Shame on you for neglecting your duties so, brother. Tsk-tsk-tsk. All for the sake of wallowing. And one more thing . . .

Ragnor groaned inwardly. Anytime a woman said And one more thing, any sane man knew to run for cover. ’Twas trouble coming, pure and simple. Is there aught more irksome than a nagging Norsewoman? Why does she not find herself a lustsome Viking man to keep her busy in the bed furs?

Madrene was still rambling on in her irritating, I-am-better-than-thou voice. He inhaled and exhaled deeply for strength, knowing that ignoring his shrew of a sister was not going to make her disappear. Ragnor lifted his head from the tabletop where he had been pressing his forehead and sat up as straight as he could under the influence of the alehead madness. Very carefully he turned his heavy head to glare at Madrene. She sat beside him on the dais of his great hall at Norstead, her efficient fingers working thread through a handheld distaff and spindle. Brooches adorned each of the straps on her long, open-sided apron. A ring of keys hung from one of the pins, marking her authority. A troll-warrior in an apron! Well, not really a troll. Madrene was pleasing to the eye in some ways, he supposed, with her blond hair and shapely figure . . . till she opened her mouth.

The only things more active than her tongue were her hands. Never let it be said that Madrene succumbed to an idle moment in her over-efficient life. She’d probably already counted his bed linens, inspected his kitchens and storerooms, not to mention the cess pits. Each sweep of the rough yarn through her fingers was like the sound of fingernails scratching across a rusty shield.

The fat cat draped across her shoulders like a fur mantle irritated him, as well. Black it was, though ill-named Rose. The furry monster had shifty gray eyes that regarded him with distaste as it hissed. Ragnor was the lackwit who had given Madrene the mangy gift when he’d returned from the eastern lands two years ago. The animal used every opportunity to annoy him—scratching his arms, pissing on his boots, once even landing on his male parts as he slept.

From the light seeping through the bladder windows, he realized it was morn and he still sat at the high table of the dais of his great hall. House servants and thralls bustled about on their daily chores. He must have sat here through the night . . . or was it two nights? With a grimace of distaste over the fuzziness of his tongue, he declared, Vikings . . . do . . . not . . . wallow.

Hah! Vikings wallow better than any halfbrained men I’ve ever met.

Are you saying that I am a halfbrain?

The cat made a sound he could swear was Yes!

He decided in that instant to buy Madrene a dog. A big dog. One that disliked cats.

Madrene knew as well as he that intelligence ran especially high in his brain. He spoke numerous languages. Numbers and words stuck in his mind on first hearing them. Sagas, once heard, imbedded themselves in his memory. He could survey the goods in a laden ship and within seconds precisely calculate their market value.

But he supposed that having intelligence didn’t translate into acting intelligently, leastways in Madrene’s assessment of him.

Holy Thor! My head is pounding. I need a horn of mead . . . or a death-blow to the half of my brain still alive and throbbing . . . or a good knock that would teach me the sense never to drink again or engage my sister in conversation. Further elaborating on her charge of his being half-brained, he said, I am smarter than the average Norseman. But not smart enough to shut my teeth.

Not when it comes to drinking. She stopped her infernal spinning and stared at him for a long moment. The cat jumped off her shoulders, which was a feat in itself, considering how fat it was, and went off to annoy someone else, or catch some of the mice that abounded in the dirty rushes. When did you get back?

A sennight ago.

A sennight? she exclaimed. And you have not come to see me?

Madrene ran the family farmstead. It bordered the royal fortress—his home—though it was many hides distant, two hours by horse. The farmstead was a prosperous estate, but nothing compared to his home—the vast lands and buildings that once belonged to his grandsire, Eric Trygvasson. He loved this place, Norstead, especially the timber castle built in the motte-and-bailey pattern with its highly carved eaves and beams, its great hall which could easily seat two hundred of his hird of soldiers, six huge center hearths, and hundreds of hectares of mountainous land dotted with fjords leading down to the sea. Outside the fortress castle were the smithy, armorer’s shed, stables, barns, kitchens, a brewery, a bakehouse, storerooms, and massive exercise fields for his soldiers . . . all enclosed within a wooden palisade. Yea, he loved Norstead, but apparently not enough. Why else would he stay away so much?

As for Madrene, he should have visited her. She was all the family he had left. But whenever he saw her, when he went to the farmstead, he remembered too much. That was why he kept his distance . . . that, and her nagging. Still, he saw the hurt in her blue eyes . . . the same pale blue as his own, he’d been told . . . though her hair was blond and his was black.

He shrugged. I was busy.

Busy! she snorted. Doing what? She glanced pointedly at the empty goblet sitting on the table before him. And, by the by, I hear that King Svein has a bone to pick with you.

Pffff! Six months ago he tried to trap me into marrying his daughter. He did not succeed.

Madrene raised her eyebrows at him. The way I hear it, he almost succeeded. As always, the Norse gossip vine had stretched its tendrils all the way from Denmark to Norway. Not surprising. That third leg of yours will get you into trouble yet.

Third leg? Madrene! You may have seen twenty-eight winters, but that gives you no excuse for unseemliness. Tsk-tsk. He grinned as he spoke.

It was Madrene’s turn to say, Pffff! She shook her head at him. Men always let their dangly parts lead them down the wrong path. Methinks it started with the Christians’ Adam, whose lustsome nature caused him to eat the forbidden apple.

He and Madrene had been raised in both the Norse and Christian religions, but still he found amusement in her quoting of the Scriptures. Neither of them was very religious.

Do not smirk at me, brother. You know I am right. And whilst we are on the subject . . .

He groaned and put his face in his hands.

. . . would it be such a bad thing for you to marry Inga? She is pretty enough. And biddable. And apparently wanton to some extent.

All good qualities in a wife, I presume? he asked with a laugh, raising his head once again. Biddable! Hah! What would I do with a biddable wife? There is one thing I would discuss with you, though . . . something, uh, personal?

She arched her eyebrows in question.

When I was with Inga, and we were engaged in . . . you know . . .

She arched her eyebrows higher.

. . . I did what I was supposed to do, but I had no . . . um, ‘enthusiasm’ to speak of.

Madrene’s lips trembled with a half smile. That was six months ago. Libertine that you are, how has your ‘enthusiasm’ held up with other women? She choked on her own stifled laughter.

I knew I should not have discussed this with Madrene. She does not take me seriously, not by half. Still, he blundered on, There have been no others. Dost think something is wrong with me?

I don’t know. Have you truly not lain with any other woman in all that time? I mean, ’tis unremarkable for me—I have not known a man in five years. But you? By thunder, ’tis a miracle.

He could not tell for certain whether she made jest with him. He felt himself blush, and he never blushed.

None? Well, well, well. The expression on her face was marked by equal parts disbelief and amusement.

Rose, who sat a short distance away licking her fur, hissed out what could only be a snicker.

’Tis not that I can’t. I just don’t want to. I seem to be yearning for something more. And you misspeak in calling me a libertine, truly you do. I do not fornicate any more than the average Norseman.

Which is an excessive amount.

I cannot believe I am having this conversation with my sister.

She squeezed his arm and said, Ragnor, methinks you are finally growing up. At the ripe old age of twenty and seven! Praise the gods! You need a soul-mate, not just a bedmate.

I take exception to that conclusion. Why is it that women always think the answer to every man’s problem is marriage? Soulmate? There is no such thing.

He had no chance to discuss the matter further because Madrene motioned over a housemaid, who carried a tray with a large metal cup on it. When Ragnor recognized the contents, he protested, Oh, nay. I could not . . . please . . . stop shoving it in my face, Madrene. His sister forced to his lips her usual concoction for curing the aftereffects of the mead madness. It was warm and green and slimy. The fact that it usually worked was beside the point.

Stop being such a whineling.

Yech! he said as he swallowed the horrid mess all in one gulp. It landed in his stomach with a thud, and soon thereafter he began to feel better . . . once he stopped gagging.

About your marriage, Madrene persisted.

You overstep yourself, sister, he cautioned. I am the jarl here.

Am I supposed to be impressed?

Well, nay, but you should treat me with more respect . . . and stop bringing up marriage.

You are the last male in the line. You must have sons . . . legitimate sons . . . if our father’s bloodline is to continue.

Ragnor would have asked why Madrene did not do the job herself, but he knew better. Her husband, Karl, had put her aside five years ago for failure to breed. Pronounced barren, she had vowed never to wed again. Personally, Ragnor suspected Karl was not that great a husband or lover, and that the fault might have lain in him . . . at least partially. But he decided not to broach that subject with Madrene. She would no doubt bring up her dangly male parts theory again.

I will consider marriage someday, he promised. But it will be on my own terms. With a bride of my choosing.

Madrene nodded.

In the meantime, I will be departing in a sennight or two.

A-Viking?

Mayhap. Most men of his acquaintance went raiding in the spring, after planting, or in the fall, after harvest. It was midsummer now, but the land did not bind him as it did others. Or I will join forces with other Norsemen to assault the Saxons.

Come, brother, let me help you to your bed furs. You need to sleep for a good long time. Then we will discuss your future plans.

Leave it to Madrene. She did not berate him for his plans to go a-Viking or soldiering. She was a good Norsewoman. A strong female. And handsome, too, when she was not nagging. He only wished she’d been able to find a husband who pleased her, in hearth and heart, but most especially in the bed furs. Forget that nonsense about soulmates, a good bedmate would do.

He looped his arm around her shoulders, though he did not need her to lean upon, and she wrapped her arm around his waist. As they walked through the great hall, heading toward the staircase leading to the upper chambers, she said, I know what this is all about, Ragnor.

"What this?"

Your mood. ’Tis that time of year. Midsummer. That was when our father left with nine of our brothers and sisters on his sea voyage.

And never returned, he finished for her.

Yea, never returned. Dost think there is any chance they are still alive?

He shook his head at her, sad that she would even ask the question. "Nay. You know Faöir would have sent us word. He would not disappear for eleven years without telling us, if he were still alive."

I know, she said on a sigh. Still, we have no proof. Just news of their longship having been in Greenland and beyond. Then nothing.

They are dead, Madrene, he said gently. Betimes, though, I wish that we had gone with him on that fateful trip.

Then we would be dead, too.

He shrugged as if that might not matter so much. Odin’s breath! This kind of talk would put him in an even darker mood. He tried to brighten up Madrene, at least, if not himself. "Well, we still have each other. And I will not be leaving for a good many days yet. Shall I challenge you to a game of hnefatafl this evening?" He leered at her like some crafty gambler.

She smiled back and nudged him in the ribs with her elbow for his teasing. I always win, you rogue, unless you cheat. Methinks ’tis time you brought me a few more baubles back from your adventuring. Yea, that is what I will take for my prize this time. A woman can never have too much amber . . . or gold.

Ragnor laughed and hugged her to his side as they walked up the stairs. Inside, though, he thought, What a sad and lonely pair we are!

CHAPTER TWO

A thousand or so years later. . . . Are we having fun yet? . . .

Magnusson! Get your hairy ass up here and give me fifty. You are one sorry sonofabitch! You run like a girl. You breathe like a girl. Pff-pff-pff! Are you a girl? Are you, Viking?

Ensign Torolf Magnusson, the object of that tirade, looked up at his instructor, Master Chief Petty Officer Ian MacLean, and wondered idly if that bulging vein in his tormentor’s forehead might just blow. One could only hope.

Haul ass, boy, the Master Chief continued to yell. "Remember, winners never quit. Are you ready to quit? We haven’t had a quitter today. Yet. You ready to give it up, loser? Huh? I’d love to have you ring the bell."

Oh, shit! Here we go again. Like I would ever quit over a dickhead like you. Like I can’t handle a measly spill into a mud pit. You’re not going to break me. I survived Hell Week. I can survive you. Torolf, one of the eight members of Team Five in SEAL Class 500, crawled out of the ditch where he had fallen during the obstacle course known in BUD/S training as the Devil’s Spawn. BUD/S was the acronym for the SEAL training program Basic Underwater Demolition/Seals. Training was done here in Coronado at the Naval Special Warfare Center. Sometimes, like today, Torolf wondered why it had always been his dream to be here.

He spat a wad of crud out of his mouth, wiped the mud out of his eyes with the back of his dirty hand, then levered himself up and out by muscle-strained arms. Standing to attention, he said, Yes, Master Chief, sir.

Master Chief MacLean stood glaring at him through dark Matrix sunglasses, hands on hips. On his shirt shone the coveted trident pin that all SEAL wannabees aimed for. Better known as the Budweiser, the trident pin, featuring an eagle grasping Neptune’s pitchfork in one claw and a weapon in the other, was granted only to men who had gained SEAL status.

Without having the order repeated, Torolf dropped to the ground to do fifty push-ups, on top of the five hundred he’d already done that day. And it was barely oh-nine-hundred on a bright California summer morning.

His seven teammates, equally wet, dirty, and bone-tired, stared with seeming solemnity at him as he completed his punishment. None of them cracked as much as a grin, knowing full well that they could be next.

Seaman Justin LeBlanc, that crazy Cajun from Loo-zee-anna, did wink at him, though . . . a brief flutter that could be interpreted as a blink if noticed by the chief or any of the three other instructors in attendance. Cage was his swim buddy. In SEALs, swim buddies could never be more than six feet apart.

Petty Officer Second Class Sylvester Sly Simms, a big black dude from Harlem who used to model men’s tighty whities for Esquire, gave the chief a surreptitious finger behind his back.

Petty Officer First Class Travis Flash Gordon crossed his eyes, as if a bug had suddenly crash-dived on his nose.

Seaman Frank Uxley, nicknamed F.U. for obvious reasons, didn’t blink or gesture; he’d been doing duck squats all morning for failure to help lift his IBL (Inflatable Boat, Large) fast enough in a predawn surf op. No way was he chancing a repeat of those hamstring-punishing exercises.

Lieutenant (jg) Jacob Alvarez Mendozo—JAM—moved his lips slightly; he was probably praying, being an ex-Jesuit priest. JAM always claimed he had God on his shoulder, while all Torolf had was that puny-assed Thor.

You boys need a little loosening up before breakfast, the Master Chief said. What say we go for a short run . . . say ten miles?

What a comedian!

Torolf knew that ten miles meant it would probably be fifteen . . . maybe more. It would be an uncomfortable run in heavy boondockers, with sand between their toes and in every bodily orifice from their early-morning beach roll-arounds. They were in full ruck today, which meant BDUs and carrying about seventy-five pounds of