Odin's Shadow (Sons Of Odin Book 1) (9th Century Viking Romance) (3 page)

"Don't be afraid," he said. "I don't want to hurt you. I want to take you with me."

Selia absorbed the Norse words, translating what she knew and inferring the rest. What kind of a woman did he think she was? Did this Finngall regard himself so highly that he expected her to leave her home and family, and be his whore?

Anger superseded her fear for the moment, and her words spilled out in Irish. "I will be no man's concubine, you Finngall bastard—let go of me!"

He held her as she fought to get away. His eyes narrowed to slits and his fingers dug into her flesh.

"I could take you, little one. As my thrall." He slid one large hand up to grip the base of her skull. His fingers felt like rough wood against her skin as his thumb stroked her cheek. He leaned closer, and she realized he was about to kiss her.

Selia had never been kissed before. In her imagination a kiss from a suitor would be a gentle pressure of lips on hers in a brief moment of tenderness. This kiss was neither gentle nor brief. The Finngall’s mouth was hard, bruising. When she felt his tongue she tried to turn her head away, but he held her still.

Her knees began to buckle, and he lifted her to crush her body against his chest. Her feet dangled above the ground. She had the irrational thought that she was being kissed by a barely-restrained animal, as though at any moment he could break his tether and kill her with tooth and claw.

Her senses overwhelmed, everything else seemed to fade away. She was acutely aware of the scent of him, the taste of his mouth, and the hardness of his large body against hers. Her flesh responded to him in a way she had never felt before, with an unfamiliar ache deep in her belly and a sense of urgency that was almost painful.

The Finngall groaned. He pressed Selia against a tree, pinning her between him and the rough bark. He parted her legs with his knee, and when she felt the sudden coolness of the breeze on her bare limbs she realized he was lifting her skirts.

She gave a strangled scream and shoved at his chest, until he finally pulled back. Again, she sensed the beast that raged within him as he lowered her to the ground, his hands clenching convulsively on her arms.

It was several moments before he spoke. "Tell me your name."

She didn't take her eyes from his. "Selia."

"Selia." His Norse accent made her name sound strange, foreign. "My little Selia, will you come with me?"

She was shivering with fear, desire, even some anticipation of the decision she was about to make. Selia wanted this man, this beautiful, glorious, dangerous Finngall. She wanted him more than she had ever wanted anything in her life.

"As wife," she whispered. Buadhach be damned.

He released her so suddenly that she stumbled, and had to brace her hand against the tree to keep from falling.

The Finngall's face hardened. "You do know who I am, then." It was more a statement than a question.

What was he talking about? "No," she said, rubbing her arms to bring the feeling back where he had gripped her so tightly. She was sure she would have bruises.

He crossed his arms and frowned. "Don't trifle with me, child."

She didn't understand the Norse word 'trifle,' but from his tone and facial expression the meaning was clear. He thought she was lying. And he didn't want to marry her—he was only looking for a concubine. Not a wife. Arrogant Finngall bastard.

What had she been thinking? This man only wanted to bed her, and she had been on the brink of giving him exactly what he wanted. After just a few minutes with him she had nearly been willing to shame herself as well as bring embarrassment to her entire family.

"Stay away from me," Selia spat at him in Irish. She turned and ran.

He didn't follow her.

She arrived home out of breath and bolted the door behind her. She brushed the tears from her face, pushing past Eithne as the woman emerged from the kitchen. Selia dove onto her bench and pulled the covers over her head.

"Where is the firewood?" Eithne asked.

Selia's face crumpled and she burst into fresh tears.

Eithne most likely assumed she was still upset about Old Buadhach. The woman sat on the edge of the bench to pull Selia close, comforting her again as she sobbed. Selia couldn't bring herself to tell her about the encounter with the Finngall.

What would Eithne think of her? Just speaking to a Finngall would be considered disgraceful enough. It was common knowledge no honest woman was safe around a Finngall man. To admit she had been alone with him—
twice
—was tantamount to announcing he had spoiled her maidenhood. She would bring disgrace to her family. No decent Irish man would want her, not even Old Buadhach.

Selia drew in a shaky breath. No, she couldn't admit what happened. And after Ainnileas' reaction last night, she obviously couldn't trust him anymore. She was on her own.

What had come over her, to so boldly suggest the Finngall make her his wife? As if her father would ever agree. Did she even want such a thing herself? Now, away from the man and his curious effect on her, the idea of leaving her family to live in a strange land with a foreign husband, speaking a foreign tongue, was madness.

But the memory of him, of his big rough hands and piercing eyes, shook her to the very core. Even after he had humiliated her, she couldn't deny she desired him still.

What is wrong with me?

The rest of the day dragged on, with Selia agitated and out of sorts. Eithne seemed constantly vexed with her. Every sound, no matter how mundane, made Selia jump as if it were a thunderclap. And she ruined everything she touched; the bread wouldn't rise, the stew scorched, and she snapped the thread during her mending. The maid attempted to harness her restless energy by setting her to sweep out the house, for which she was promptly thanked with a broken broom.

"For the love of Mary, child, whatever is the matter with you?" Eithne huffed. She placed the water pitcher in Selia's hand and steered her toward the door. "Go. And don't come back empty handed this time!"

Eithne shut the door and Selia heard the bolt fall into the latch. She was actually locked out of her own house. Selia glared at the door, muttering a curse under her breath. Hateful woman.

She scanned the woods, searching for a flash of red cape. She saw nothing. Honestly, did she think the Finngall had nothing better to do than to lurk outside her house, waiting for her to emerge? He had probably grabbed another pretty Irish girl and gone home.

Feeling rather silly, she picked her way toward the stream. She headed to a small pool where the water was still, then knelt down with caution. Like most women, she couldn't swim, but she had to be even more careful around water than the average woman.

She caught the blurry reflection of herself in the water, and as usual thought of Ainnileas. But while his face was taking on a more masculine form, hers still retained the gentle contours of their childhood. Niall joked that when he had found them, he had made Eithne sew their clothing in different colors because he couldn't tell the twins apart otherwise. No longer was this the case.

Her brother was growing away from her. Whether Selia married Old Buadhach, a Finngall, or no one at all, the fact remained that she and Ainnileas would eventually lose their closeness. If last night were any indication, it was already happening.

Tears stung at her swollen eyes. She blinked them back—she would not cry yet again today. Tears were for children.

She took a deep breath. If only she had someone to talk to, someone to confide in. But there was no one. All of the girls she had grown up with were already married, and were mothers themselves now. Selia often spied self-satisfied pity in their eyes whenever they spoke to her.
Poor, unbetrothed Selia. She doesn’t even have a mother to talk to about important matters such as this
.

Her gaze wandered to the other side of the stream. Her mother's grave was there, just past the gnarled oak tree. Her own mother, lying forgotten in the ground. Selia had no memories of the woman, which only served to make her feel worse about the situation. A mother
should
be mourned by her children, regardless.

She was a neglectful daughter. Selia added that to the growing list of everything else wrong with her, before crossing herself and saying a prayer for the soul of the stranger who had given birth to her.

Chapter 3

Selia's stomach was in knots as dusk came and went. Her father and Ainnileas would be home soon, and she fully expected Niall to announce her betrothal to Old Buadhach tonight. Combined with the memory of her disgraceful behavior with the Finngall this morning, it was enough to make her want to crawl back to her bench and feign illness.

She hadn't eaten all day but had no appetite as she stirred the stew. Eithne had scraped out the burned bits as best she could, but the scorched smell was still thick in the air. Selia grimaced at the teasing she would surely have to endure from her brother tonight. One of the greatest enjoyments of his life was poking fun at her culinary skills.

She heard the faint sound of hooves in the distance and she took in a shaking breath to brace herself. But the sound grew louder—much louder than usual. There was more than just the wagon coming this way. Surely her father hadn't brought Old Buadhach home with him?

She opened the door, and clapped a hand over her mouth to keep from screaming. Her father and Ainnileas were indeed approaching in the wagon but were surrounded by a group of Finngalls, one of whom was leading the wagon's horses by the reins. The big Finngall rode in front and was followed by another man who resembled him in size and appearance. The remaining three Finngalls had a roughness about them, an edge of sorts. Two of them seemed familiar. Were they the men she had seen arguing on the dragonship?

Her breath caught in her throat to see Ainnileas' and her father's hands tied in front of them. Eithne came up behind her and screamed. The big Finngall turned his head in their direction, catching Selia's gaze with his own. He smiled then, a smile of such cold calculation that the blood chilled in her veins.

Eithne grabbed her wrist, pulled her to the storage room, and shoved her inside. Then slammed the door. "
Bolt it,
" she ordered. Selia, moving as if in a dream, slid the bolt into the latch.

The room was in shadows. Selia stumbled over wooden crates of cloth as she pushed her way to the back. She sat against the wall, clasping her trembling hands around her knees. Was the Finngall here to take her for his concubine? Or had she angered him to the point where he no longer wanted to bed her, but intended to cut her heart out and offer it up to his gods as a bloody sacrifice?

She heard the sound of wood splintering, then the clamor of the men as they entered the house with their loud voices and thumping boots. Shouting in both Norse and Irish, and sounds of things being overturned and broken, were interspersed by Eithne's shrieks. Selia covered her ears but she couldn't block it out.

A dreamlike quality enveloped her, a profound sense that this had all happened before. She, huddled in a corner, making herself as small and quiet as possible to hide from foreign invaders with bloodlust in their eyes. She began to sniffle, and a voice in her head told her to shush, but the name it called her wasn't Selia . . .

The door rattled. "Selia," the deep Finngall voice called to her. "Open the door."

"No!" her father yelled. Selia cringed as she heard the smacking sound of fist on flesh and Niall's heavy grunt.

"
Dadai
!" Selia threw the door open. Her eyes quickly scanned the room and locked on her father, his hands still tied as he crouched on his knees. Blood streamed from his nose. There was a laughing, red-faced Finngall standing over him. The man did not seem to be much older than Selia, and though shorter than the others, had a thick, muscular torso and fists as large as hams.

Niall was a gentle man, never one to resort to violence. To see him on the floor, helpless and bleeding, was too much for Selia to bear. Her eyes narrowed in fury.

The big Finngall reached for her. She ducked under his arm, then launched herself at the one who had hurt her father. Taken by surprise, the man stumbled and fell backward with Selia on top of him. She struck him and scratched at his face, intent on ripping his eyes from his skull.

The man bellowed like a wounded bull and threw Selia off. The back of her head struck the stout wooden table leg, and the room went dark for a moment.

"Irish bitch," the wounded Finngall snarled, glaring murderously at Selia as she blinked at him. There were deep, angry scratches running from his eyebrow to his cheek. But a shadow of fear crossed his face as he shifted his gaze to the larger Finngall. The wounded man mumbled a quick apology.

The big one scooped Selia to her feet, holding her close. He turned to Niall, then motioned for one of the Finngalls to help him rise.

"Niall Ó Murchú,” he said in a formal voice, bowing slightly. "I am Alrik Ragnarson, and I am here to ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage."

Selia's jaw dropped as she looked up at the Finngall. Did he actually think her father would agree to such a thing after they had brutalized him?

Niall's face flashed with anger. He opened his mouth to speak, but Alrik held up his hand. "Think carefully before you answer. I will take Selia either way, as my wife or my thrall. It makes no difference to me. You, however, may care a bit more about the honor of your daughter than I do. You choose."

Niall's face went purple. He sputtered in incoherent rage as he lunged toward Alrik, but was jerked back by the Finngall behind him. Eithne burst into fresh sobs. Ainnileas stood still and pale, his eyes riveted on Selia.

Niall's body sagged in defeat. He was quiet for a moment. "My Selia
,
daughter of my heart," he finally whispered in Irish. "I'm sorry." Then he looked up at the Finngall and spoke in Norse. "Take her as a wife."

Selia uttered a faltering gasp as she dropped her gaze from her father's. She had never seen that look on his face before, a look of utter heartbreak. Did he know she had set this entire nightmare in motion by sneaking off to Dubhlinn? Had Ainnileas told him?

Alrik pulled a small sack from his belt, spilling its contents onto the table. Silver, more than Selia had ever seen in her life. "The bride price," he said.

"Tainted with the blood of Irish souls," Niall retorted in Irish.

Alrik turned to one of the Finngalls—the oldest of the three, who by appearance might be the father of the two younger ones—and whispered to him. Then he inclined his head toward Niall.

"I thank you, Father-in-law," he said. Niall spat on the ground in response, and Alrik's lips turned up in a cynical smile. He grasped Selia's arm and headed for the door.

Eithne's screams escalated as Selia was pulled from the house. She looked over her shoulder for one last glimpse of her family, and caught Ainnileas’ gaze. Time stood still for a moment as she despaired of ever seeing him again.

He murmured her name, then spoke in the language that was theirs alone. “Selia . . .
I will find you.”

Alrik hoisted her in front of him on horseback. Selia shook so hard her teeth chattered, and he removed his cloak to wrap around her. Were the three other Finngalls still in the house with her family?

She turned to Alrik in a panic, forcing her mind to form the Norse words. "They not . . . hurt?"

"No." His arm tightened around her as they rode off into the night.

The moon, round and bright, gave the objects they rode past a surreal quality. Selia had a good view of the other Finngall as they rode. The man looked very much like Alrik. Were they brothers?

They traveled in silence. Where were they going? They weren't headed toward Dubhlinn, where the ship was docked. In fact, they were going in the opposite direction, toward Baile Átha Cliath.

They reined the horses to a stop in front of a small, unassuming house. She recognized Father Coinneach’s cottage.

The other Finngall looked over at Alrik. "You're sure this is the house?"

Alrik nodded, motioning for him to take her while he dismounted.

The Finngall’s gaze met Selia's as he helped her down. "This is madness, Alrik."

Alrik regarded him coldly as he reached for Selia. "Then go," he said over his shoulder as he pulled her toward the door. The other man shook his head, but followed behind them.

Alrik gave the door a sharp rap. There was no response from inside. He pounded harder, and after what seemed an eternity Father Coinneach answered the door.

The young priest blinked as he recognized Selia. He looked up at the two giant Finngalls, then back to her.

"Selia." His voice cracked over the word. "What is the meaning of this?"

Alrik pushed past the priest with Selia in tow. The other Finngall followed, shutting the door behind them. "You are a priest of the White Christ?" Alrik asked in Norse. Father Coinneach looked confused. The other man stepped forward, translating in Irish. Obviously the Finngall wasn't a native speaker, but his Irish was much better than Selia's Norse.

Father Coinneach finally replied, “Yes.”

The Finngall continued in his careful, somewhat stilted Irish. "I am Ulfrik Ragnarson and this man is my brother, Alrik Ragnarson. He wishes to marry this woman. A priest of the White Christ must watch."

The priest turned to Selia, eyes wide. "Your father has consented to this?"

She nodded, feeling sick.

Ulfrik spoke again. "He has given consent, and accepted the . . . silver," he shook his head as though unsure of the correct word.

"Bride price," Selia said quietly.

Father Coinneach stepped back, his prominent Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. "Your brother is not a Christian. If he desires a marriage, my observation isn't necessary."

Ulfrik motioned toward Selia. "This woman is a Christian. Alrik wishes for her to be pleased."

"But he isn't baptized. I can't observe a marriage between a Christian and a heathen. I'm sorry."

Ulfrik looked at the man for a long moment before translating for his brother. Alrik's face hardened, his eyes narrowing to flinty slits. Selia cringed. He would not be happy that the priest refused to marry them. Would he take her as a thrall instead?

Father Coinneach appeared visibly shaken as he looked up at Alrik. He reached for Selia as though to protect her from the big Finngall.

There was a sudden blur of motion as Alrik sprang toward the priest. He grabbed the smaller man and spun him around, drawing his dagger across his throat.

Selia screamed.

For long seconds nothing happened, and she felt faint with relief. Maybe Alrik was only attempting to scare the man. Then a dark red line appeared on the priest's throat as Alrik dropped him to the ground with a snarl. Father Coinneach held his throat; blood bubbled over his fingers and onto the floor.

He was dying. Father Coinneach was dying, bleeding to death at her feet. His eyes rolled up to Selia's and he stretched out trembling fingers as if to implore her to help him.

There was a terrible noise in her head, an overpowering rushing sound, which made her screams seem quiet in comparison.

Run!
Selia turned but Alrik caught her wrist. She pulled and twisted, frantic to get free. His hand, slippery with blood, lost its grip on her and she wriggled away, running toward the door with Alrik shouting to his brother to stop her.

Ulfrik grabbed her and they fell to the floor together. Selia fought him with every ounce of strength she had. She landed a solid punch to his jaw that sent shock waves of pain up her own arm, but he didn't so much as flinch.

Selia pleaded with him in Irish. "Let me go . . . He's a monster! Let me go . . ."

He shook his head. "I'm sorry."

Alrik shoved his brother aside, then dragged Selia to her feet. She struggled wildly but he carried her to where the priest lay on the floor. The Father's breath came in a slow, gurgling rattle. Selia sobbed. She had known Father Coinneach for as long as she could remember. He was dying because of her.

Alrik’s hands gripped her shoulders. His eyes were so fierce and murderous she couldn't bring herself to meet his gaze for longer than a second. "I, Alrik Ragnarson, take you, Selia Niallsdottir, as my wife."

Selia stared down at the fading priest. Alrik shook her. "
Say it
. Say it before he dies."

She pushed the halting vow past her lips.

The priest took one last, ragged breath, his eyes fixed on her in accusation.