Storm Maiden (25 page)

His fairy queen
. Dag sighed in
satisfaction. He had possessed her, finally. She couldn’t deny her
helpless surrender. Her delicate body still trembled from the
ecstasy he’d given her. In the name of Freya, what sublime delight
he’d known himself!

He sighed again and caressed her hair,
flowing over his chest like liquid silk. He wanted to kiss her, to
seal the sweetness between them. She was enchantment and magic and
endless beguilement, and he had drunk of it as if his soul were
parched. Even if he woke up the next morning to find eons of time
had sped by, it wouldn’t matter. At this moment, it seemed a fair
trade, his soul for those moments of rapture when he’d burst into
flames inside her.

He moved his hand to stroke her scalp,
wishing she would raise her head again so he could gaze upon her
exquisite features. He longed to look into the mesmerizing depths
of her pale-green eyes and see his contentment reflected back at
him.

When Fiona didn’t stir from his chest, Dag
gently grasped her around the waist and helped her sit up. His
fingers roamed over her arms, breasts, and belly possessively,
reassuring himself that she was his. There was so much he wanted to
say to her, but they’d best resume their lessons if he were to
learn the words before they both grew old!

He moved to a sitting position beside her
and touched her lips, repeating the Irish word she had taught him.
Next, he kissed her and spoke the word for “kiss.” She repeated it,
then gave him the Irish term.

He went on to naming objects in the
room—bucket, cloth, bench, water, fire. Finally, when both of them
were starting to grow confused, he left her and went to fill a
large wooden tub with water. He put rocks from the fire in the
bottom and waited for them to heat the water. When the bath was
ready, he removed the rocks and helped Fiona into the tub. He
helped her wash, then, after she had stepped out and begun to dry
off, he climbed into the tub himself.

As he sluiced water over his chest and
shoulders, he saw Fiona staring at him, her eyes appraising. He
laughed and told her not to be greedy; there would be time for
lovemaking later. Although she couldn’t possibly understand
those
words, she apparently guessed his meaning for she
blushed and looked away.

Dag laughed again. What a hot-blooded wench
she was. Although surely sore and tired, she did not appear
inclined to make him wait long to have her again.

After they had dried off and dressed, he
unlatched the door and led the woman from the bathing hut. As they
walked together back to the longhouse, Dag’s mind whirled with the
wonder of what he had experienced. Never had he known lovemaking so
intense and satisfying. A part of him felt awed, another part
apprehensive. Life had taught him that happiness and contentment
were fragile things; it was dangerous to trust in them too
much.

The bakehouse was dimly lit and
suffocatingly hot. With each breath, Fiona inhaled the moist,
yeasty air and heard the monotonous sound of dough being pounded
into loaves by the other women. She’d had a headache since she’d
awakened this morning, and she suspected at least part of her
ailment was caused by lack of sleep. Dag had made love to her much
of the night. It had been explosive, intense, yet, for all the
satisfaction that suffused her body, Dag’s lovemaking hadn’t
banished her nagging doubts.

Fiona pushed the dough in front of her
aside. She couldn’t help feeling anxious and unsettled. Did Dag
truly care for her or was his passion something that would wane as
he grew used to her body? She shivered despite the heat. Was she a
fool to trust her captor, to let him suborn her will with his magic
caresses?

Someone spoke sharply to her in Norse. Fiona
turned and tried to quench the resentment she knew showed on her
face. Old Ymir, who supervised the bakehouse, gestured toward the
neglected dough before Fiona, indicating she should get busy. Fiona
gritted her teeth and poked at the dough. It was not so much the
work of a thrall she hated as always being inside. She longed for
the scent of rain and growing things, the lulling green of the
hills of Eire. There might be beauty in the Norse landscape, too,
but she had not had a chance to experience it. She was constantly
toiling in some dim, airless workhouse. Mayhap she should ask Dag
if she could be a field slave instead. Surely it would be more
interesting to milk cows or tend vegetables than this tedious
work.

The sound of the other thralls kneading
suddenly ceased. Fiona looked up and realized that Ymir had left
the bakehouse. An odd sensation came over her, a wild, reckless
feeling like a storm blowing in. She had a desperate need for
freedom, to feel at least for a time like herself again. What would
it hurt if she went outside for a moment?

She pushed aside the pile of dough and
headed for the door. Outside, the breezeless air of the yard stank
of manure and garbage rotting in the heat. Fiona wrinkled her nose
and walked a few paces. She needed fresh air.

She moved beyond the byre, almost to the
steading wall. With every step, her yearning grew greater, and with
it, the awareness that she might be punished if anyone saw her. Her
desire for a moment of brief freedom slowly changed into a
desperate need to flee, and all at once she was running. She tore
out of the steading yard and raced for the green refuge of the
forest. Reaching the trees, she didn’t stop, but kept going.

The pathway took her to the beach. There she
stopped and stared out at the shimmering gray waves, and relief
finally found her. Her pounding heart slowed. She’d come to this
place by the sea, and by the sea she could leave again. She was not
trapped here for all eternity.

She walked out on the rocky shoreline,
examining the Viking ship grounded a few hundred paces from the
water. It was a beautiful thing, the vessel Sigurd called the
Stormjomfru.
Exquisitely graceful, yet durable and strong.
In this ship, men dared to take on the power and strength of the
sea, to risk their lives travelling hundreds of leagues in a small,
seemingly fragile vessel. It amazed Fiona to think that men could
build such things, and then have the courage to use them.

The Vikings were brave, of that she had no
doubt. As much as she hated their blood lust and rapacity, she
couldn’t help but admire their boldness.

But she was bold, too, and proud. The Norse
would not break her. If she had to endure this place for a dozen
years, never would she waver in her intent. Someday she would
return to Eire; someday she would be free again.

Fiona left off surveying the ship and took a
seat nearby on a flat rock in the sun. Here the warmth didn’t seem
smothering, but soothing. She closed her eyes and leaned her head
back, feeling the sea breeze on her face like a caress.

* * *

The fishing had been good, but Dag was
anxious to see Fiona. As soon as the men docked the dinghies in the
cove down the coast, he left the others to load the catch in the
cart and set out through the narrow band of forest which edged the
fjord.

Everything seemed well when he arrived at
the steading. Geese and chickens scratched in the dirt around the
byres while the huge homefield sow wallowed in a cool dirt bed
under a beechtree. There was no sign of the women or thralls, and
Dag surmised that they must be busy in one of the workhouses. Fiona
would be with them.

He sought out the dairy first, a cool, dark
building made of stone where the women transformed buckets of fresh
milk into curds, buttermilk, and butter. Seeing no sign of Fiona or
Breaca, he went on to the bakery. The small building seemed
unbearably hot, and he was relieved to find that Fiona had
apparently not been forced to toil there. He was on his way to the
sour-smelling brewhouse when Breaca came running toward him. Her
eyes were wide with alarm, but she did not speak until she drew
near.

“Dag.” She spoke in a low, urgent voice. “I
can’t find Fiona!”

Fear clutched at Dag’s insides. Had Brodir
or some other man abducted her? Was she even now being raped in
some shadowy glen in the forest? He fought for calm, reminding
himself that Brodir had been along on the fishing trip and, until a
short while ago, far from the steading.

“When did you last see her?”

“She was in the bakehouse,” Breaca panted.
“When I went there, the other thralls told me she’d left. When Ymir
asked about her, I lied and said that I’d sent her to the brewery
to get more yeast. But the truth is, Fiona has vanished.”

“You don’t think she ran away, do you?” As
he asked the question, Dag shuddered inwardly. The punishment for a
slave who sought to escape was always death.

“I don’t think so. She seemed restless this
morning, but I feel certain she understands how hopeless such an
attempt would be. Still...” Breaca drew nearer and lowered her
voice even more. “If she did run away, we must find her before
anyone notices she’s gone. I’ve told no one but you that she is
missing.”

The impact of Breaca’s beseeching words
jarred Dag. She was asking him to find Fiona and bring her back
before her foolishness was known, to cover up an escape attempt. If
he did such a thing, he would be in defiance of the laws of his
people. Did he care enough for the woman to agree to do something
so underhanded?

He considered a moment, then decided
abruptly that he did. It was his fault she was his captive. He was
responsible for her.

“Where would she go?” he asked Breaca.

Breaca shook her head helplessly. “The
forest... the hills... I know not.”

“Keep looking here,” Dag ordered. “I’ll
search the woods.”

Dag’s breath kept catching in his chest as
he searched, even though he moved slowly enough that he caused
himself no real exertion. It was his thoughts which made him gasp
with dread. If Fiona were found and accused of fleeing, he would
have to argue for her life again, and he likely would not succeed
this time.

He swatted violently at an overhanging
branch which blocked his pathway. Damn the reckless wench! Why
could she not think before she acted?

As he circled back to the far edge of the
home meadow, he heard the commotion. Raised, angry voices, a
woman’s scream—it could only mean one thing.

He raced toward the sound, vaulting easily
over the low turf wall and dashing across the open area behind the
longhouse. His worst fears were confirmed when he rounded the
corner of building and saw the Irishwoman flailing in Balder’s
grasp, her long black hair unbound and wild around her face.
Nearby, Sigurd stood with his hands on hips, regarding the woman
coldly.

Dag forced himself to a walk and approached.
“What’ s this? What’s happened?” he called, struggling not to sound
winded.

Sigurd turned. His blue eyes were harsh,
forbidding. “Balder found the woman on the beach. He said she was
near the ship, either planning sabotage or intending to hide there
until she could escape.”

In response to Sigurd’s words, the woman
shouted something and struggled furiously. Dag was near enough now
to see the terror in her eyes, the blind, unreasoning panic. She
thought she was going to die.

Dag tried to meet her gaze, to reassure her,
but she looked beyond him, as if he were only another of her
persecutors. “What does the woman say?” he asked Sigurd.

“She denies the accusation, of course. She
said she only needed some fresh air, that the heat of the bakehouse
made her sick.”

“It seems like a probable explanation.” Dag
shrugged, seeking to lighten the tense atmosphere. “The woman knows
it would be futile to run away. Why would she throw her life away
in such an absurd fashion? She has no hope of using the ship to
return to Ireland; if she wished to escape, or even hide, she would
flee to the hills.”

“Panic can make even clever minds useless.
Look at the woman now, and tell me she is not capable of witless
behavior.”

Reluctantly, Dag glanced at Fiona. She did
look half mad. Her eyes were dilated, her fine features distorted.
Silently, he cursed her for falling into such an obvious trap. But
what would he do, he asked himself, if he faced a terrible death in
a foreign land? Might not his composure fail him also?

“Tell me.” Dag turned his gaze to Balder.
“What was she doing when you found her?”

The barrel-chested warrior gave Fiona’s slim
arms a vicious squeeze, then answered. “It matters not what she was
doing, only her obvious intent.”

“Kill her!” Brodir’s voice echoed with
barely repressed satisfaction. “If naught else, we have reason to
believe she cursed the ship. For that alone, she should die!”

“Of all the superstitious, stupid...” Dag
broke off his angry words as his brother raised his hand for
silence. He reminded himself that he must keep his head and make
Sigurd his ally. Sigurd might mislike the woman, but he would not
allow his feelings to cause him to pass judgment unfairly. “You
can’t kill the woman for giving the appearance of trying to
escape,” Dag reminded his brother. “What law did she break by going
to the beach and
looking
at the ship?”

“She cursed it, you fool!”

“Silence!” Sigurd cut short Brodir’s
outburst with a savage glance. “My brother has asked a reasonable
question, and I will consider it as such.” He turned his
penetrating gaze to Balder. “Tell us, Balder, what was the woman
doing when you found her?”

Some men would have lied—Brodir certainly
would have—but Balder was a loyal oathman and he would not bend the
truth he gave his leader. “She was sitting on a rock, looking at
the ship. When she saw me, she jumped up and began to run.”

“Which direction did she flee?” Sigurd
asked.

“The path toward the longhouse. When I
caught up with her, she tried to scratch my eyes out.” Balder took
his sword hand off the woman long enough to gesture toward the
bloody gouges on his cheek, and Fiona immediately jerked away from
his grasp. Dag reached out and grabbed her, capturing her thrashing
form in his arms. She struggled for a time, then quieted. Dag held
her in an iron-like grip, determined that she would not slip away
again.