The afternoon passed at an agonizingly slow pace and soon she held on to the reins with every bit of her strength. Surely, he did not mean this as retribution for obstructing his plans? When it seemed like several hours had passed and still they rode on, Margriet was ready to consider that Rurik would show no mercy now that she was in his control. Soon, as her body tightened with pain, she was ready to beg for that which he seemed unwilling or unable to give.
"Sir!" she implored in as loud a voice as she could manage. "Sir!"
Various voices carried her message forward until she heard his order called out. Every muscle in her back and legs screamed as she tried to straighten up on the paltry cushion that was failing miserably in its attempt to protect her bottom from the abuse of the ride. Her previous practice on the nearly lame pony at the convent could never have prepared her for riding this mount at this gait. Mopping her brow once more of the sweat that gathered there, Margriet lifted her head and watched as he made his way back to her side.
"I confess, sir," she began as she wiped her brow and face again with the edge of one sleeve, "I confess that I have no experience in traveling at such a pace and I beg you to allow me … us … a short respite."
If she had been looking away at that moment, Margriet would never have seen the look of triumph on his face at her words. Then a moment of confusion followed and he simply nodded. What had he thought she was ready to confess? His words clarified it for her.
"Lady," he said and then paused. Clearing his throat, he met her gaze and began anew. She could see his jaws clenching as he formulated his reply. "Sister, there is no need to beg. Simply ask for what you need and I will seek to fulfill your needs."
Her lovely mouth dropped open a bit and her pale-as-ice eyes widened at his words. Then he observed a revealing blush creep up onto her cheeks and felt his cock harden.
Sweet Freya's tits! But she was gorgeous when agitated!
He should be asking for her forgiveness but instead his body continued to react to the momentary flash in her eyes that revealed so much to him. He'd learned to read a woman's expression long ago and hers said that Sister Margriet had more knowledge of the arts of love than a nun should have.
He could swear that she understood all the meanings in his words, which definitely bore more than one. From the way his men shifted on their horses, trying not to look openly at either of them, he knew they had as well. Her mouth closed and she swallowed several times; his view of her lovely neck was unfortunately obscured by the religious garb she wore. Finally she pushed words out and he hoped for another confession from her lips.
"A short rest, if you please," she said. "I can no longer feel my legs, sir," she whispered so that only he could hear. Most likely, she had not noticed the other men practically falling off their mounts to listen.
Rurik surveyed their surroundings, and considered the distance traveled and still to go before they would camp for the night, and nodded. Safety was his concern, and with the loss of several hours already, he was not truly happy about stopping now. He glanced at the other young nun and noticed her pale complexion. They were not seasoned travelers at all.
He raised his arm, signaling the men to pause. He watched as several rode off ahead and behind, taking up positions meant to guard their party from any surprises approaching them on the road. Rurik slid off his horse and handed the reins to one of the other men so that he could assist the women from theirs. He reached up to lift her from her place on the horse's back when she shook her head.
One thing he'd learned early in life was that some wanted or needed to make every situation more difficult than need be and that there was no way to change their predisposition to such an attitude. Margriet-Sister Margriet-seemed one of those very people. Rurik stepped back and crossed his arms over his chest, watching her antics as she tried to dismount on her own.
'Twas clear that her legs would not obey her commands to move. She shifted on top of the horse and he allowed her to try until her actions caused her mount to sidestep nervously. Rurik stepped closer, took hold of the reins and brought the horse under control.
Gunnar's daughter had a stubborn streak. 'Twas clear from the way she struggled to move legs that were clearly not going to move on their own. Although she glanced at her companion once or twice, she would not look at him. Stubborn and prideful.
Neither attributes were what he would expect in a true woman of God. Mayhap that was why Gunnar had exiled her here … ? Had he hoped the good sisters would work or pray or beat it out of her? From what he remembered of Gunnar's daughter, and it was not much due to his age and interest in the pursuit of the fairer sex at the time, her mother had died soon after her birth or the birth of a sibling, and then she was gone.
Thinking back, the struggle for control of the Orkneys exploded about that same time and, with the uncertainty of loyalties and outcomes, Gunnar had been wise to send her south. Now with Caithness awarded to a Scottish earl's control and Erengisl of Sweden firmly in place as Earl of the Orkneys, her father thought the timing good to bring her home. More likely than not, with an eye to marrying her off.
Hah! Watching her nearly topple to the ground and still not ask for help, Rurik suspected her father would be as surprised as he about Margriet's vocation to religious life. He reached out as soon as he knew she would land on her arse in the dirt and took hold of her waist. Lifting her off the horse was no more trouble for him than if he was lifting a child. Lifting her was not the problem.
Letting go of her became the problem when he felt the narrowness of her waist and the flare of her hips in his grasp.
No, he thought a moment later, the true trouble was when she struggled against his hold and his hands slipped up high enough to feel the weight of her breasts against them. Margriet noticed; the flaring of her pale eyes revealed it, as did the way she stilled a moment later.
The best thing-well, the most polite thing-would be to release her immediately, but in that moment he did not want to be polite. His body reacted and his blood heated and surged through him, making him want to do that which his ancestors were known for-he wanted to take and pillage.
By Odin's Seed, he understood the legends of old! His body understood them and stood ready. And when she placed her hands on his shoulders, he nearly forgot everything.
"My thanks for your assistance, sir."
Her voice broke in to the maelstrom in his head and brought a halt to his wild thoughts. It did nothing for the heat that raged in his blood.
Rurik nodded and lowered Margriet to the ground. He felt the shakiness of her stance and waited a minute more for her to steady herself. Some distance was truly needed and he turned to help the younger woman. Unfortunately Magnus robbed him of his excuse to move from Margriet's side.
Standing this close, he heard her labored breathing as she tried to take a step. Her stubbornness won out again, for she stumbled against him as her legs gave out.
"Thor's Breath, la … Sister, let me help you," he said as he grabbed her shoulders and held her still.
She lifted her head and nodded in agreement, but anger flashed in her eyes at his aid. He released her after a few minutes and placed his arm under her hand so he could walk at her side.
"My thanks, sir," she said as she lifted her hand from his a few paces later.
Rurik watched as she waddled away from him, still unsteady but moving apurpose. He turned to find the men watching him with as much interest as he watched the woman. Not a good thing.
He nodded at one of the men to follow the women as they made their way off the path, obviously in need of privacy after several hours on the road. Never one to disregard or to ignore his own weaknesses, for they could be the death of him and those to whom he pledged loyalty, he considered why he reacted this way to a nun.
First, he did not expect Gunnar's daughter to be as old as she was-from his father's missives he thought her still a young lass.
Second, he did not expect her to be a nun-for the daughter of a man held in such high esteem and with such wealth as he knew Gunnar to have was a marriage prize and not a gift to the church. The sight of her in the religious habit stunned him.
But more than that, he never expected her to be the strong, organized, willful and beautiful woman that she was. From the first moment of resistance to her eventual surrender, Margriet proved herself a proud Daughter of the North. 'Twas obvious from their initial encounter to the last order she gave before she left it, that she ruled the convent. He counted at least fifty nuns and lay people living there and, from youngest bairn to oldest man, they all appeared well-fed and kept. Not an easy task for even the most experienced of stewards, let alone a nun.