Kiss of Pride (23 page)

How do you say “I do” in Old Norse? . . .

It took two months for Vikar to heal, and his body would never be quite what it had been before. Alex didn’t care. He was alive.

Besides, maybe being a mite less gorgeous would be a good thing. That never-ending pride weakness of Vikar’s.

Besides, Alex thought the bump on his nose gave him character, and his brothers claimed to envy the scars on his hands and feet, surely signs that he was marked as special. Otherwise, he had regained most of his strength, and his skin color was more than healthy with all the blood Alex had been giving him on a regular basis.

As for the wings . . . Vikar told her that he wasn’t ready to be an
angel
angel. Viking vampire angel was enough for him. And flying? Whoa! That had been scary for him, to say the least, and not just because of that close call with a tree. He loved retelling the story over and over to his brothers, each time with a little extra embellishment.

During this time of recovery, because of his weakened state, or so he tried to claim, Vikar agreed to marry her soon. Alex had worked her wiles on him mercilessly.
Who knew I even had wiles before this?
She didn’t care what he said about the risks. To her, the bigger risk was not having him as her husband, even if for a short time.

So here she was on her wedding day, waiting for the ceremony to begin, and she couldn’t be happier. She had no idea if the wedding would be legal by modern standards, but it had to be the only wedding in history performed by an archangel. Michael had come back specially for them.

“Why are you smiling?” Vikar asked. They were standing on the back verandah, waiting for the call to come forward to the gazebo that had been transformed into an altar.

At least a hundred vangels were standing outside, not wanting to miss this momentous event. It wasn’t often that vangels married, and it had never happened with one of The Seven.

“I’m happy,” she replied to his question, and her happiness wasn’t just because they were marrying. When Michael had shown her the image of her daughter, it was as if a shutter had come down on the horror of her past. She was only looking forward now. A long ways, she hoped.

And no way could she think of the archangel as Mike, as the vangels did. It was too irreverent. When she’d voiced that opinion to Vikar, he’d replied that Vikings were known for their irreverence. He said it as if that was a good thing.

“Are you sure about this?” he asked now, taking her hand and kissing her knuckles.

“Absolutely.”

“But if I die, you will, too.”

“That’s all right.”

“But it could happen tomorrow. There is no guarantee that we will share a long life.”

“Stop worrying,” she said, squeezing his hand.

“There will be no children,” he reminded her.

“Stop it, will you? We’ve discussed all this. You and all your vangels will be my family. It is enough.”

“Do not deny that you would have liked babies.”

She tilted her head in concession. “I had already decided not to have any more children, after Linda, but, with you, I would have liked to make a baby.” She shook her head to rid it of the sweet possibilities: a little blond boy with her green eyes, or a pretty strawberry-blonde-haired girl with his rascally blue eyes. “Honestly, sweetie, the compromise I’m making is worth it. Please, let’s not discuss this ever again.”

He was the one tilting his head in concession now.

“You look very handsome today,” she said.

He winked at her, as if to say,
Of course
. He wore a navy-blue suit with a pale blue shirt that brought out the brightness in his eyes. His tie was a special purchase of hers, blue angel wings on a white background, that she’d found on her quick trip to town, where she’d bought the perfect wedding dress. A cream-colored lace cocktail dress, tight to the waist, then flowing out in increasingly bigger flounces, one covering the other, down to her calves, with matching shoes. In her hair, she wore a garland of flowers that Armod had found at a farmers’ market, miniature pink roses and baby’s breath.

“You are the most beautiful bride I have ever seen,” he countered. At the look of adoration on his face, she could almost believe it was true.

And then it was time.

Michael wore a long white garment with a rope belt. Very plain. About his neck hung a heavy gold crucifix. And his wings were out, fully. On either side of Michael stood Vikar’s six brothers and Armod, who looked gorgeous in formal suits. Even Armod, who had put aside his Michael Jackson attire for the day. Ever since his capture and release, Armod idolized Vikar in a way that Vikar found exasperating, but Alex found amusing. The boy would grow out of it eventually.

Ivak gave a low whistle at her when they got closer, and Vikar scowled at him in return. It was adorable that he could be jealous. Michael also scowled at Ivak, which caused Ivak to duck his head sheepishly, but not with any significant remorse.

The wedding ritual that followed was a conservative one, even a bit sexist in the love, honor, and obey vein, but Alex couldn’t mind. She and Vikar knew what they were promising each other. At one point, Vikar slipped a gold signet ring onto her finger, a smaller replica of the one he and his brothers wore with the winged emblem. Afterward Michael gave them his blessing and left in a poof of feathers.

If they’d had more time, Vikar would have liked to incorporate more Norse elements into their wedding. Not the pagan rituals, but some of the traditional things, he said. Alex was happy the way it turned out, though. Simplicity had its own charm.

To the cheers of his fellow angels, Vikar kissed his bride and led her toward the verandah where Lizzie had prepared a sumptuous wedding breakfast to be held outdoors on folding tables that were already being set up. A small band of vangels was prepared to entertain them later. Who knew? Viking vampire angel rockers.

“You know what happens next, don’t you?” Vikar whispered in her ear.

“The
brudr-hlaup
,” she said with a yelp, running toward the castle in the bride running, a Viking practice Vikar had told her about.

The lout arrived at the doorway before her, though, unencumbered by high heels as he was. He stood leaning against the door with his sword drawn. Holding her eyes, he laid the weapon across the threshold and said with a twinkle in his dancing blue eyes, “Once you cross this sword, you are mine to do with as I will.”

“Is that so? Maybe I’ll start a new tradition. When I step over this threshold, you are mine to do with as I will.”

“Works for me,” he said, smacking her on the rump lightly with the flat side of his sword after she jumped the threshold.

What followed was a rip-roaring Viking feast. Nothing vampiric or angelic about the vast amounts of beer; roast Angus beef (no boar being available); hard rock, country, and even some Michael Jackson music; and dancing. With the dearth of women, some men had to dance together, and wasn’t that a sight to behold? Big hulking Norsemen trying to follow Ivak’s steps in learning to line dance.

Midway through the feast, when it was only three p.m., Vikar yawned widely and winked at his wife. “Methinks it is time for the real celebration to begin.”

His brothers, no fools, hooted with laughter.

She wasn’t fooled, either. “Oh? More beer?”

He winked at her. “No, foolish wench, I am about to show you the famous Viking S-spot.”

A hard-on is a hard-on, even when a century-old one . . .

Vikar had an “enthusiasm” that had been building for, oh, a hundred years. The “thickening” might very well drag on the floor if he were not so tall, he thought with a Viking bridegroom’s right to overexaggeration on his wedding night.

The skalds could no doubt write a saga about it.

Or not.

“You’re laughing,” Alex said against his ear, then stuck the tip of her tongue into the whorls, just to tease him.

“Witch!” He almost stumbled as he continued to carry her up the stairway to his bedchamber.

After he set her down on her feet and gave her a quick kiss, they both burst out laughing. Who said Vikings weren’t romantic?

About the bedchamber his vangels had arranged numerous candles and vases of cut flowers. Armod must have been especially busy at that flower mart. He hoped that’s where he’d gotten them. Bodil would have a flying fit if the boy had cut any of the precious roses he’d planted outside. In addition, a bottle of champagne cooled in an ice bucket. He would have preferred a hearty mead, but the sentiment was appreciated. In addition, someone . . . he assumed Lizzie . . . had laid out a tray of food, what modern folks called finger foods. Cheese, crackers, and such. The appetite he intended to work up would hardly be appeased by such meager fare, but again he appreciated the sentiment.

“I bought a special negligee,” Alex said as she walked about the room, sniffing the various bouquets.

When would women realize that the greatest aphrodisiac for a man is skin?
“Save it for another day. My hunger for you is too great. I would no doubt rip it off.”

She laughed. “Promises, promises.”

“Dost not know yet, wench, to never challenge a Viking?”

“Oh, really?” She started to walk on her deliciously high heels across the room away from him, giving her hips a little jiggle that caused the flounces of her garment to . . . flounce? It was like a flag afore a raging bull. He planned to make her do that sexy, rump-wagging walk again later. Naked.

Then she had the nerve to tell him, with a saucy glance over her shoulder, “By the way, did I tell you I’m not wearing any underwear?”

That did it! With a laugh, he made his way to her with a whoosh . . . one of the advantages of being a vangel . . . picked her up by the waist, and had her back up against the wall, feet dangling, afore she could blink.

Did she cower then? Or acquiesce? No, she put her arms around his shoulders and straddled his hips, pressing her mons up against his thickening.

His knees almost gave way.

Lifting the hem of her dress, he ran his hands up the sides of her bare legs to her buttocks, which were indeed uncovered. Then he checked the waistline. Betimes modern women fooled men by wearing those thong garments, but no, his new wife was totally unclothed down below.

He grinned and nipped at her chin. “You exchanged vows bare-arse naked in front of an archangel?”

She grinned back. “I took my panties and stockings off when we were back in the house. Ivak gave me the idea.”

“Ivak? I’ll kill him. Well, not kill him, of course, but I will hurt him. Make him less comely to women.”

“Why? You don’t like me to be ready for you?”

“Ah, sweetling, I love that you are ready for me, but I do not relish my brother making such a suggestion.”

“I was kidding,” she said. Then, “The question is: Are you ready for me?”

“Do you doubt it?” With a modicum of effort, his thickening was free and raised between them, thanks to that wonderful modern invention, the zipper.

Alex glanced down and raised a brow. “A blue steeler? For me?”

“Who else?” But wait. If this woman thought she was running this show, he had a fjord to sell her in the Arab lands. Tucking himself back inside his braies, carefully, the zipper being both a convenience and a possible enthusiasm killer, he set her back on her high-heeled feet. At the confusion on her face, he said, “I want this night to be special. I’ve waited too long to have it end with one thrust.”

“You sweet talker, you!” she remarked with a smile, then sat down in a wingback chair near the window and crossed her legs, giving him an ample view of her thigh up to what Armod’s favorite singer called Neverland. “Something special, huh? Okay, baby, show me everything special in your repertoire.”

Repertoire. He would show her repertoire.
“I love you, Alex,” he said then.

“Back at you, sweetheart. A hundredfold.” She was rocking the foot of her upper leg backward and forward, the shoe dangling from her toes. Did she do it deliberately, or was she as aroused as he was? The latter, he suspected.

He walked over to the dresser and pressed the button on a music player someone had left there. Immediately, a raw male voice began crooning something about “Let’s Get It On.”

“Marvin Gaye?” she hooted.

He shrugged. “I would not know one singer from another. ’Tis my brothers’ doing.” He reached out to turn it off.

“Don’t you dare,” she ordered.

He arched a brow at her.

“That is quintessential make-out music. More panties have been dropped to that song than you could imagine.”

“That could very well be, but Vikings have other methods.”

“Like raping and pillaging?”

“I have decided that you will owe me a bounty every time you make that ridiculous accusation in future.” And he had some very graphic ideas of what those bounties would entail.

She didn’t look at all daunted by that threat. In fact, she grinned.

He took off his jacket and laid it over the dresser behind him. He loosened the constricting tie at his neck, only then noticing her lips part as she watched him closely. Hmm. Slowly, very slowly, he undid the buttons on his shirt, then eased it off his shoulders, letting it drop to the floor.

Her pink tongue peeked out, and she licked her lips. It was an unconscious movement, not deliberately designed to entice.

But he was enticed nonetheless. Any more enticed and he would be embarrassing himself like an untried youthling.

Still leaning back against the dresser, he toed off one black loafer, then another.

“You’re not wearing any socks,” she pointed out.

“I forgot. When I was getting ready for our wedding, I was a bit excited. Mordr had to remind me to put on a tie.”

“Mordr?”

He understood her surprise. Mordr was not usually concerned about fashion.

“I love your feet,” she said.

“Huh?” he glanced downward, not about to tell her that Mordr had also said he needed a pedicure, which Dagmar had luckily offered to provide. Until then, he hadn’t even known what a pumice stone was.