Storm Maiden (10 page)

Sensing the contempt in the Viking’s gaze,
Fiona recalled stories she had heard regarding the Northmen’s
warrior code. They believed death in battle conferred immortality
to their souls. By not allowing the Viking warrior to fight to the
death, her father had shamed him. “Is that why you killed my father
and burned the fortress?” she asked. “You sought revenge for your
brother?”

There was a flicker of surprise in the
Viking’s eyes. “The chieftain—he was your father?”

Fiona nodded.

“Your father was brave,” the Viking answered
harshly. “He didn’t wait for death, but went out into the darkness
with his men. Of course,” the Viking continued, “bravery counts for
naught against men such as us. My warriors were filled with
blood-lust when I told them of the treasure they would find within
the walls of your people’s fort. They could scarcely wait to torch
the palisade and begin ransacking the buildings.”

Fiona’s grief turned to fury as she imagined
the Viking savages pawing through the wealth her family had
accumulated over generations. “And were they satisfied with what
they found?” she asked bitingly.

The Viking smiled. “My men were disappointed
to find no women to enjoy, but they discovered booty aplenty. The
exquisite silver casket of jewels I found in the large sleeping
chamber off the main hall was in itself enough to justify our
trouble.”

Hatred filled Fiona. The Vikings had stolen
her mother’s beautiful things. They had no right! She wanted to
lunge at the dark Viking and scratch out his eyes! She thought
better of it. He could break her in half with one hand. She would
be a fool to attack him.

The man’s eyes swept over her face. “The
wealth of your father’s fortress belongs to my men now, and you
belong to my brother. I have given you your life in exchange for
your aid of him. If you are wise, you will seek to please him, and
your life as a slave will be much easier.”

He reached into his tunic and drew out a
gaudy garment. Fiona’s eyes rounded as she recognized the blue
kirtle as Duvessa’s.

The Viking thrust it toward her. “Put this
on. My brother is still weak from his wounds, and I would not have
him hurt protecting you. Also, bind your hair back and keep your
eyes to yourself.” As she took the kirtle, he continued to regard
her thoughtfully. “When he first saw you, my brother thought you
were an enchanted being. He feared you meant to steal his
soul.”

The Viking’s jaw clenched. “Myself, I am not
superstitious. I think you are nothing more than a conniving,
spoiled wench who is accustomed to using her beauty to get her way.
Beware, little Irish wench—do not think to use your ‘fairy’ wiles
upon my brother. I might forget that I have agreed to spare your
life.”

With that chilling threat, he crouched over
and started to leave the tent.

“Wait,” Fiona cried. “If he is to be my
master, at least tell me your brother’s name.”

The Viking’s expression was cool, but there
was pride in his voice as he spoke. “His name is Dag Thorsson, and
I am Sigurd. We serve a jarl in the Norselands. We sail there
now.”

Sigurd left, and Fiona clutched the kirtle
to her chest. What a terrifying man! Yet, oddly, she felt she could
deal with him. Mayhap it was because he used her language and spoke
so bluntly. With the Viking Sigurd, at least, she knew where she
stood.

But his brother... Fiona shivered. Her fate
depended upon a man she had sorely provoked only moments before.
What would Dag Thorsson decide to do with her?

Dag stood at the tiller and guided the ship
as his brother saw to the woman. His wounded arm throbbed,
contributing to the foulness of his mood. The other men busied
themselves polishing their weapons and examining their booty.
Across the deck, the flash of armbands and brooches, of rich
fabrics, of polished blades and metal-ringed body armor testified
to the wealth of the Irish.

Dag watched the scene resentfully. The other
men would return home with treasure. He had naught to show for the
trip except a scornful wench who defied him and spat in his face.
His kindness had cost him dearly.

He stiffened as he saw Brodir stand and
approach the stern, a gold object dangling from his scarred, filthy
hand. Although Brodir was a kinsman of sorts by the jarl’s second
wife, Dag had no liking for the warrior.

“The woman...” Brodir’s mouth curled
lasciviously. “Did she please you?”

Dag’s muscles tensed further. Did Brodir
guess the woman had fought him? Had he come to gloat? Dag answered
coolly, “I’ve had much better. She’s a foul-tempered bitch.”

Brodir laughed. “Mayhap you prefer your
women willing, and the Irish wench obviously was not.” His leer
broadened. “Myself, I like a woman who fights. It deepens my
pleasure to feel them thrash beneath me, to hear them scream.” His
thin mouth twitched. “I admit, sword brother, that I forgot myself
when I touched your property. I’m here to make amends.” He held out
the gold object. Dag recognized it as the enameled belt the woman
had worn the first time she’d come to him in the underground
prison. “I would like to trade. This girdle for the woman.”

Dag stared at the elegant object
thoughtfully. Brodir offered to pay him to take the Irishwoman off
his hands. Why should he not accept?

He glanced up at Brodir’s harsh face,
observing the malicious glint in his eyes, the cruel slant to his
mouth. A wave of revulsion passed through Dag. He didn’t want to
see the Irishwoman tortured and used. Her helplessness aroused his
urge to protect, to preserve something lovely and fine from the
brutality of life.

“Not enough?” Brodir’s eyes narrowed. “I
have plenty other booty. What will you take for her? Name your
price.”

Dag shook his head. “The woman is not for
sale.” He raised his eyes meaningfully to Brodir’s. “At least not
to
you.” A
sense of uneasiness assailed Dag as he saw
Brodir’s face darken with anger, but he couldn’t help himself. He
resented the other man’s use of the term “brother,” his false
camaraderie.

Brodir tightened his grip on the girdle
until the soft metal bent and the fragile artistry of the
enamelwork distorted. In seconds, he reduced the beautiful object
to a shapeless lump of metal suitable only for melting down and
selling by weight. Dag’s jaw tightened as he watched Brodir stalk
off. The man did not deserve the Irishwoman. He had no more
appreciation of her beauty than he had of the priceless artifact he
had so casually destroyed. If Dag sold the woman, it would at least
be to someone who knew her worth.

He looked up and saw his brother maneuver
his bulk across the crowded ship deck. Dag glanced suspiciously
toward the tent. What had transpired between Sigurd and the woman?
His gaze met his brother’s, and some of the tension left his
body.

Sigurd was the most honorable of men. He
would not bed a woman after ordering that no other man should touch
her.

Sigurd nodded in greeting and assessed Dag.
“Your arm pains you?”

“Aye, I twisted the muscles while grappling
with the woman.”

Sigurd’s brows raised. “She struggled?”

“
Ja
. Some.”

“I doubt she fights you again. I have made
it clear that she serves you and she has no choice but to accept
her lot. Only your protection saves her from being ill-used by the
rest of the men.”

Dag nodded, but remained unconvinced of his
captive’s compliance. Sigurd’s sensible words might sway a man, but
woman were more difficult to predict, especially this one. Even
naked and vulnerable, she had dared to spit in his face. What an
impulsive, hot-tempered creature she was.

“If she were mine, I think I would throw her
overboard,” Sigurd added. Dag’s gaze jerked to his brother’s face.
“I suspected the woman of treachery, but her deceit is worse than I
imagined. She informed me that the Irish chieftain was her father.”
Sigurd’s jaw tightened. “Betraying her sire—what a shameful thing.
If she were a man, I would make certain she suffered an unpleasant
death for her lack of loyalty.”

Dag felt his belly clench. The woman was
every bit as cold- hearted and calculating as he had feared.
And
he had pitied her!
Anger swept through him.

“I’ll do it, if you don’t want to,” Sigurd
offered. “I’d be happy to cast her to the fishes. It would make one
less mouth to feed on the journey home.”

It was the sensible course of action. Sigurd
would dump her overboard, and her compelling beauty would vanish
beneath the cold blue waves forever. He would never have to see her
again, to deal with her sinister enticement.

Dag glanced at his bandaged arm. The woman
had saved his life, healed his wounds, caressed him with
gentleness. The memory of her soothing hands would never leave him.
He could not banish the sense of obligation he felt toward her.

“
Nei,
I don’t want her killed,” he
said.

“Why?”

He didn’t want to answer his brother’s
question, to face the weakness inside him, the urge to tenderness
he had fought all his life. “It may have been evil for her to aid
me, her father’s enemy,” he finally responded. “But because she did
so, I am beholden to her for my life.”

Sigurd looked skeptical. Dag realized he
must think up some sensible motive for sparing the woman’s life.
His companions would be appalled if they knew he could not kill the
woman because of how he felt about her. To them, she was a piece of
property, and naught else. Considering her as property made him
think of something. “The woman is the only thing of value I
obtained during the raid,” he told Sigurd. “I am loath to see
costly booty tossed overboard.”

Sigurd snorted derisively. “Costly? She will
cost you, of that I have no doubt.”

“I can sell her for a fine price at the
slave market at Hedeby. Many come to Hedeby with their belts heavy
with gold. I would not go home empty-handed.”

Sigurd jerked his head toward the tent.
“What sort of a price will you get for
that?
She’s much too
small and delicate to work as a field slave. Looking at her smooth,
white hands, I doubt she has the training to serve as a kitchen
thrall either. The best slaves are sturdy, plain, and stupid, and
she is none of those things. With her sultry face and slim body,
the woman is worthless except as a bed thrall.”

Dag thought quickly. “
Ja
, exactly,”
he answered. “I would sell her as a bed thrall.”

Sigurd raised his brows. “Throwing her
overboard would be kinder. You’ve been to Gorm’s slave market, seen
how he displays the women near-naked and lets any man with gold
have a sample of their bed skills. The man’s crudeness is offensive
even to me.”

Dag felt sick at he thought of the fat,
toothless slavemaster thrusting between the Irishwoman’s creamy
thighs. He could no more sell the woman to Gorm than he could throw
her into the sea.

“You could let the other men have her now.”
Sigurd nodded to the men sprawled across the deck. “They would all
pay for a turn at her. Especially Brodir. He’s always eager to have
a new woman to mistreat. You would get your gold and save us a trip
to Hedeby.”

“The woman is worth more than that.” Dag
struggled to keep his voice impassive as he envisioned the woman
being passed from man to man. “I would not have her rare beauty
destroyed by these louts. I doubt they would pay enough
either.”

“If you don’t think your fellow warriors can
meet your price, wait to sell the woman until we arrive home,”
Sigurd suggested. “I’m sure we can find a neighboring jarl with
enough gold to satisfy you.”

Dag realized suddenly that gold had nothing
to do with his plans for the Irishwoman. He simply didn’t want any
other man to have her. The thought unsettled him even more.

“Why not keep her for yourself?” Sigurd
asked, echoing Dag’s uncomfortable musings. “You can always sell
her later, when you tire of her.”

Dag glanced down and pretended to examine
the ragged bandage on his wounded arm. “She is fine to look at, but
not exactly to my taste. I prefer my women big enough that I don’t
have to worry about crushing them beneath me, and also more
Norse-looking.”

“Like Kira?”

Dag’s jaw clenched involuntarily. Kira had
played him for a fool. It was because of her that he mistrusted
women so much.

“
Ja
, like Kira,” he answered.

The two men stood silent for a moment, both
watching the pattern of waves as they swirled past the boat. Dag
contemplated how to escape the burden of the Irishwoman and yet
keep her from any other man. “I could sell her as a gentlewoman’s
servant,” he suggested. “She could help some jail’s wife with the
spinning and weaving and such.”

“Are you sure she knows such things? She
seems like a pampered, useless creature to me.”

“She must have some skill, else she could
not have sewn up my arm. And there is always her healing knowledge
to recommend her. She cured my fever as well as tending my
arm.”

“You think she is a wise woman?”

“ ‘Tis possible, isn’t it?”

“Every wise woman I’ve ever seen was an ugly
old hag.” Sigurd gave Dag a searching look. “You make no sense.
First, you speak of selling the woman as a bedthrall, then you
decide she would better make a gentlewoman’s helper. I begin to
question whether you want to be rid of her after all.”

“Of course I do. It makes my skin crawl to
remember how she first appeared to me. I told you I thought she was
a fairy, an enchanted being come to steal my soul.”

“But now that you have bedded her, you
surely can’t think that. She’s only a slave, an odd-looking,
unusually comely one, but still a slave. If you don’t want to kill
her, you must get some good of her somehow.”