The Viking's Captive

  “I…am…not…yours!

  Do you hear me, barbarian?

  “I won’t belong to any man. Ever again!”

  Rorik’s eyes gleamed down at Yvaine. “You belong to me, little wildcat. But don’t worry. I’ll give you time to get used to the idea.”

  “Give me time—” The sheer arrogance of his statement made her gasp. “Why, you overbearing, boorish…kidnapper. I’ll show you what time—”

  She didn’t get a chance to finish. Rorik leaned forward, lifted her wrists over her head and slowly lowered himself over her. Yvaine’s eyes widened as his body covered hers. Heat enveloped her instantly.

  Their eyes met—his blazing, intent, hers wide and wary.

  “Aye,” he growled. “Now you know. I could take you right here if I was the barbarian you think me.”

  The Viking’s Captive

  JULIA BYRNE

  TORONTO • NEW YORK • LONDON

  AMSTERDAM • PARIS • SYDNEY • HAMBURG

  STOCKHOLM • ATHENS • TOKYO • MILAN • MADRID

  PRAGUE • WARSAW • BUDAPEST • AUCKLAND

  JULIA BYRNE

  lives in Australia with her husband, daughter and a cat who thinks he’s a person. She started her working career as a secretary, taught ballroom dancing after several successful years as a competitor, and while working in the history department of a Melbourne university decided to try her hand at writing historical romance. She enjoys a game of cards or mah-jongg, usually has several cross-stitch projects on the go and is a keen preserver of family history.

  Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter One

  England in the Year of Our Lord 904

  Smoke blanketed the sky, a thick black pall, hanging over the town beyond the manor walls and filling the air with the suffocating odour of burning thatch. She could almost hear the hungry flames, even above the terrifying clamour of axe against shield, sword against sword, and the screams of the townswomen.

  And louder still, borne on the wind that whipped at her hair as she ran from the stable, there rose a steady roar, a sound inhuman, like the howling of a thousand wolves.

  The chilling roar brought her to a dead stop halfway across the manor compound. One hand clutched a hooked tunic to her breast; with the other she pulled a kirtle into place over the chausses she’d snatched from the stableboy’s loft, her gaze on the empty road outside the palisade. The big wooden gates stood open, no defence at all.

  Had everyone fled to the woods? she wondered. Even her husband?

  No. The answer to that came immediately. Considering the sins on Ceawlin’s conscience, he’d more likely taken refuge in the church.

  Fool! Did he think those murderous savages would respect the sanctuary of the church? Hadn’t he listened to the tales of slaughtered monks, plundered treasures, desecrated holy relics? Of course not. Ceawlin was probably on his knees this minute, babbling prayers for deliverance from the wrath of the Norsemen.

  Her mouth curled in a scornful smile. It suited her purpose if the Lord of Selsey thought only of his own safety, leaving his wife to the mercies of their attackers, but still she felt contempt for such a man.

  She hesitated a moment longer, wondering if she should close and bar the gates, then shook her head, turning away. Gates wouldn’t hold against the heathen horde outside. But they would sack the church first in their quest for loot. She still had a little time.

  Clutching her tunic tighter, she raced across the compound towards the hall, glad of the freedom of her borrowed raiment. If she managed to escape she’d be able to travel quickly and more safely disguised as a boy. And if not, if by some evil chance she was caught, at least death would be quick.

  But she refused to think of failure. She would escape. She must.

  With a final glance over her shoulder at the lowering black cloud, she ran into the hall.

  The terrifying sounds were instantly muted as the silence of the empty building surrounded her. The hush gave an illusion of safety. Her racing pulse slowed, her breathing steadied. All she had to do was find a dagger and some coins and leave. Once outside the gates, it would take only a minute to gain the safety of the forest—and her freedom.

  What she sought lay under the big carved chair at the high table. She knew it was there. Jankin had innocently told her of the hidden chest months ago, not realising…

  Dear God. Jankin. He’d been sent to the town that morning. Had he managed to hide, or was he even now lying dead, his life cut brutally short—?

  No, don’t think it.

  Resolutely suppressing the hideous pictures in her mind, she hurried down the hall to the dais at the end of the long room. Kneeling behind the table, she felt under her husband’s chair.

  The chest was there in its niche; small, but heavy. She put her tunic aside to use both hands, dragging the chest from its hiding place and around to the end of the table where she could open it more easily. Its wooden base shrieked protestingly as it scraped over the floor, momentarily drowning out the noise outside.

  But not quite cloaking the thud of approaching footsteps.

  She whirled as the intruder spoke, a terrified gasp breaking free.

  ‘So, Anfride was right. The Lady Yvaine of Selsey is no better than those heathen fiends outside. You seek to rob me also.’

  ‘Holy Saints! Ceawlin.’ She came to her feet, waiting for her heartbeat to slow before speaking again. She ignored Ceawlin’s mention of her unmarried sister-in-law. Anfride was as malicious as her brother and had always disliked her. She’d long ago given up trying to make a friend of the woman.

  Just as she’d long ago vanquished fear of Ceawlin. It hadn’t been easy. Though he hadn’t mistreated her physically, being in awe of her connection to the powerful royal house of Wessex, he was spiteful with the meanness of the weak and cowardly, cruel to those below him and self-indulgent in his pleasures. But she’d been married to him for five years and was no longer the uncertain child who’d arrived at Selsey.

  Now she despised him.

  He glared at her through close-set eyes before pointedly lowering his gaze to the chest at her feet.

  Yvaine lifted her chin. ‘I do not rob you, Ceawlin, but only retrieve what was mine.’

  ‘What was yours, wife? What was yours? You own nothing here. Or were you hoping I’d be killed by yonder savages, leaving you free of me and mistress of my wealth?’ Ceawlin flicked her clothing with a contemptuous gesture.

  ‘Do you think to hide behind your boy’s clothes while you await my death? Stupid woman. Your face betrays you and ’tis too late to seek the church.’

  ‘Too late for you also, Ceawlin, if you linger here.’

  He threw back his head and laughed at that, a shrill cackle that echoed shockingly in the empty hall.

  And Yvaine felt the first icy trickle of dread slide down her spine. So might demons laugh, she thought. Mad. Evil. She had to get away from this place. But how was she to get past Ceawlin? The table stood at her left; he in front. If she made any sudden move towards the open space to her right, he’d be after her like a hound after a hare.

  ‘Hah!’ he barked as if aware of her frantically racing thoughts. He leaned forward and thrust his face close to hers. ‘You think I’ve no wit for planning, Yvaine, but mark this. I intend to use you as surety for my life
.’

  For a moment Yvaine could only stare at him. ‘You think I’ll stay here to be used as a bargaining counter?’ she finally got out. ‘Let me clear your foggy wits, Ceawlin. I came in here to retrieve the dowry I brought you, but if I have to leave without it—’

  ‘Leave? That was your scheme?’ He snorted. ‘A foolish one. I’m your lawful husband. I say what you’ll—’

  ‘Lawful husband?’ The words burst from her, incredulous. The smug satisfaction on Ceawlin’s sharp, rat-like features was intolerable. She thought of the past five years; the insolence of serfs too afraid of their master to serve her, the spite, the threats, the deliberate destruction of her treasured manuscripts, the disappearance of any animal she petted.

  The memories flicked at her like tiny whips. For one reckless instant danger was swept aside as a torrent of emotion surged and swelled inside her until it broke over her in a wave of molten fury.

  ‘Husband! You don’t know the meaning of the word. And this my family will know. No longer will I stay here to be scorned, half-starved, used to hide your true nature. I have been silent all these years, but no more. You wallow in vice! You have no honour, no decency. Hear me now, my Lord of Selsey. I would walk to Rome barefoot to have our marriage annulled!’

  The silence that followed her outburst seemed to throb with the echo of her words.

  Then Ceawlin’s face turned a mottled red as rage contorted his features. ‘You speak so to me?’ he almost screamed. ‘You forget yourself, wife.’

  ‘I forget nothing,’ she spat back. ‘But you do, Ceawlin. Do you hold your life so cheap that you stand here berating me?’ She pointed to the chest between them. ‘There lies your treasure. Take it and hide.’

  She started forward as she spoke, intending to push past him, but as quick as an adder striking, his hand flashed out and fastened around her wrist. Yvaine bit back a startled gasp, her eyes flying wide as Ceawlin’s fingers tightened with deliberate cruelty.

  ‘So you wish to leave, my lady? You wish to be free of me?’

  The snarled anticipation in his voice sliced through her anger like steel cleaving mist. Yvaine went very still, waiting.

  ‘Then so you shall be,’ Ceawlin hissed. ‘When I say, in the manner I devise. But first—’ with a vicious jerk he began to pull her across the hall towards the thick centre post, at the same time loosening his belt with his free hand ‘—you need a lesson in wifely respect. ’Tis long overdue and your noble connections won’t help you now.’

  ‘Are you mad?’ she cried, throwing herself back against the numbing grip on her arm. Fear surged as she realised Ceawlin was stronger than his flabby, over-indulged body appeared. Desperate, she lashed out, her nails raking across fat knuckles.

  Almost casually he turned and backhanded her across the face, then yanked her forward so roughly she stumbled and fell to her knees.

  Dazed, she flung out her other hand, trying to recover her balance, only to have both wrists captured and bound with Ceawlin’s belt. He jerked her arms above her head, looped the ends of the belt around the solid post and fastened them, then stood back to examine his handiwork.

  Yvaine shook her head, trying to clear her vision. How had it happened so quickly? Her ears were still ringing from Ceawlin’s blow when she realised she was trapped. The sheer horror of it had her clawing aside fear as frantically as she’d fought Ceawlin’s grip. ‘You are mad,’ she whispered. ‘When the king hears of this—’

  ‘When Edward hears of this,’ Ceawlin retorted, ‘’twill be through a letter from me telling of my beloved wife’s capture by Norse pirates.’ He chuckled at the notion and gave a cruel jerk on the belt. ‘Aye, I’ve waited a long time for this, wife. A long time. Anfride’s potions didn’t work, but this will. And the role of bereaved husband will suit me well.’

  Potions? No. She shook her head. There wasn’t time. ‘Ceawlin, listen to me. Those fiends won’t spare you because you have me tied and trussed for them.’

  But Ceawlin only laughed again as he retraced his steps and bent to open the chest. This time the effect of that high-pitched giggle was terrifying. She forced herself to shut out the sound, forced herself to think. What was she to do? Ceawlin was beyond listening to warnings or reason. And she would not beg. She would not plead.

  She strained at her bonds, ignoring pain as the leather bit deeper. A warm trickle of blood ran down her arm. She ignored that, too, twisting her hands in an attempt to get at the buckle.

  Ceawlin’s footsteps sounded behind her again. He was coming back, eyes glassy with excitement, a thick rope, knotted at one end, dangling from his hand. A prayer for strength flashed through her mind and was gone. Yet ’twas not the threat of a beating that had terror pushing her heart into her throat, but the greater danger. Coming closer, stalking her on silent feet. To be left here, helpless, for those barbarians to find…

  A beating was nothing to what they would do to her.

  ‘You’ll lose your life for this indulgence,’ she choked. Her throat felt so tight she could scarcely speak, but she clenched her teeth and summoned the only possession Ceawlin hadn’t been able to take from her: her pride. She would not cringe before this depraved beast.

  But as Ceawlin bent down, one damp hand scrabbling at the back fastening of her kirtle, Yvaine couldn’t suppress the shudder that coursed through her at his cold, clammy touch. He ripped the kirtle away, leaving the sleeves dangling from her bound wrists and baring her body to the waist.

  ‘If you live through this raid, I’ll kill you myself,’ she vowed, her voice shaking with rage and fear. ‘I don’t care how long it takes. I’ll kill you.’

  But Ceawlin only smiled, his face flushed with an eagerness that sickened her. ‘We’ll see how much your threats are worth when I’ve finished with you,’ he gloated, and raised his arm.

  The sight of a girl huddled by the centre post in the hall stopped Rorik cold in his tracks. She was so still, he thought for a moment she was dead. If so, it was not by the hand of a Viking. His men were still busy looting the church or fighting any merchant foolish enough to oppose them.

  A distant knell of discomfort sounded at the back of his mind with the thought. He shrugged it off. Christians and their churches meant nothing to him. Except as a means to an end.

  He cast a quick glance about the hall, his gaze sweeping past the tapestries covering the rough thatch walls to rest on the cooking pot hanging above the circular fireplace to his left. Preparations for a meal lay on a table nearby, showing signs of hasty abandonment: a knife flung to the floor, scattered spices, an overturned jug of wine. The stream of liquid had reached the edge of the table and now dripped, slowly, to the rushes below.

  A wealthy manor, he mused. And empty except for the girl. Despite the royal standard flying from the roof, no guards had appeared when he’d strode unchallenged through the gateway and across the compound.

  But if all had fled, who was this, half-lying, half-crouching in the shadows of the big room. Why had she been abandoned here?

  His sword ready to strike, Rorik moved forward with the soundless tread of the hunter.

  He was still several paces away when a ray of noon sunlight flashed through the smoke-hole in the roof, bathing the figure on the floor in a brilliant circle of light. The girl stirred, as though the warmth of the sun had brought her to life. Slowly, so slowly she seemed scarcely to move, she lifted her head and stared straight at him.

  The impact stopped him as if he’d run into a wall; he was barely aware of halting again, of lowering his sword.

  She was a creature of golden light. Magical. Her hair lay in tumbled disarray about her shoulders, the colour of deep, rich honey. The flesh of her arms glowed a paler gold. And her eyes! Wide and slightly tilted at the outer corners, set in a face of such delicate beauty she seemed more the stuff of long-ago dreams than reality, her eyes made him think of a wildcat he had once cornered. It had gazed at him with that same golden fire, and he’d been unable to bring himself to kill
it. Unable to destroy the fierce pride of something so wild and free.

  Then the sun slid past its midday zenith. The ray of light vanished, and the magical golden creature with it. And as his eyes narrowed against the disappearing light, he saw that her raised arms were tied to the post, that a boy’s kirtle hung from her wrists, and her extraordinary eyes, if they had ever held fierceness, were now dull and lifeless.

  The girl stared back at him, unmoved and unmoving.

  Uttering a soft curse, he came forward quickly, going down on one knee beside her and lifting a hand to brush her hair from her cheek. Someone had struck her face. But it wasn’t the bruise already staining the fragile line of her cheekbone that made him go still. He looked down as the veil of her hair shifted, revealing what had been hidden, and felt his body harden in a rush so powerful, his breath left his lungs on a sharp expulsion of sound.

  She was bare to the waist, her breasts rising and falling with her uneven breathing, her entire body trembling. Her fear was a palpable thing, quivering in the air between them, and yet he was lowering his hand without thought; as if he had no will beyond the sudden need to touch, to take.

  She was exquisite. Small, delicate, with an untouched fragility about her that caught at his heart. And when her soft rose-tipped breast filled his hand, he felt something deep inside himself tear loose, as if part of him had become hers, never to be reclaimed.

  He looked back at her face, fighting the fierce urge to close his fingers more firmly around the sweet flesh moulded to his palm. She neither spoke nor flinched away from his touch, but beneath his hand her heart fluttered like the frantically beating wings of a panicked bird, and her eyes, those golden cat’s eyes, were anguished.

  Shaken, Rorik drew his hand away. It was like tearing away his own flesh, inch by agonizing inch. Was she a witch to move him like this? He’d known lust before, but this…