Storm Maiden (12 page)

It didn’t make sense. First, she betrayed
her father by trying to seduce one of the enemy. Then, after he
saved her from rape and murder, she violently rejected him. If the
woman were truly selfish and unprincipled, she should be eager to
please the man who rescued her. Instead, she had spat in his
face.

Another thought came to him, taunting him
with its implications. By now, the woman knew that this was
Sigurd’s ship, that all the men served him. Did she imagine herself
as Sigurd’s concubine? Her slender neck draped with jewels, her
soft, swan-white hands free from all work except soothing her
master’s sore muscles and fondling his manhood?

The image infuriated Dag. How like a woman
to seek out for her master the man of highest status. Had not Kira
done the same?

He thought bitterly of the woman who had
shared his bedcloset the previous sunseason. Kira, with her
wheat-colored hair, her dark eyes, her full breasts. The image
still aroused a pang inside him, but whether it was a pang of
longing or hatred, he no longer knew. He couldn’t forgive her for
choosing another man to wed, especially an old man with a thick
belly and crooked teeth.

Dag wondered how a woman could prefer such a
man to him. As a tall, well-made warrior, he’d always had his pick
of bed partners, and he knew that women followed him with their
eyes when he passed by. Ah, but that was for bedding, not wedding.
Kira had told him frankly that she must think of her future, of her
sons’ future. Snorri ruled a fine steading, owned rich lands, and
had a reputation as a shrewd trader. A woman must marry for
security, Kira had said. Her father, of course, had agreed.

Sigurd always assured Dag that he was better
off without Kira. What man wanted a woman who cared nothing for
him, only for his wealth and status? Still, it had hurt his pride,
and his heart. He had cared for Kira, and she had spurned him. He
would not make hat mistake again.

Dag started slightly, realizing that the
Irishwoman still wept. Her sobs were louder now, harsh and
wrenching. The sound reached inside him, twisting his guts. No
matter that she might be treacherous, he couldn’t forget that she
had succored him once, gently tended his wounds, bathed him,
brought him food and water. Because of her, he was alive, yet, how
had he repaid her? He had led Sigurd and the other men to her
father’s fortress, where they had killed and burned and looted,
destroying everything the woman must have held dear.

The unwelcome guilt returned. He had saved
the woman’s life, but for what? Now she was a slave, destined for a
life of travail and servitude. Better that he should have left her
among the smoking ruins of her father’s palisade. Some man would
have come to her aid then; someone would see that she didn’t
starve. He need not have brought her on the ship and made her his
captive. Now, it was too late.

Dag sighed. If only she had welcomed him
into her body. He had half thought she might. The one kiss they had
shared had been full of promise. If only she had offered him a
little of the fire that burned between them in the darkness of the
underground cavern. If only...

Abruptly, he turned over. He couldn’t afford
to feel pity for this foreign woman. What she had suffered was no
worse than what many women endured. Life was harsh. The Irish
chieftain had been a weak leader and so he had died. His daughter
had lost her protector and been enslaved. The strong prevailed. The
weak died or were subjugated. No one could alter that truth.

Why, then, did it not feel right this time?
He’d half cringed as he’d watched Sigurd and the other warriors cut
down the Irish chieftain and his men. They’d deserved to die for
what they’d done to him, but even so, he had felt no satisfaction
at their deaths.

Dag’s nagging uneasiness increased. He must
not be so foolish as to doubt the warrior’s code he’d honored all
his life. It was the woman’s fault. Because of her, he could no
longer see the Irish as faceless enemies to be casually
slaughtered.

Throwing off the bedsack, he rose abruptly
and went to where Rorig manned the rudder. “I’ll take my turn now,”
he told the younger man. Rorig went off to sleep. Dag inhaled the
night air deeply. His arm pained him and he was tired beyond
reason, but it was wiser to keep busy than to lie on the deck
struggling for sleep. He looked up and scanned the night sky,
orienting himself to navigate the ship. He sighed with relief as
the familiar energy and expectation renewed him. The sparkle of
stars above him, the rush of the waves beneath the keel, the
thrumming sound of the sail in the wind, the sensation of power and
freedom he felt in guiding the ship—this was what it meant to go
aviking.
Not for him, the safe, settled life. This was his
destiny, to sail the wild, restless sea until She took him in.

The wind shifted, and he used his left hand
to steer the ship back on course. The
Storm Maiden
felt
supple and graceful, responding at his touch, thrillingly
acquiescent and eager—as a woman should be. Dag frowned as thoughts
of the Irishwoman relentlessly returned. Would she ever yield to
him? And if she did, what would it be like?

* * *

Fiona woke with her stomach burning and her
limbs stiff and aching. She raised her head and blinked against the
sea glare. It hadn’t been a dream. The Vikings had not vanished in
the night. This was her life now—the rocking ship, her grim,
unfriendly captors, a dozen physical discomforts to occupy her
mind.

She rose and looked around. Dag sat on his
sea chest a few feet away, his back turned. His brother stood in
the rear of the boat, guiding the tiller. The rest of the Vikings
sprawled over the ship, dicing, polishing weapons, and engaged in
other idle pursuits. Some of them, Fiona noticed, were eating. Her
stomach growled enviously.

She sighed. Although she was very hungry,
she could do nothing for that. Better to think of the things she
could remedy. Slowly, she made her way to the tent. She heard a few
low words as she passed and decided it was advantageous that she
spoke no Norse. As it was, she felt like a mouse prowling past a
sleeping cat. At any moment, she expected one of the Vikings to
pounce on her.

In the tent, she began her personal tasks.
She felt much better this morrow, less panicked. Giving vent to her
grief had helped; from now on, she would not waste time on tears,
but focus on her goal of vengeance.

“Make me brave,” she whispered as she redid
her braid. Eyes closed, she reached out for her father’s spirit.
“Help me survive this,” she entreated.

As soon as her hair was finished, she
glanced toward the tent opening. She could delay no longer, else
Sigurd might come and throw her out of his tent.

Cautiously, she went out. Her heart jumped
in her chest as she saw one of the Vikings blocking her pathway. He
was young and not nearly as ferocious-looking as the rest. With his
reddish hair and light eyes, he could almost pass for Irish. He
wasn’t leering either, although his expression was bright and
avid.

She squared her shoulders and made as if to
push past him. He surprised her by holding out a piece of salt
fish, then said something coaxing in Norse. Fiona glanced nervously
at his face. Dare she take the food? What might he expect in
return? She was so hungry. If she didn’t eat soon, she would be too
weak to fight any of them.

Impulsively, she reached for the fish. The
Viking’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. She took a bite, then
another. Her stomach gurgled with relief.

A low, angry voice startled her, and Fiona
glanced past the red-haired Viking to see Dag moving toward her.
His jaw was tight. His blue eyes flashed with fury. He said a few
harsh words to the young Viking, then grabbed Fiona by the arm and
jerked her away. Too shocked to do otherwise, she scrambled after
him, trying to keep her feet under her as he pulled her along the
deck. When they reached the stern, he flung her down and straddled
her, muttering harshly in Norse.

Fiona could only gape at him. She watched as
he left her to search the nearby supply stores. When he returned
with a barrel, some instinct told her to beware; she rolled away
just as the Viking emptied a barrel of salt fish on the deck and
narrowly missed showering her with reeking brine.

Something inside Fiona snapped, and she
began to shriek. “Wretched cur! Bastard! Filthy Viking scum!” The
curses poured from her mouth. None of them seemed vile enough for
the scowling madman who loomed over her. He deserved to feel pain!
To bleed!

Fiona struggled to her feet, avoiding the
slimy puddle spreading across the deck. Her eyes examined the
cluttered area, seeking something she could use as a weapon. She
grabbed a piece of wood that looked like the broken handle of an
axe and brandished it at the Viking. He watched her, his eyes
narrowed and hard. Fiona remembered the battle axioms Dermot used
to quote:
Don’t look before you strike. Your opponent will guess
from your eyes where you mean to land the blow.
She tried to
think how to follow the advice.

Her concentration was disrupted by a
smothered, snorting sound nearby, and she looked to see that Sigurd
had dropped the tiller and doubled over, apparently so convulsed
with laughter that he didn’t trust himself to steer the ship, His
huge face was crimson with mirth, and it took him some time to
collect himself enough to speak.

“Thor’s hammer! I’ve never seen the like!”
he choked out as she stared at him. “My brother attacks you with
fish, and you—a mere gnat of a woman—you think to wound him with a
splinter of wood!”

Sigurd sputtered with laughter once more,
and Fiona could hear the rest of the Viking crew guffawing. She
felt her face turn crimson and fought back tears of rage and
helplessness. But never would she weep. Sigurd and the rest of them
would only find that more amusing. Frustrated, she threw the piece
of wood at Dag, aiming for his face. He ducked as it went sailing
over the edge of the boat then moved toward her.

Fiona’s anger and humiliation dissolved into
stark fear as he took hold of her wrists. He motioned with his head
toward the mess of fish on the deck. He growled some phrase in
Norse, then repeated it. Although Fiona knew not one word of his
language, she clearly understood his fierce, eloquent eyes. They
said,
Eat or I will grind your face in it.

Pulling away, Fiona leaned over and picked
up one of the pieces of fish, then thrust it into her mouth.
Grimly, she began to chew. She swallowed. The threat of tears
subsided.

Standing a few inches away, Dag appeared to
relax. His icy- blue eyes thawed. There was faint laughter among
the other men. Fiona looked their way, suddenly remembering the
young Viking. Harsh fingers closed around her chin and yanked her
head around. Dag’s forbidding gaze met hers. She found she could
read his expressions easily by now. This one said,
Look upon the
young Viking again, and I will cut out his heart.

Trembling, Fiona took another bite of the
fish. She did not understand this man called Dag. What did he
want?

As if reading her thoughts, Sigurd spoke.
“Look upon your master, wench. Dag Thorsson is the only man allowed
to feed you, to touch you, to look at you. Disregard that fact, and
you will know the stinging reminder of my hand as well as my
brother’s. I warned you I wouldn’t have any of my men wounded in a
squabble over a slave.”

Fiona took a shaky breath and closed her
eyes. She had entered a realm of madmen. If she didn’t keep her
wits about her, she would never survive.

When she opened her eyes, Dag still stared
at her in that wary, ferocious way of his, as if he wanted to spit
at her and swallow her whole at the same time. He gestured again to
the pile of fish on the deck.

Dutifully, Fiona knelt and picked up another
piece. Although she felt less like eating than she ever had in her
life, she stuffed her mouth and began to chew. She would not starve
herself merely to spite this Viking madman. She would endure. It
was the only hope for revenge.

When she was finished eating, the Viking
held out a skin. She took it and drank the stale water greedily,
seeking to wash away the strong taste of the fish. As she lowered
the skin, the Viking made a satisfied sound. Then he fetched the
barrel and motioned to the deck, indicating that she was to clean
up the mess. With a glare at her sullen master, she bent and did
so.

Dag watched the woman pick up the fish. It
had pleased him to see her eat and drink. It did not please him to
see her soil her hands in fish oil. He wanted her hands clean and
soft-scented, to touch him, to stroke his flesh as she once had.
The memory sent a thrill down his body, and he struggled to keep
his face impassive, his demeanor commanding and cold.

He shot a quick glance at his brother, who
still appeared amused. “At last you treat her like slave.” Sigurd
nodded approvingly. “The wench has a rebellious nature. If you mean
to keep her, you must not let her forget you are her master.”

Dag nodded. His brother spoke the truth. The
only way to deal with such a scheming creature was to subjugate her
completely, to make her so fearful she would never dare to defy
him.

“If I were you, I would take her to the tent
and finish things,” Sigurd said. “ ‘Tis obvious you burn for her,
so why not slake your fever between her thighs? Sate yourself this
time. Do not bring her out until you are completely satisfied with
her compliance.”

Dag took a deep breath. Mayhap his brother
was right. He should have raped the woman when first she’d
challenged him. Instead, he had given in to his weakness. He must
make her realize the power he held over her. He owned her; he could
do anything he wished with her.