Storm Maiden (20 page)

“That is all that might save you. As Dag’s
property, your punishment is up to him. If he argues for your life,
you might escape with only a flogging.”

Fiona felt sick. All the times she had
defied Dag—now, her life was in his hands. Would he see fit to
spare her?

Fiona got up quickly, brushing down her
kirtle. A plan whirled through her mind. She recalled seeing a
forested area behind the steading when they first arrived. If she
could escape from the longhouse...

“What are you planning?” Breaca asked
sharply.

Fiona gazed at the Irish girl. Could she
trust her? Truly, she had no choice. If she were to get away, she
must have help. “I mean to run away. Will you help me?”

Breaca’s expression grew grim. “You really
are a lackwit, aren’t you? You think you have merely to walk off?
That they will not search for you and bring you back? A runaway
slave is always killed, and not in a pleasant way, either. Even Dag
could not forestall that verdict.”

“What if they could not find me?” Fiona
asked stubbornly. I may look pampered, but I have
some
survival skills. My aunt taught me to make a snare to catch small
animals and also of wild plants that can be eaten.”

Breaca regarded her dubiously. “You might
survive, for a time. But then winter would come and you would
either die of cold or be eaten by wolves. This is not Eire, Fiona.
It may be warm now, but the winters here are brutal beyond your
imagining.”

Fiona began to pace, feeling desperate.
Breaca’s arguments were reasonable, but how could she listen? How
could she remain here, helplessly waiting for death? Her Irish
blood demanded that she fight to the end. She stopped pacing. “I
need a knife, Breaca, or some other weapon. Would you be willing to
get me one?”

Breaca exhaled in disgust. “I vow, you
deserve to die, you are so stupid. If I were discovered carrying a
weapon, I would be executed along side you. I don’t like you that
much, Fiona of the Deasunachta, that I will recklessly throw away
my own life to aid your honor.” She approached Fiona, her voice
intent. “You are not a warrior, Fiona. There is no need for you to
go to your death fighting. Better you should use your womanly
skills to persuade Dag that you are worth keeping alive.”

Fiona began to pace again. It came down to
the same dilemma—should she surrender to her enemy to save her
life? Which was the more noble path? To die, having never
submitted, or to do what was necessary to live and someday seek
vengeance?

She whirled to face Breaca. “What if it
doesn’t work? What if I beg Dag for my life and he refuses me? Then
I will have compromised my honor
and
lost my life.”

Breaca rolled her eyes. “It will work. The
Viking, Dag, is besotted with you. It is likely he would try to
save your life even if you spat in his face.”

Aye, Fiona thought, she had done that, and
it had apparently not destroyed the Viking’s concern. Mayhap Breaca
was right, and the Viking warrior truly cared for her. She raised
her eyes to the Irish girl. “Should I offer myself to him? Is that
the way to win his favor?”

Breaca smiled. “Now, Fiona, you show some
sense. Take out your hair.” She gestured to Fiona’s thick braid.
“Then remove your clothes. When Dag returns and sees you naked, I
vow he will do whatever he can to protect you.”

* * *

Dag stumbled over the threshold of the
longhouse, his head spinning. Rorig had joined him soon after he
went outside, carrying another skin of the potent, sweet drink
stolen from the Irish steading. The two of them had stupidly
finished it off.

Now Dag’s body felt heavy and awkward, and
he would be miserable on the morrow. At least his mind was numb.
That was the point of his foolishness. He didn’t want to think, to
remember the trouble awaiting him in the longhouse.

He hiccupped loudly and crossed the main
area of the dwelling. All around him, men snored and mumbled
drunkenly in sleep.

The place was as filthy as the swine yard.
Piles of greasy bones lay everywhere, and pools of ale dripped down
over the edges of the board tables. Here and there puddles of vomit
fouled the straw covering the dirt floor. Dag made a face, thinking
of Mina and the other women having to clean up the mess. It was no
wonder his countrymen were often accused of being filthy beasts.
Certainly many of them acted that way when in their cups.

Nei,
that was an insult to the
animals, Dag thought groggily. Except for swine, most creatures did
not wallow in their filth. Even wolves took care not to foul their
dens.

Reaching his bedchamber, he pushed open the
door. He was surprised to see the lamp on his sea chest still lit.
He pushed into the room. The red-haired slave girl struggled to her
feet from her seat on the floor. He had told her to stay and do
something. What was it? Oh,
ja,
she was to get him if anyone
came.

A fat bit of good that would have done, Dag
thought sleepily. He was too drunk to fight and could hardly have
protected the woman if Brodir had come seeking vengeance.
Thankfully, he had not.

A quick glance at the bed told Dag that the
Irishwoman remained safe. She was tucked into the bedfurs with only
the pale oval of her face visible.

He sighed and sat heavily on the box bed.
The Irishwoman stirred. Her eyes opened. Dag looked away. He would
ignore her tonight. He had not the strength for fighting. On the
morrow, somehow, he would deal with her.

He bent down and began to unwind the strips
fastening up his boots.

“Would you like me to do that?”

He looked up. The red-haired thrall—he had
forgotten her again.

“
Ja,”
he said wearily. He lay back
while the slave undid his boots, then helped him off with his
tunic. His head felt as if it were stuffed with wool. He jerked
alert, suddenly aware that the girl had spoken again. “What?”

“I said, ‘Do you want me to remove your
trews?’ ”

“Oh,
Ja.
” Dag lay back again,
scarcely aware of the girl’s small fingers pulling off the garment.
Finally naked, he rolled into the bed. Encountering the
Irishwoman’s form beneath the fur covers, Dag pulled her close. In
seconds he had begun to snore.

Fiona wriggled from the Viking’s fierce
embrace and glanced toward Breaca, standing by the bed. “Jesu, what
do I do now?”

Breaca laughed. “Nothing. His shaft is as
soft as a wet reed. He won’t be any use to you tonight.”

“But how do I get him to ravish me?”

“‘Twill have to wait until the morrow.”

Fiona sighed in frustration. By then her
resolve might well have weakened.

Breaca moved toward the door.

“Wait!” Fiona called. “Can you not stay with
me?”

“Why? There’s only room in the bed for two,
in several ways. I can’t be here in the morning to tell you what to
do. Some things a woman must manage on her own.”

Fiona swallowed, feeling panicky. She had
tried once to seduce the Viking, and failed. What if she should
fail again? “Please,” she whispered to Breaca. “At least stay the
night. I’ll give you one of the bedfurs. The floor here can
scarcely be harder than the pallets in the slave shelter.” She
wrinkled her nose at the memory. “Certainly it is cleaner.”

Breaca sighed and took the fur. “Sometimes
you are the most helpless of creatures, Fiona,” she said as she
made a bed for herself on the straw-covered floor. “If you were a
pup, my da would have drowned you at birth for your puniness.”

His stomach was afire.

Dag rolled over on his side and groaned.
Curse the Irish for their damned mead! Drinking ale or wine never
made him feel so vile. If only he could go back to sleep. But
something had wakened him.

He eased himself to a sitting position at
the side of the bed. His head responded with a furious throb that
made his ailing stomach seem almost bearable. Loki’s balls! What
had he done to himself?

A sound behind him made him stiffen. Someone
was in the room with him. His muscles tensed for battle, but the
answering thunder in his brain made it impossible to turn quickly
around. He slowly shifted his torso, keeping his head as immobile
as possible. The other side of the room came into view.

The Irishwoman! She had slept the night in
his bed, and he hadn’t known it. He gazed at her, feeling more
irritable than ever. What did she want now? Had she not already
caused him enough grief?

She sat up. The bedrobe fell away, exposing
her breasts. Despite himself, Dag stared. Sweet Freya, she was
beautiful. But why was she naked? Why had she slept in his bed
naked?

He watched her green eyes narrow enticingly,
like a cat’s. He sucked in his breath. Did she mean to seduce him?
What miserable timing she had! At this moment, he was as like to
puke on her as to pleasure her.

Besides, he knew why she was acting like
this. She was obviously grateful he’d saved her spoiled little
hide. Her yielding out of gratitude appealed to him as much as her
yielding out of fear. He wanted to see desire in her eyes, genuine
desire, not the false passion he observed now. Even as he watched,
the sultry, provocative look faded and wariness surfaced.

He sighed. He had no desire to see her
grovel, not his haughty fairy queen. Turning away, he went about
the excruciating task of finding his clothes. He discovered them
folded neatly on the chest and remembered the red-haired slave
undressing him. At least she had left, like a decent slave
should.

Grabbing his clothes, he slowly bent over
and pulled his trews up to his thighs. His stomach lurched
dangerously, and he wondered if eating would help. He pulled his
trews on the rest of the way. Now for his boots. He bent down again
and groaned as his head responded with a violent throb of pain.

He heard a rustling noise as the Irishwoman
got out of the bed, then the soft sound of her footfalls on the
rush-covered floor. When he raised his gaze, she stood in front of
him. The sight of her naked belly met his eyes. His glance moved
up, then down, inspecting the creamy suppleness of her form. He
wondered what she wanted, then decided he didn’t care. His eyes
feasted. It had been nearly a sennight since he’d enjoyed her
thus.

Abruptly, she knelt and began to put on his
boots. Her hair streamed over her slender shoulders like a cascade
of dark water. Dag watched, entranced. After a while, she glanced
up, an aggravated look on her face. Obviously, his feet were not
cooperating, and she was unskilled at this. He wondered if she had
ever dressed a man. He knew at least one that she had
undressed.

The memory aroused him—painfully. It was
difficult enough to endure the pounding of his head and the
unsteadiness of his belly; now his shaft was hard and throbbing,
too. He gritted his teeth until she finished. When she stood up and
leaned forward with his tunic, he snatched it away from her. He
tugged it over his head, not wanting to feel her soft hands on
him.

Their eyes met. She appeared uneasy,
frightened. He glowered at her. Troublesome wench. The grief she
caused him—the embarrassing conversation with Knorri, the stupidity
of getting drunk on mead, the multitude of difficulties awaiting
him in the longhouse—she was the reason for all of it. And now she
apparently wished to repay him with her wondrous body.

He was simply not up to it. Shoving her
aside, he marched out of the bedchamber.

Fiona watched him, her heart sinking. She
closed her eyes as tears of frustration crept from beneath her
eyelids. Dag didn’t want her. He hated her. Why did she feel so
miserable that he had not responded to her enticements?

She sniffed back a sob of self-pity as
Breaca entered the doorway. The girl glanced at her in surprise,
then made one of her frequent sounds of disgust. “Fiona, you
coward! You hide here simpering, as if tears could do you a bit of
good. Get dressed. If you aren’t out in the longhouse soon and
ready and eager to tend to Brodir’s wounds, it truly will go hard
with you!”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “Brodir? What do you
mean?”

“Knorri has decreed that you will treat his
wound. Dag told him that you were a wise woman.”

“A what?”

“A wise woman, a healer.”

Fiona blanched. “They can’t mean for me to
touch that pig- faced fiend. I won’t do it!”

“You must and you will.” Breaca’s voice was
hard. “Dag has convinced the jarl to spare your life, but one of
the conditions is that you will use your skill to aid Brodir.”

“I’ll aid him,” Fiona ground out. “I’ll slit
his throat and put him out of his misery.”

Breaca rolled her eyes. “Blessed Bridget,
why do I try? There’s no help for such a witless creature.” She
turned to leave.

“Wait,” Fiona called.

Breaca hesitated. Her shoulders heaved with
a sigh. “What now?”

“I’ll ... I’ll do it... if you think I must.
It’s only... I have no herbs, none of my aunt’s healing potions.
I’m not certain I know what to do.”

Breaca shifted to face Fiona. “Pretend.
Brodir’s not like to die anyway. Thick-skulled oafs like him are
hard to kill, more’s the pity. All you need do is give the pretense
of healing him.”

Fiona nodded. She wouldn’t let her stubborn
pride get in the way this time. She would do what was necessary to
survive, even if it meant aiding that miserable wretch.

“Good.” Breaca grinned in satisfaction.
“Your obedience might save you. You owe your life to Dag. He argued
with the jarl against putting you to death. I don’t know what he
said, but somehow he swayed Knorri.” Her eyes flashed warningly.
“I’m sure Dag promised you would be as meek and docile as a field
mouse from now on. You might consider his honor before you let your
temper get the best of you again.”