Malice Striker Read Free Page A

and painful. I had the servants bring me softened lard. Hold out your hands.”
    Confused, but trained to obey, Skatha did as she was told. Lady Gráinne placed a small, round bowl in her cupped palms. “Dip your finger in it.”
    She obeyed, inhaled, and tentatively licked the tip of her finger. “Pig lard.”
    “Aye. We will bathe you and dry you now. Then you will lie on this bed naked under the covers. You will take the grease and coat your woman parts. Inside and out. Use your fingers to push as much inside you as you can. Lord Brökk is a large man. His manhood will be of a proportion. The grease will ease his way and lessen your pain.”
    She flinched. Swallowed hard, once, twice, thrice. “How long will it last?”
    “Not long if you do precisely what I tell you.”
    What Lady Gráinne had to tell her next stupefied Skatha. She listened carefully and tried to memorize every detail.
    The women washed her hair and scrubbed her flesh. They wrapped her in a blanket, used drying cloths to wring the moisture from her curls, and untangled her locks with a bone comb they found in a trunk.
    All too soon, she heard the sounds of roaring male voices joined in ribald Gaelic and Norse song. Pecker, prick, the songs the warriors warbled resonated with these words she now recognized. All at once came the knowledge that the men sang of the act to come, the consummation, the penetration. Her head giddy, she fought to gulp in air as an unbearable weight compressed her chest.
    “Hurry. Shed the blanket, climb into the bed, and lie under the linens. Remember what I told you. Do not fight him.” Lady Gráinne gave her a slight push.
    Skatha nodded. Her mouth too dry to form words, she clambered into position. Her limbs froze, and her hands refused to obey the command to pick up the bowl with the lard.
    “I will ensure the bed curtains remain closed.” Lady Gráinne brushed a kiss on Skatha’s temple. “God be with you, my little dove.”
    ’Twas only when she heard his voice that the paralysis shattered. She shoved the linen down below her waist.
    He spoke Norse, assuring some warrior he would prick her well. The assembled men burst into a raucous limerick.
    She grabbed the bowl of grease and slathered the gooey paste all over her private parts.
    Push the grease inside as far as you can. Lady Gráinne’s instructions thundered in her mind. Skatha braced herself and thrust her finger into her sheath again and again and again.
    The men’s singing halted.
    She stuffed the bowl under a bed cushion.
    An icy draft blasted her bare shoulders.
    Skatha jerked the sheets to her chin and curled her fingers into a fist when she felt the mattress dip.
    He smelled of forest, leather, and ale.
    She couldn’t breathe, her whole body as stiff and unyielding as a cold slab of marble. Skatha squeezed her eyelids shut. Was he looking at her? She tried to relax her facial muscles, to attain the serene expression that had served her well with visitors to the abbey.
    The straw sighed under his weight.
    She slid sideways and grabbed the linens to remain in place.
    His hand, warm and rough, cradled one cheek. “Look to me, wife.”
    Touch him oft. Caress his sword of penetration and ’twill be over in a thrice. Had she the courage to follow Lady Gráinne’s astonishing advice? Aye. Naught would stop her. Too much had been stolen from her. ’Twas time to take back.
    She turned her head in the direction of his voice, opened her eyes, and laid her palm on his flesh. Hard. He was so hard. No give to his skin. And hot. ’Twas like touching a boulder that had been lying under a blazing sun.
    He stilled.
    She whisked away her hand feeling like she had been burned.
    “Nay.” He captured her wrist, pressed his mouth to the vein throbbing on the underside, and licked the spot.
    With his tongue.
    Too stunned to react at first, Skatha tried to wrest from his grasp when he nipped the heel of her palm.
    He kissed the top of her breast.
    She gasped.
    His