Viking (3 page)
Thorne had found his witch.
“Hold!” Thorne cried when Ulm would have slain both Adair and the woman. Obviously disgruntled at the delay, Ulm lowered his sword. Thorne realized the thirst for blood still raged within Ulm, but it couldn’t be helped.
Thorne strode to Fiona and pulled her away from Adair. Then he held her at arm’s length and stared at her. He saw at a glance that she hadn’t changed since that first meeting, except, perhaps, to grow
more beautiful. Then he made the fatal mistake of looking directly into her eyes and was captivated anew. His lust was so powerful, he wanted to tear off her clothing and thrust himself between her legs, to lose himself in her sweet flesh, to rut until he was sated. Seeing her again was a shock to his system. He was convinced that he would not escape her spell as long as she lived and breathed the same air as he.
Fiona’s eyes widened in dismay when she realized that this man was the same Viking she had encountered that fateful night a year before. She should have known it would be he. Brann’s predictions were rarely wrong.
Thorne’s expression did not change. “So you
do
remember me,” he said when he saw her eyes kindle with recognition. “Do not deny it, for I can see it in your eyes. What are you called?” he asked roughly.
Fiona stared into the Viking’s fire-and-ice blue eyes and saw her own death. She knew not why he wished her dead, but whatever the reason, she would not beg for her life. If it was meant to be, the Lord would deliver her from this heathen monster.
“I am called Fiona the Learned.”
“Fiona the Learned,” he repeated slowly. “Did you earn your name by practicing witchcraft?”
Fiona gasped. “Witchcraft? I am no witch. Whatever gave you that idea? I am a Christian. I was given the name because of the healing powers I possess.”
Thorne gave a snort of laughter. “Do not lie, Fiona the Learned. I know you are a witch. You cast
your spell upon me and I have not known a moment’s peace since then. You have stolen my mind.” He leaned closer, thrusting his face into hers so his words could be heard by no one but Fiona. “You threaten my manhood. Me!” He thumped his chest. “Thorne the Relentless. Women no longer appeal to me. I am possessed, I tell you, and ’tis all your fault.”
His unfounded accusations seemed to appall Fiona. “You’re mad. I am no witch. I did nothing to you. ’Twas you who assaulted me.”
“Do not deny it. I know you are a witch. Even now I can feel your seductive pull upon my heart, squeezing the lifeblood from me. I won’t be free until your blood is spilled upon my sword. Kneel, witch!”
Adair suddenly lurched forward, shielding Fiona with his body. “Nay! Do not slay her, Viking. Fiona is my daughter. In truth she is no witch. She is sweet and well-loved by all who know her. She has served the villagers since the day her blessed mother died and left her legacy of healing to Fiona.”
Thorne shoved Adair aside. Though his heart wasn’t in it, killing Fiona with his own hands was the only way he knew to escape her spell. A shudder went through him as he raised Blood-drinker. He’d expected Fiona to cower, to beg, to cringe, but to his surprise she stood her ground, her chin raised, her extraordinary eyes piercing through to his very soul.
Odin’s balls, he couldn’t do it! Fiona the Learned had stripped his soul bare and left him half a man, deprived of both his manhood and his courage.
Suddenly he felt a hand on his shoulder and he whirled on his heel, ready to strike down the man who dared to interfere. He very slowly lowered Blood-drinker as he stared into the dark, glowing eyes of an old man with flowing white hair and beard.
“You cannot slay her, Lord Viking,” Brann said in a voice surprisingly strong for one so frail.
“Out of the way, old man,” Ulm said, pulling Brann away. “ ’Tis Thorne’s mission to slay the witch.”
“Fiona is no witch. She’s a holy woman and a healer. Her knowledge of herbs has saved countless lives. Killing her will bring a curse down upon you and your family.”
Thorne blanched. Curses were not to be taken lightly. “Who are you?”
Brann’s eyes burned like twin coals in his wrinkled face. “I am Brann the Wizard, Viking. I honed Fiona’s skills, making her as knowledgeable in the art of healing as I. Heed me well, Viking. Protect her, for she is your future. Your stars travel the same course.”
“You speak in riddles, old man,” Thorne jeered. “My sword is my future. When the Valkyries carry me to Valhalla, Blood-drinker will be at my side, joining me as I fight all day and feast all night. To a warrior, there is no greater glory.”
“I will say it again, Viking. Kill Fiona and you will live to regret it.”
Thorne stared in horror at Brann. Was he truly a wizard? Or was he a fraud who spun lies and practiced
witchcraft? Thorne was superstitious enough to consider the consequences should he slay Fiona. He stared at her standing defiantly before him, her chin raised, her violet eyes as clear as the precious jewels that decorated Blood-drinker’s hilt. They seemed to suck the very soul from him.
And he wanted her. Loki take him, he wanted her until he ached from it.
“The man is a charlatan, Thorne, do not listen to him,” Ulm warned. “Give the order and we will slay every man over the age of ten, burn the village to the ground, and sell the women and children into slavery. ’Tis no more than the witch deserves.”
Thorne didn’t want to kill Fiona. Nor anyone else, for that matter. Killing peasants had never bothered him before, but something made him look at the village and surrounding land with an eye to the future. This isle was lush and green and rich with game and wildlife. Trade routes to the world could be easily reached from Man. Someday he might want to establish a holding for himself on this island. These people could conceivably become his karls. Intuition told him that killing or enslaving them would be a mistake.
“Halt the killing and raping, Ulm,” he ordered. “I wish to leave the village intact.”
Ulm grunted in obvious disapproval. “The woman has turned you soft,” he grumbled. “You will never escape her spell unless you kill her.”
Thorne’s heated gaze settled on Fiona. He was surprised to see her return it boldly, neither dropping her gaze nor pretending submission. He had
to admire a woman like that, even as he loathed what she had done to him. But the emotions boiling inside him were complex and went deeper than simple admiration for the witch. There was something volatile in the way their gazes met and clashed; an attraction so powerful, so omnipotent that intuition told him nothing short of death would set him free. Yet he could not kill her. That shocking thought decided the course he would take. He would make the witch his thrall and force her to remove the spell she had placed upon him.
With great difficulty, Thorne tore his gaze away from Fiona. “This land is fertile and will produce good crops,” he said. “The forests are rich with game and the seas teeming with fish. Someday I may decide to settle here and I will need karls to till the land and pay taxes. With that in mind, it makes sense to spare the peasants and their village. I will ask for volunteers to remain on Man and rule in my name until I am ready to return.
“As for Fiona the Learned”—he gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes—“she will become my thrall. I doubt she will adapt well to slavery, but she will learn.”
Fiona sucked in a startled breath. To become this Viking’s slave would kill her. How would he use her? Would he expect her to share his bed? Would he rip away her innocence and make her whore for his men? She couldn’t bear it. She faced him squarely, her expression grim.
“Kill me now, Viking. I do not wish to become your slave.”
“Remove your spell and I will consider it.”
“I have placed no spell on you. I am a Christian. Ask any of the good monks at the monastery.”
Ulm gave a nasty laugh. “I fear the monks are in no condition to answer questions at this time. They were unwilling to part with their riches and we had to use force.”
A shocked cry echoed through the throng of villagers gathered in the dusty street. Only Fiona was foolish enough to voice her opinion.
“Murderers! Berserkers! How dare you touch the holy ones?”
“Enough!” Thorne bellowed. “We will see how well you wear the chains of slavery. A thrall always obeys his master. I command you to remove your spell.”
“The Devil take you!” Fiona spat. “Only a brainless idiot would consider me a witch. I am a healer, nothing more.”
“An idiot, am I!” Thorne thundered. He turned away from her and shouted orders in his own language. Immediately a pair of hefty Vikings seized Fiona and dragged her away.
Fiona’s father made a feeble attempt to stop them. “Do not take her, my lord, I beg you. Fiona is a good daughter. She is all I truly value in this world.”
“You are young enough to sire another daughter,” Thorne said. “ ’Tis best you forget Fiona. She is my thrall now, to do with as I please. Be thankful that I have spared your village instead of destroying it and selling the people into slavery. My men will
deal fairly with them so long as they obey the laws I set forth.”
Fiona tried to keep panic at bay but the prospect of leaving her home was daunting. She sent a desperate look at Brann, even though she knew he could do nothing to save her.
“Hold!” Fiona was shocked when the old man stepped directly in front of Thorne the Relentless, his slight body dwarfed by the golden Viking. “Take me with you, Lord Viking.”
“Why would I want a scrawny specimen like you,” Thorne jeered, “when I could have my pick of sturdy peasants?”
“Because I have powers that none of your people possess. One day you will have need of me, Thorne the Relentless, this much I know.”
“Witchcraft!” Ulm said, backing away from the bearded old man. “We do not need the likes of him.”
“Aye, you
will
need me,” Brann predicted. His dark eyes burned with inner fire, as if he saw things others did not. “I will retrieve my medicines and potions from my cottage and return shortly.”
“Why do you wish to leave your home, old man?” Thorne asked suspiciously. “If you mean us harm, I will kill you myself.”
Brann glanced at Fiona and his expression softened. “My reasons are clear, Lord Viking. No harm must come to Fiona. I cannot stop you from taking her, but I will do everything in my power to see that she is kept safe. And I tell you this with all certainty: the day will come when you will have need of my special powers.”
“Very well, get your potions, magician. But heed me well, neither you nor Fiona will receive special treatment. You are both thralls, nothing more, and will be treated like my other slaves.”
“Brann, don’t sacrifice yourself for me,” Fiona threw over her shoulder as Thorne’s men led her away.
“Be at peace, Fiona, all will be well,” Brann assured her. He sounded so utterly sincere that Fiona’s trembling eased somewhat. “I will be with you anon,” he said as he hurried away.
Thorne’s face wore a worried frown as Fiona was hustled away to his dragon ship. Intuition told him he was making a grave mistake, that he was inviting trouble. The kind of trouble he’d never known before. Thorne realized his family wasn’t going to be happy with this turn of events. They fully expected him to kill the witch and return home free from enchantment. That had not happened, however. If anything, he was even more captivated than before. He hoped enslaving Fiona was the answer, since he couldn’t bring himself to kill her.
Then another thought occurred to him. Would taking her body and sating himself on her sweet flesh break the spell? It was worth considering. Odin and the gods knew how desperately he wanted her. The only thing that kept him from ravishing her was the certain knowledge that once …
Would not be enough.
He had a consuming fear that once he appeased his lust, his obsession with Fiona would grow until she owned …
His soul.
Fiona huddled, numb with cold and miserable, on the planked deck of the dragon ship beneath the meager protection of the tent Thorne had ordered erected for her and Brann. Thorne’s flagship was the largest of the five, being seventy-six feet long and about seventeen feet wide. There was sufficient room for sixteen oarsmen to sit on their sea chests on either side of the ship. Fiona had learned much about these fierce Viking warriors since being taken from her home and dragged aboard Thorne’s ship.
She discovered that the Vikings stored their plunder and supplies in the space beneath the removable pine plank deck, some six and a half feet deep. Their meals while at sea consisted of dried and salted food, and they drank from leather waterbags stored beneath the planks.
Fiona hadn’t known what to expect once she lost sight of land. She had never been so far from the coast before, or with men who both feared and hated her. She was grateful for Brann’s company, for Thorne had all but ignored her once they set sail. She had expected to be set upon and raped, but no one had touched her, though sometimes she caught Thorne glaring at her as if he’d like to wring her neck. She’d greatly appreciated the tent and the measure of privacy it afforded her.
They had been at sea five days when the first storm struck. The ship was tossed about like a cork, blown hither and yon by the capricious wind. Fiona and Brann huddled together beneath the meager canvas shelter, praying that the wind and waves wouldn’t rip them away from beneath it. Brann was pale as a ghost. During the height of the storm he had staggered to the side of the ship to vomit. When he returned he collapsed beside Fiona, moaning and clutching his stomach.
Though queasy herself, Fiona knew she had to do something to ease Brann’s suffering. She searched through his medicine chest until she located a small vial containing valerian, a potion often given to ease distress. Then she left the shelter in search of fresh water.
Poised at the tiller of his wind-tossed ship, Thorne saw Fiona leave her shelter and experienced a moment of fear. He knew that Fiona’s small body was no match for the violent elements and he watched in trepidation as she inched her way across the windswept deck. Then Thorne became
aware of a great clamor that rose up among the crewmen when they saw her.
“ ’Tis the witch! She has cursed us! Throw her overboard!”
One of the crewmen seized Fiona and lifted her above his head, intending to throw her into the sea. Thorne’s heart pounded furiously as he left the tiller and shoved and pushed his way through to Fiona.
“Put her down,” he ordered with cold fury. “The woman is my thrall, no one is to touch her but me. It does not please me to kill her.”
Ulm stepped forward, his expression ruthless, hard. “The woman is a witch, Thorne. She has called Thor’s fury down upon us. We will all die.”
“We have all faced storms, some worse than this,” Thorne scoffed. “Our ship is in no danger.
Odin’s Raven
rides the waves with ease. Go back to your stations. Even as I speak the storm abates.”
Fiona was lowered none too gently to her feet as the men returned to their chores, grumbling about witches and spells. Thorne grasped her arm and dragged her back to her shelter.
“What were you doing out there?” he demanded to know. “You could have been swept overboard. My men think you caused the storm.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Did you?”
“Nay, I did not! Let go of me. I needed water to mix with a potion for Brann. He is ill.”
“Stay here, I will fetch the water. The men are riled enough. Seeing you only makes it worse.”
A few minutes later Thorne returned with a horn filled with water. He handed it to Fiona, then
turned his attention to Brann. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.
“He’s seasick. I found a potion in his medicine chest to ease his symptoms, but I needed water in which to mix it.”
She poured a few drops of liquid from the vial into the horn. Then she knelt beside Brann, lifted his head and put the horn to his lips. After he took a few sips, his eyes closed and he appeared to drift off to sleep.
“What did you give him?” Thorne asked. “What manner of magic have you brewed?”
“No magic,” Fiona returned. “ ’Tis merely an infusion of valerian to ease his stomach. All healers know of the remedy.”
Thorne stared at her. Even wet and bedraggled, she was lovely. Her captivating eyes seemed to have the ability to reach into his soul. He tried to look away but couldn’t. His fingers itched to touch her face, her hair, to find the sensitive places on her body and memorize them. He’d tried to ignore her these past five days, with little success. He should take her down right now and ease his lust between her white thighs. The only thing that stopped him was the frightening knowledge that lust was but a small part of his attraction to Fiona.
Thorne watched in fascination as Fiona shifted uncomfortably beneath his intense perusal. “Why are you looking at me like that?” she asked.
“How am I looking at you?
“You’re staring at me like you did that night you
found me bathing in the stream.” She retreated a step but there was nowhere to go.
Thorne’s gaze did not waver. This was the first time he’d been alone with her since he’d set eyes on her. Despite the fact that nearly thirty men were toiling against the storm a few feet away, and that the wizard was sleeping nearby, he felt as if no one else existed but Fiona.
“Do you fear me, Fiona?” he asked when he saw her retreat beneath the intensity of his gaze.
“N-n-nay.”
“You should. Vikings are the most feared of all men. Many call us crazed savages. Berserkers. Pirates. We are all of those things and more.” He stalked her into a corner. “I could squeeze your scrawny neck with one hand were I of a mind to.”
He nearly laughed aloud when he saw Fiona raise her pointed little chin in blatant challenge. “What is stopping you?” she asked boldly.
“Those seductive violet eyes, for one,” Thorne muttered. “If I kill you, I fear I will be damned forever. But I am stronger than you. One way or another I will force you to release me from your spell.” He gave her a hard look. “You are my slave. I can gorge myself on your sweet flesh if it pleases me to do so. Once I am sated, perhaps the spell will be broken and I will be free of your enchantment.”
“You’re mad! If I were a witch I would never cast a spell upon a Viking, a man universally feared and despised.”
Thorne’s jaw tightened and his brows drew together in a fierce frown. “I don’t think you despise
me at all, Fiona. I remember the heat of your kiss, the provocative curves of your body. The memory seduces me even in my dreams.”
To Fiona’s horror, Thorne reached for her, dragging her against his powerful chest. He had removed his mail; she felt the remarkable hardness of sinew and muscles against her softness. The contrast overwhelmed her senses. Then all thought ceased as he grasped a handful of long black hair and pulled her face to his. His mouth came down hard on hers, bruising her lips. She opened her mouth to rage against the indignity and found it filled with his tongue.
Fiona felt helpless, completely and utterly possessed by this fierce sea raider. The assault upon her emotions stole her breath and sent blood pounding through her veins. She was surprised when she felt his lips soften and gentle; she had expected brutality but found startling pleasure instead. What manner of man was this fierce Viking? Tender one moment and intimidating the next.
Thorne thrust his loins against her, making her aware of his rampant lust. His staff was fully distended and throbbing. Fiona moaned as his hands slid down to her buttocks, pulling her flush against him. She offered resistance but he quelled it with the sheer strength of his determination. His hands moved upward, skimming her hips, her waist, finally settling on her lush breasts. He molded them in his palms, rolled the nipples between his thumb and forefinger.
Fiona could stand no more of his subtle torture.
She grasped a double handful of long blond hair and yanked with all her might. He broke off the kiss with a groan and a curse. She tried to break free of his arms. He was immovable, much stronger than she. A huge, hulking mass of muscle and brawn and tenacity. When he started to lower her to the deck, Fiona protested violently.
“God help me! Nay, Viking, cease!”
“You are my slave, Fiona. I will have you now.”
God must have heard Fiona’s prayer, for the deck heaved beneath them and water washed through to the tent, nearly sweeping them away. Lightning flashed. The wind howled and the sea surged. The ship traveled up one trough and down another, buffeted from every direction, sending men and sea chests sliding across the wet deck.
“Thor save us,” Thorne cried, sending Fiona a dark look. “ ’Tis true! You
are
a witch. Have you called your evil forces down upon us?”
Startled, Fiona had the good sense to realize that Thorne had just presented her with a way to protect her virtue. She prayed for forgiveness and lied. “If that is what you believe, then, aye, ’tis true.”
Thorne paled, but was allowed no time to consider the implications of her reply. He was needed immediately at the tiller. He was the only man aboard with the experience to lead them safely through the storm.
“ ’Tis far from finished between us, Fiona,” Thorne promised in parting.
“You did well to resist him, Fiona.”
Fiona glanced down at Brann. He wasn’t sleeping
as she had thought. His eyes were open, his burning gaze fastened on her face. “You heard?”
“Aye. And saw, too. ’Tis as I predicted. The Viking believes you have bewitched him, but in truth ’tis much more. He is a hard man, Fiona. There will be difficult times ahead for you. But one day Thorne the Relentless will recognize your worth and open his heart to you.”
“Nay! I do not wish it. Why, Brann? Why must it be the Viking? Is there naught I can do to change the course of fate? I do not want the Viking. He is too powerful, too big, too … male. He wants to make me his whore.”
“In the fullness of time you will be everything to him, Fiona.” Before Fiona could question his strange remark, sleep again claimed him.
Fiona mused over Brann’s words. How could she be everything to Thorne when he believed her to be a witch? None of this made sense. The Viking had appeared from nowhere a year ago. After their brief encounter he had disappeared. Then he had returned to complicate her once tranquil life. What had brought him back? she wondered. Surely not some silly nonsense about witches and spells. She sighed and settled down beside Brann, listening to the storm rage around her, thinking it was nearly as fierce as Thorne’s assault upon her senses.
A week later the dragon ships made landfall on the western coast of Scotland. They sailed up a river, erected tents on the beach, filled their waterbags, made an evening meal of wild game, then
sailed away the following morning without encountering a single soul. Fiona and Brann had shared a tent. They were fed grudgingly by men who eyed them with fear and revulsion. She knew the Vikings blamed her for the frequent storms they had encountered and they wished Thorne had slain her.
Days passed. The sea was monotonous and unchangeable, except during intense periods of rain and storms. The dragon ships made brief stops on the Isle of Skye and the Orkneys to replenish their water supply and feast on fresh meat. On Skye, Ulm plundered a nearby monastery that yielded gold, silver and captives. The plunder was stored below the planked decks and the captives were divided among the other four dragon ships.
Fiona felt a pang of pity for the poor monks who would no doubt be sold into slavery by these fierce sea raiders. She tried not to dwell on their fate, for it only made her own future frighteningly unpredictable.
Before they left the Orkneys, Thorne informed Fiona that the next landfall would be his homeland. “Prepare yourself, slave,” he warned. “My father and brother will not welcome you. They will think me crazed for bringing you to our home. I can only guess at what my betrothed will say.”
“You are betrothed?” Fiona asked, wondering why she should be surprised. Most men Thorne’s age were either married or betrothed.
“Aye. I am to wed Bretta the Fair. Why are you not wed? You are old enough to have several children tugging at your skirts.”
Fiona flushed. It was true. Most girls married by thirteen, and by twenty, her age now, they had given their husbands several sons and daughters. But Adair had not insisted that she wed when Fiona expressed her desire to remain single and continue to learn from Brann. Besides, of all the men her father had paraded before her, not one of them had pleased her. Fiona thought Adair rather liked having her around to ease his loneliness after her mother had died.
“There was no one I wished to marry,” Fiona explained, “and my father did not push me to wed. I am a healer. My powers are better utilized without a husband and children vying for my attention.”
“Are you saying there has never been a man to whom you were attracted?”
Fiona gazed past him, recalling Dirk, the brave boy who had died while saving her during a freak winter gale that had blown in from the sea and nearly swept her away with the tide. He was gentle and kind and she might have married him had he lived, but he’d been carried out to sea and lost.
A surge of jealousy jolted Thorne. Fiona’s expression had turned wistful and he wondered who had stolen her heart. “So, there was a man. Why didn’t you wed him?”
“He’s dead.”
“Did you love him?”
“Perhaps.”
“What kind of answer is that?”
“ ’Tis all you’re going to get.”
“Are you a maiden still? Or did you gift him with your maidenhead before he died?”
“If I did, ’tis none of your concern, Viking.”
He gave her a smile that did not reach his eyes and shrugged his massive shoulders. “ ’Tis of no account. Soon I will find out for myself, won’t I?”
“I think not, Viking.”
“We shall see, witch.”
That was the last time Thorne had spoken to her until the dragon ships sailed up the fjord and docked at the trading town of Kaupang. It was late summer. Fiona had no idea what she would encounter in Thorne’s homeland, but she never expected to see a thriving town bustling with people and activity. The mesmerizing sight of towering snow-capped mountains outlined against clear blue skies captivated her.