Read Online On the Cold Coasts by Vilborg Davidsdottir - Free Book Online
Authors: Vilborg Davidsdottir
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first, allowing themselves to be carried by the music. Hearts beat faster and feet took unfamiliar steps, almost of their own accord, and hands touched in tandem with the feverish beat of the tambourine.
Ragna watched from a distance, feeling the tones swirl all around her, seductive and inviting, yet she remained stoic in the face of temptation. Then she felt someone catch her hand, and in an instant she was in the midst of a circular dance and Thorkell was holding on to her shoulders, laughing and happy, an entirely different man from the one he had been a moment before the harp playing began. She could not help smiling too, and she had to work to keep up with him.
Then he was gone, and the bishop himself stood in front of her. He bowed deeply, took her hand, and pulled her to him in a strange, foreign dance. To her great dismay, Ragna felt all eyes upon them.
“Allow me to lead. Hold up the hem of your skirt so that you don’t trip, and you’ll be fine,” said Craxton smiling, his gray eyes gleaming with excitement. She obeyed, and before she knew it, they were alone in the middle of the floor in front of the musicians and the bishop was performing complex steps with his hands on his hips, indicating that she should do the same. She tried to keep her dignity and mimic his dexterity, but her face was flushed and her chest heavy. One of the onlookers suppressed a laugh. It was as if the teasing trills of the flute underscored her lack of skill, and she looked helplessly at the bishop, silently begging for help. To her great relief, he took her hand and bowed to indicate that the dance was over, and the people applauded their bishop and his housekeeper. Ragna hurried out of the room, desperate to leave the throng and breathe in some fresh air.
He was waiting for her in the dimly lit hallway, pulled her into a dark alcove and whispered bitterly: “Did you like dancing with John Craxton and having all those men ogle you and lust after you?!” She was stunned and could not utter a sound. Thorkell continued, rapidly, forcefully: “It pained me more than it ever has to see you smile at him, to see you smile at any other man. Know that you are meant for me, that you have been mine from the beginning.”
Did she have a choice? At that very instant, she might have seen a twinkle of derangement in his gaze; she might have shoved him aside, along with everything implied by his words. Rejected him as he had rejected her, as he had degraded and humiliated her. But perhaps it was too late; perhaps she had no other choice but to love him, to desire to please him, to make him happy. What did she have to lose? Why not accept the love he offered her, hoping that somehow everything would work out in the future as it had in the past? Only the heart knows its own agony, and no one can interfere, even in its joy.
“Dearest,” she said. “I am yours. Forgive me.”
His eyes reflected back her own beauty, her strength and abilities, and her faith in all possibility. There was no turning back.
He led her into a small room behind the great hall, where the bishop’s rulings and decrees were recorded in books, and where his letters and indictments were kept. It smelled of ink and manuscript scrolls and power. Through the thick, paneled turf walls they could hear the merriment of the feast.
Thorkell turned the key in the lock, took the thick woolen cape from his shoulders, and laid it out on the floor.
Nothing mattered but this, to open buckles and ribbons, buttons and belts, find and touch naked skin, stroke and caress, kiss and lick, bite, grasp, open, give and receive, hold tight and hard, become one in the surge, two bodies wet with perspiration, loud noises as their hips came together. He moaned as he increased and decreased the speed of his thrusts, whereas she was more quiet, meek against his intensity and lack of restraint.
When he reached his climax, he pulled away and spilled his seed on her. Hot, white rivulets on a hot,
Ragna watched from a distance, feeling the tones swirl all around her, seductive and inviting, yet she remained stoic in the face of temptation. Then she felt someone catch her hand, and in an instant she was in the midst of a circular dance and Thorkell was holding on to her shoulders, laughing and happy, an entirely different man from the one he had been a moment before the harp playing began. She could not help smiling too, and she had to work to keep up with him.
Then he was gone, and the bishop himself stood in front of her. He bowed deeply, took her hand, and pulled her to him in a strange, foreign dance. To her great dismay, Ragna felt all eyes upon them.
“Allow me to lead. Hold up the hem of your skirt so that you don’t trip, and you’ll be fine,” said Craxton smiling, his gray eyes gleaming with excitement. She obeyed, and before she knew it, they were alone in the middle of the floor in front of the musicians and the bishop was performing complex steps with his hands on his hips, indicating that she should do the same. She tried to keep her dignity and mimic his dexterity, but her face was flushed and her chest heavy. One of the onlookers suppressed a laugh. It was as if the teasing trills of the flute underscored her lack of skill, and she looked helplessly at the bishop, silently begging for help. To her great relief, he took her hand and bowed to indicate that the dance was over, and the people applauded their bishop and his housekeeper. Ragna hurried out of the room, desperate to leave the throng and breathe in some fresh air.
He was waiting for her in the dimly lit hallway, pulled her into a dark alcove and whispered bitterly: “Did you like dancing with John Craxton and having all those men ogle you and lust after you?!” She was stunned and could not utter a sound. Thorkell continued, rapidly, forcefully: “It pained me more than it ever has to see you smile at him, to see you smile at any other man. Know that you are meant for me, that you have been mine from the beginning.”
Did she have a choice? At that very instant, she might have seen a twinkle of derangement in his gaze; she might have shoved him aside, along with everything implied by his words. Rejected him as he had rejected her, as he had degraded and humiliated her. But perhaps it was too late; perhaps she had no other choice but to love him, to desire to please him, to make him happy. What did she have to lose? Why not accept the love he offered her, hoping that somehow everything would work out in the future as it had in the past? Only the heart knows its own agony, and no one can interfere, even in its joy.
“Dearest,” she said. “I am yours. Forgive me.”
His eyes reflected back her own beauty, her strength and abilities, and her faith in all possibility. There was no turning back.
He led her into a small room behind the great hall, where the bishop’s rulings and decrees were recorded in books, and where his letters and indictments were kept. It smelled of ink and manuscript scrolls and power. Through the thick, paneled turf walls they could hear the merriment of the feast.
Thorkell turned the key in the lock, took the thick woolen cape from his shoulders, and laid it out on the floor.
Nothing mattered but this, to open buckles and ribbons, buttons and belts, find and touch naked skin, stroke and caress, kiss and lick, bite, grasp, open, give and receive, hold tight and hard, become one in the surge, two bodies wet with perspiration, loud noises as their hips came together. He moaned as he increased and decreased the speed of his thrusts, whereas she was more quiet, meek against his intensity and lack of restraint.
When he reached his climax, he pulled away and spilled his seed on her. Hot, white rivulets on a hot,
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