Storm Maiden (2 page)

She sighed. If only she could help him. But
that was foolish. He was her enemy. If he and the rest of his
bloodthirsty kind had attacked her father’s settlement, they would
have shown no mercy. Rape, murder, robbing monasteries—atrocity
came easily to the Viking race. She could feel no sympathy for such
barbarians.

Indeed, that was the beauty of her plan.
She’d meant to lose her maidenhead to the captured Viking and
confront her father with the deed. Let him try to marry her off to
the proud Sivney Longbeard then. No royal man would want her, not
after she’d been soiled by the hated Viking. Her father’s plans to
use her to form an alliance with the house of Mac Carten would be
thwarted. A defiant smile rose to Fiona’s lips then faded as the
gruesome scene in the souterrain returned to haunt her.

The man was obviously too weak and ill to be
aroused. If she could not entice him, she would have to give up her
plan to avoid the marriage her father had arranged to enhance his
prestige and swell his ranks of warriors. She thought of her
prospective bridegroom, and the gorge rose in her throat. What a
contrast Sivney was to the Viking. One so tall and fair, the other
stout and bowlegged, with rotting teeth and pitted skin.

Even worse than the dark-haired Sivney’s
looks were his lechery and crudeness. When his eyes rested upon
her, Fiona could see the greedy hunger there. It repelled her, much
more than the Viking’s fetid wound and filthy appearance. The enemy
prisoner’s stink could be washed away, his wound cleaned and
treated. But Sivney’s foul nature was irredeemable. He prided
himself on his crude habits, his contemptible appearance. He would
not change for any woman, certainly not Donall Mac Frachnan’s only
daughter.

Fiona paused suddenly in the doorway of the
bower where she slept with the other unmarried women. Perhaps the
situation with the Viking was not hopeless. If she were to clean
his wound and stitch it, then provide him with food and water, he
might well recover enough to accomplish what she wished of him.

Swiftly, she calculated the time until the
wedding. Only a fortnight now, but that might be sufficient. The
Viking was obviously strong, or he would have perished already.
With a little aid, he might survive.

Fiona went to the wickerwork bed she shared
with her foster sister, Duvessa. Sitting down, she began to plait
her hair in preparation for her journey. If there were one person
who could advise her on how to heal the Viking, it was her aunt,
Siobhan. She lived in a hut in the woods a short distance from
Dunsheauna, as Fiona’s father’s fortress was called. People sought
out Siobhan to heal everything from toothaches to fevers. Although
the holy men of her father’s household called Siobhan a witch and
considered her use of spells and potions blasphemous, Fiona could
not believe there was anything evil in using herbs and simples to
help people.

Her hair arranged, Fiona slipped off her
kirtle and changed into a stained brown one. She’d hoped the
clinging green garment would help her entice the Viking, but
obviously he had been too far gone to respond. Jesu, even when she
stripped naked, he had still done nothing!

Fiona’s cheeks flamed at the memory. The man
had been aware of her nakedness, of that she had no doubt. She
recalled his deep-set eyes perusing her, full of astonishment and
some emotion akin to fear. But it couldn’t be fright that had made
him regard her so warily. She’d carried no weapon, made no move to
harm him. Besides, even wounded and shackled, the Viking easily had
enough strength in his magnificent body to overpower her.

Fiona fastened a simple bronze girdle at her
waist and went to put her elegant green gown and the hammered-gold
girdle in a chest in the corner. When next she saw the Viking, she
would not need lavish attire, but some of her aunt’s magical
herbs—and a goodly amount of courage. The thought of what she meant
to do made her heart pound. It was like ministering to a wild
beast. Once the remedy took, what was to keep the animal from
attacking?

Fiona’s heart raced faster at the thought of
the Viking’s long, powerful arms closing around her, his
well-shaped lips pressed against hers. If he raped her, she would
have the means to her heart’s desire, an end to the betrothal to
Sivney. But how could she be sure the Viking would release her
afterwards? He might strangle her after he had his pleasure or use
her to affect his escape.

Fiona shivered. Her plan was fraught with
problems. Not only must she induce the Viking to ravish her, she
must also flee safely afterwards. Then what would happen to him?
Once her father knew how his plans had been ruined, Donall would
express his frustration violently. It was sure to mean a beating
for her, although her father was unlikely to hurt her badly. Even
sullied and no longer desirable as a royal bride, she would still
have place in his plans. The Viking, though, would be killed,
mayhap tortured as well.

It was foolish, irrational, but Fiona could
not stop the stab of pain that went through her at the thought of
the Viking suffering more. If she tended his wounds and saved his
life, he would no longer be the faceless ravisher she intended him
to be. Indeed, she had begun to see him as more than a despised
savage she could use as she wished. Having observed the recognition
and pain in his eyes, she knew he was a man, a wounded creature to
be pitied and aided.

“Too soft,” Fiona muttered to herself.
“Exactly like your mother. You’ll never get anywhere in this life
if you’re so careful of others’ feelings.”

Her words drifted away on the breeze as
Fiona left the women’s house and hurried through the busy
settlement. As she passed the feasthall, Tully, her favorite of
Donall’s hunting dogs, left his sleeping place in the shade and
followed her. Fiona reached out to scratch the rough, curly fur
between his ears.

They moved unnoticed through the gate. Once
outside the palisade, Fiona glanced around quickly then chose a
half- hidden pathway that led into the tangle of gleaming green
hazel and oak trees. Tully bounded after her.

She found her aunt at her hearth in the
small stone hut, stirring a rich vegetable stew and humming.
“Fiona!” her aunt cried. “How good to see you!”

Fiona returned her aunt’s warm embrace, then
sat down on one of the large, flat rocks that served as seating
places in the crowded dwelling. As she gazed into the fire, she
sighed in satisfaction. “I always feel so at peace here.” Her eyes
met Siobhan’s. “What magic do you practice that my cares seem to
drop away as soon as I cross your threshold?”

Siobhan laughed softly, a sound like the
wind through the reeds. In many ways, her aunt reminded Fiona of an
older, faded version of her mother. Siobhan was small and
fine-boned, with dusky skin and large gray eyes. Her black hair was
streaked with silver and fine lines creased her narrow face.

“And what cares do you have that need
easing, my child?” Siobhan responded.

Fiona sighed again.”I face the same trouble
as when I visited you at the beginning of the sunseason. I despise
the man my father has chosen to be my bridegroom.”

“Ah, the Mac Cartan chieftain. I remember
your complaining of his foul breath and ill-favored visage. Have
you not yet found something to recommend the man?”

“Nay. You told me to look beyond his
disgusting appearance, but in doing so, I discovered only his
greedy, grasping temperament and a taste for bestial
pleasures.”

Siobhan shook her head. “How fortunate I was
to avoid marriage. Of course,” she added, “my circumstances were
much different from yours. I was not a princess. You have my sister
to thank for your royal blood. Many times I warned her that
marriage to a warrior king would be disastrous.”

Siobhan visibly shook off the mood, and a
warm smile chased away the lines in her countenance. “Of course,
Aisling was happy, for a time at least, and she was blessed with
you.”

Fiona nodded, feeling an answering ache in
her heart. Her sweet, gentle mother had died two years ago of a
wasting sickness. Even Siobhan, with all her herbs and medicines,
had not been able to save her.

“Enough of the past,” Siobhan announced
briskly. “How can I aid you? A potion to put your bridegroom to
sleep on his wedding night? Something to shrivel his manhood?” Her
fine features crinkled with mirth.

“If my plan succeeds,” Fiona said grimly,
“there will be no wedding night.”

“Tell me.” Siobhan settled opposite Fiona,
her gray eyes bright. “Tell me your plan.”

“... and if I can heal the Viking and entice
him to fornicate with me, my father will have to call off the
wedding.” Finishing her tale, Fiona sat back and waited for
Siobhan’s response. The older woman frowned, but she had not
dismissed Fiona’s scheme outright. There was hope.

Siobhan stood up. “How bad is the man’s
wound?”

“Almost two days now it has been untended,
and he has been without food and water as well.”

Siobhan shook her head. “Once the poison
starts, it is difficult to stop. The wound must be cleaned, then
stitched. Mayhap if you drugged him, but even then... if he is
fevered and weak already...”

“You can show me; I know you can,” Fiona
insisted.

Siobhan abruptly faced her. “And after you
have healed him and coaxed him to deliver you of your
maidenhead—not that I think he will need coaxing, mind you—what
then? You’re father is sure to kill the Viking, after he tortures
him, of course.”

Fiona blanched. Her aunt had seized upon the
very thing she did not want to be reminded of. “I... I... I don’t
know. Mayhap I could free him before I go to my father.”

“Free him? A brutish fiend like that? Do you
think he would go meekly on his way, content to return to his
people with never a thought of vengeance against those who captured
him and held him prisoner?” Siobhan made a contemptuous sound.
“Fiona, sometimes you are as much a fool as your mother was.”

“It may not work, but I must try.” Fiona
looked up, her eyes pleading with Siobhan. “You are a healer, sworn
to aid all who seek out your skill. Do you advise me to turn away
from this man, to leave him to perish in my father’s prison?”

Siobhan smiled, a quirky, mischievous grin
that made her look like a young girl. “Of course I will aid you.
You do not think I would pass up a chance to thwart the great
Donall Mac Frachnan’s will, do you?”

Fiona watched her aunt, uneasy with her
mocking words. There had always been bad blood between her father
and her mother’s sister. The look of malice she saw glinting in
Siobhan’s eyes made Fiona’s own guilt intensify. She did not hate
her father or wish him ill; she only wanted to foil his wedding
plans for her.

“Come.” Siobhan gestured to the corner of
the dwelling where she kept her herbs. “If I am to give you a quick
lesson in healing a man’s battle wounds, we’d best begin at
once.”

“Fiona!”

Her father’s sharp voice made Fiona jerk
around as she hurried across the muddy courtyard. She quickly hid
the leather bag of healing supplies Siobhan had given her, behind
her back. “Aye, Father. You wish speech with me?”

“Daughter.” Donall’s eyes swept over her.
“Where are you going in servant’s attire?”

Fiona hesitated, then met his stern gaze. “I
went to visit Siobhan.” Let him dare to tell her she had no right
to visit her aunt, her own blood kin.

“Alone?”

“Nay, Tully was with me.”

Donall’s stance relaxed, but his shrewd
green eyes continued to pierce her. “What business did you have
with your aunt?”

“I asked her to show me some of her healing
methods. Since I am to wed a warrior, I need to know how to drain
an oozing wound or make a healing poultice.”

“Healing?” Her father snorted in disgust.
“More likely you have obtained poison to help your bridegroom into
the spirit world ere you have to wed him.”

Fiona set her jaw. Her father obviously knew
how much she

despised Sivney Longbeard, but he intended
to wed her against her will. “I would do no such a thing. You must
know it, Father.”

“I would hope not. Still, your sulky look
reveals your feelings for Sivney haven’t softened.” He sighed, and
his scowl eased. “Come with me into my private chamber. We’ll talk
of this some more.”

Fiona followed her father into the spacious
sleeping area built into the back of the feasthall. The walls were
draped with rich, vivid cloths, and woven mats covered the floor.
Wooden chests bound with enameled bronze strips held her father’s
clothes and the gold and jewels Fiona would take as her dowry when
she wed. A bronze ewer and priceless glassware from Brittany graced
the carved table near the wickerwork bed. Fiona fidgeted. Her
father had taken no concubine since her mother’s death, and the
fine ornaments that adorned the place remained as they always had,
reawakening Fiona’s dull, aching grief over her loss.

Donall saw her wistful look and nodded.
“Aye, I still miss her, too. I’ve wondered sometimes if it would be
better if I gave away her things. Perhaps you would like them as
part of your dowry when you go to Rath Morrig?”

At the mention of the wedding, Fiona’s mood
again turned rebellious. She glowered at her father. “I’ve told
you, I’m not going to Morrig.”

Her father’s jaw clenched; but when he
spoke, his voice was surprisingly mild. “
Acushla,
I don’t
make this decision lightly. If I didn’t need Sivney’s support, I
would not think to give you to him.”

“And how many cattle and bondsmen make up
the price of my maidenhead?”

Her father’s face flushed with anger, and
the veins stood out on his forehead. “Would that your mother ever
heard you speak so! ‘Tis a fine and honorable match I have arranged
for you. Sivney has vowed to treat you with utmost respect and
honor.”