The Viking's Captive Page 10

  Awakening desire and wary innocence, he thought. Was there a more potent combination with which to torture a man? Holding her captive like this with just the touch of his fingers was sweet torment. He wanted to reassure her, to hold, to gentle, and at the same time ached to have her beneath him again, to peel back her kirtle so the slender fragility of her body was laid before him, awaiting the heat of his gaze. He’d be gentle at first, stroking, arousing, until the soft curves of her breasts warmed and swelled in his hands, and her rosy nipples peaked with the need for his mouth on them. And then—

  The loud clatter of abandoned oars jerked him violently out of his fantasy.

  Several men were on their feet, shouting and closing in on a pair frozen in a parody of an embrace. It was Ketil and Orn, standing less than an inch apart and glaring into each other’s eyes.

  Rorik cursed savagely as he released Yvaine’s hand and sprang forward. But even as he moved, Ketil’s muscles bunched and he shoved Orn away. A dagger was clenched in his fist, its blade wet.

  Orn collapsed at Ketil’s feet, frothy pink bubbles appearing at the corners of his mouth. One hand clutched at his chest.

  Already dead, Rorik thought as rage and grief erupted within him. He fought back the deadly mix, closing the distance between himself and Ketil with lethal speed.

  The man whirled to face him, but Rorik was already balanced and lashing out. His booted foot smashed into Ketil’s wrist, snapping the bones like a collection of dried twigs. Ketil howled and dropped his dagger. Before it landed, Rorik had slammed Ketil against the side and had his own blade pressed to the man’s throat.

  ‘You’ve got ten seconds to tell me what happened,’ he snarled.

  ‘Rorik.’

  The hoarse sound came from the man lying at his feet. Rorik glared at Ketil for a moment. The bastard’s teeth were clenched in pain, but he was far from cowed.

  ‘Seize him,’ he ordered, and several men sprang to obey.

  Othar and Gunnar weren’t among them. Rorik registered the thought only briefly as he went down on one knee beside Orn. He’d get to them later. After he’d finished damning himself.

  ‘My…fault,’ Orn gasped as Rorik lifted him slightly and propped him against his knee. The position seemed to ease the old man’s breathing, although Rorik knew he had only seconds. ‘Challenged…’

  ‘No. Don’t talk, Orn.’

  Hooknose gripped his sleeve. ‘Ruined…my granddaughter. Floki dead…you knew…’ He broke off, coughed.

  ‘I know what happened after your son died,’ Rorik said quietly. ‘You felt you had to challenge Ketil, to seek reparation.’

  ‘Challenged him…before we sailed. Kept…reminding him. Didn’t break your rule, but wrong. Coward…tried to kill me…before he met me in combat.’ He made a rasping sound that might have been a laugh. ‘Looks like…he succeeded.’

  ‘There’ll be a price, Orn. I swear it. For you and for your granddaughter.’

  A shadow of a smile flitted across Orn’s features. ‘Put my sword in my hand,’ he whispered. ‘’Twas battle…of a sort.’

  Rorik turned his head, but Thorolf was already there, handing him Orn’s sword. He took it and wrapped the old man’s fingers around the hilt, his jaw clenching when he had to hold the limp hand in place.

  ‘Take your seat in Valhalla, Orn Hooknose,’ he murmured. But Orn had already slipped away on a sigh to join those warriors who had died in battle, and the words went unheard.

  Rorik lowered Orn’s body to the deck and got to his feet. His eyes met Thorolf’s for a brief instant. His friend nodded, his face grim. Justice was harsh on board ship—it had to be—but Rorik felt no compunction about this particular sentence.

  He turned to the men holding Ketil. ‘Rope him to the body.’

  Ketil started shouting. ‘Othar, you’re supposed to be my friend! Tell your brother what happened. ’Twas self-defence. Orn struck first. I can prove it.’ He jerked his head to the side, revealing a graze on one temple.

  Rorik glanced at it, his eyes hardening. ‘You heal quickly, Ketil,’ he said with soft menace. ‘That graze has already scabbed over. I suggest ’twas done during the storm.’

  ‘Aye,’ another man muttered. ‘’Tis clear what happened here. Ketil seized the chance to escape trial by combat.’ He snorted. ‘And he calls himself Skull-splitter.’

  Rorik glanced at the speaker. ‘Did you see what happened, Grim?’

  Another man stepped forward as Grim shook his head. ‘I can speak, Bearslayer. Ketil thrust something at Orn as he bent to take his place at the oars. I didn’t know what until Orn fell, but Grim’s right. Ketil thought to use that wound on his head to claim self-defence, but ’twas no fair fight. Your brother saw it, also.’

  ‘Othar?’

  The boy stepped out from behind the mast, his eyes darting from side to side. ‘What are you going to do, Rorik? The provocation was Orn’s. He said so, himself.’

  ‘No man kills another in such a way on my ship and lives. No matter what the provocation.’

  A low growl of agreement rumbled through the crew. Only Gunnar stayed silent. Like Othar, he’d hung back behind the mast; now he eyed Rorik as though fearing a similar fate was going to fall upon his own head.

  ‘Then challenge Ketil, yourself, when we get to Norway,’ Othar suggested.

  Thorolf snorted before Rorik could answer. ‘You know the laws as well as the rest of us, Othar. Orn’s murderer goes overboard with his body.’

  A gasp came from behind them.

  Rorik wheeled. Yvaine stood a few paces away, her hands over her mouth as if she’d tried to stifle the sound. Her eyes were huge in her pale face.

  ‘Rorik…’

  Rage deafened him to the rest. The first time she’d said his name and it had to be under these circumstances. He strode forward and clamped his hands around her shoulders.

  ‘Don’t say another word,’ he ordered. ‘Not one word. This has nothing to do with you.’

  She stared up at him, mute, but her eyes were eloquent with horrified comprehension. He turned her and gave her a gentle push towards the stern. ‘Go back to the other women. Don’t look if Norse justice makes you squeamish.’

  Yvaine stumbled when he released her, but she didn’t look back. There was a lot of shouting behind her—probably Ketil again—but she barely heard the commotion. Nor did she obey Rorik’s order to return to the others, although she saw Britta tuck Eldith’s face into her shoulder so the child wouldn’t witness such swift and brutal reprisal.

  She suddenly remembered that the pair would have been Ketil’s property once they were off the ship.

  Then a terrible silence fell, followed only by the soft hush of disturbed water against the hull. And still she didn’t move; was barely conscious of breathing. He was a barbarian, after all. A man who belonged to a savage race of heathens. A race whose way of life was so opposed to any softer emotion, they saw nothing wrong in sentencing a man to so terrible a death, even for murder.

  And still she wasn’t horrified at the thought of surrender.

  Heaven save her, she had indeed been struck by madness. A madness brought on by dependence. Hadn’t she thought so only minutes ago? Rorik had saved her from Ceawlin, and now stood between her and his men. It was the only reason for this utterly senseless—

  ‘This is her fault,’ Othar shouted right behind her.

  She jumped and whirled.

  Rorik stood between her and his brother, so close she could have reached out and touched him. Unwilling to cower at his back, she stepped to the side so she could see both men.

  The rest of the crew were being ordered back to the oars by Thorolf. Behind her, she sensed Anna and Britta move closer.

  ‘I heard her claim that a God fit only for puling priests knows more than Odin,’ accused Othar. ‘And you listened. This evil calm is his revenge. And see what has come of it.’

  Rorik’s jaw tightened. ‘I’m sorry you lost a friend, Othar. But Ketil brought about his
own death.’

  ‘He was worried that Orn would appoint a stronger fighter because of his age. Ketil had no surety of winning, of proving his innocence.’

  ‘That’s hardly the—’

  ‘And how many more deaths will there be before you come to your senses and throw this bitch into the sea?’

  ‘No one else is going to die.’ Rorik bit off each word with savage inflection. ‘At worst, we’ll have to ration the water if this calm continues.’

  ‘Share it with Christians?’ Othar’s voice rose. ‘They’re not that valuable as thralls, and you’ve forbidden us to use them as we like. I vote we kill them.’

  ‘I haven’t asked for votes,’ Rorik said, turning away.

  ‘No, you never want my opinion, do you?’ yelled Othar. ‘I suggested we spend the summer in Ireland, so we could raid Britain whenever we chose, but—’

  ‘Land!’

  The shout came from the top of the mast, cutting short Othar’s tirade.

  Thank God, Rorik thought. And immediately felt the hair at his nape rise. What had made him think that? He was done with Christianity. Finished with it eight years ago when—

  He shook his head; fixed his gaze on the horizon where a thin line of grey showed. ‘Get the sail up,’ he shouted to Thorolf. ‘If there’s any wind coming offshore, we’ll ride it up the coast.’

  ‘What!’ Othar gaped at him. ‘Are you mad? This is the west coast of Jutland. Do you want us to join the other wrecks lying at the bottom of the sea?’

  Rorik’s eyes narrowed. The waters off the Jutland peninsula were notorious for shipwrecks; most sailors rolled their vessels the few miles overland to the trading port of Hedeby on the Baltic Sea, which was the safer route. It also added a couple of days to the trip.

  ‘We’re not landing.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘There’ll be little danger, Othar. Trust me. In weather this calm—’

  Thorolf strode up to them. ‘Even so, Rorik—’

  ‘That’s right,’ roared Othar. ‘Ignore me again. Put all our lives at risk! And I know why,’ he added, lowering his voice abruptly. ‘We have to take the shortest route home so you can have your English whore!’

  Yvaine gasped as if Othar had struck her. Rorik felt her flinch even though several inches separated them. Fists clenched, he took a step towards his brother.

  ‘No.’ She reached out, touched his arm; the lightest, most fleeting of touches, but it stopped him cold. His gaze flashed to her face.

  She was still pale, but her eyes met his unflinchingly. ‘Let there be no more violence here today. Especially as your brother speaks the truth.’ She lifted her chin. ‘That is what you intend, is it not?’

  Her eyes, dark with some hidden emotion, looked into his for a moment longer, then she turned, gestured to the other girls, and walked back to the prow.

  She might as well have stabbed him.

  Rorik watched her go and felt as though tiny shards of glass were piercing his heart. The wrenching sensation twisted inside him again—unrelenting need colliding with racking tenderness. The conflict was tearing him apart, and yet he couldn’t release her, couldn’t stop wanting her.

  For the first time in years he was eager to reach Norway, because then he could take Yvaine to his bed and free himself of this constant ache she aroused in him. Surely once he possessed her this inner struggle would cease. She’d become just another woman, beautiful, desirable, but no longer inciting this strange need to protect, to cherish.

  And then what? he thought, suddenly aware that Othar watched Yvaine’s retreat with a curiously intent expression. He’d refused to think beyond getting home as quickly as possible, but now a savage wave of possessiveness washed over him, momentarily blinding him to everything else.

  The thought of another man touching her aroused a killing rage in his blood that would qualify him for the berserkers if he ever wanted to join that elite body of fighters. Already he’d struck his brother. A brother who was younger and physically less powerful. A week ago he wouldn’t have thought himself capable of such an action.

  Given enough reason, he wasn’t sure he wouldn’t repeat it.

  Stifling a roar of sheer frustration, Rorik turned on his heel and came face to face with Thorolf.

  ‘We’re going up the coast,’ he snarled before his friend could argue. ‘Put more men on the oars. I want this ship moving faster if you have to get behind the sail and puff!’

  ‘Get behind the sail and puff,’ he heard Thorolf mutter behind him as he stalked towards the stern. ‘Right.’

  The dark, looming bulk of Jutland had looked as inhospitable as Rorik had described it, but either the danger had been exaggerated, or the winds had been kind, for the rest of the voyage passed uneventfully. The coast of Norway rose out of a deep blue sea early the following morning.

  Yvaine stood in the prow with the other women, watching the land open up before her. A few yards away, Thorolf leaned over the rail to dangle a wooden rod, marked at regular intervals, into the water.

  ‘Sciringesheal,’ he announced, pointing to a distant settlement at the head of a small inlet. ‘Some call it Kaupang. Our summer trading port here in Norway.’ He pulled the sounding rod clear, examined it, and yelled a signal to Rorik.

  Yvaine glanced sternwards as Rorik pulled on the steering oar, bringing the ship into the wind. The sail began to flap, and men swarmed up the mast to furl the vast canvas. The big vessel rode gently on the slightly choppy waters of the bay, waiting to negotiate her way through a maze of small islands that protected the entrance.

  At Rorik’s command the oarholes were opened. Wood rattled as the oars were engaged. The ship began to move forward again under the smooth, practised action of the rowers.

  Closing her mind to everything but the immediate present, Yvaine turned back to the port.

  Wattle-and-daub buildings ringed the head of the bay. Rich fields rose behind them, sloping gently towards craggy hills that seemed to lean over the town, providing shelter against storms or attack. Trees dotted the lower slopes; several homesteads nestled among them. The whole place appeared snug and prosperous.

  ‘It could be any port in England,’ Anna remarked. ‘Except for the mountains.’

  ‘They look very big and cold,’ ventured little Eldith in a hushed whisper.

  Britta put her arm around the child’s shoulders. ‘There are mountains in England also, sweeting. I dare say one grows used to them.’

  ‘In a month or two you won’t even notice them,’ predicted Thorolf. He turned to Yvaine, scanning her boy’s attire, now somewhat the worse for wear. ‘You’re to stay in the tent, lady. Rorik will get you some decent clothes to wear as soon as possible.’

  ‘How thoughtful,’ she muttered as he crossed the ship to test the depth on the other side.

  ‘Be grateful to him,’ Britta said drily. ‘I am.’

  Yvaine frowned. ‘What do you mean?’

  Britta jerked her head in Rorik’s direction. ‘You may not have heard, lady. Yesterday, after Ketil’s death, Othar claimed me, but Rorik ordered him to accept an offer for Eldith and me from the man who loaned us the comb the day we bathed. Apparently he lost his wife and daughter to sickness a few years back and is lonely.’ She shrugged, and an unexpected grin crossed her face. ‘He stammered and stuttered about his needs, God knows, but I understood him well enough.’

  ‘And you can smile about it? Britta…’

  ‘’Tis better than staying with that lout, Othar, or being parted from Eldith and both of us sold to strangers. At least Grim was honest with me, and he seems kind enough. He even promised to wait a while, until I’m more at ease with him.’

  ‘Aye. Rorik promised that I’d know him better, too,’ Yvaine said grimly. ‘As if that will make a difference.’

  Anna gave her a quizzical smile. ‘You think it won’t?’

  Yvaine stared at her, unable to answer. That same question had reverberated over and over in her mind until she felt like a mous
e in a cage, scurrying in circles, getting nowhere.

  Oh, why hadn’t she forced another confrontation yesterday, instead of staying in the prow with the other women? Why hadn’t she nagged, ordered, begged even, to be released? Now her fate was rushing towards her like a siege-engine out of control and she didn’t know what to do about it.

  ‘I don’t know,’ she murmured. ‘I vowed never to be captive to another man. And now…I just don’t know.’

  Britta and Anna exchanged startled glances.

  ‘What are you saying, lady? That you want him?’

  ‘No, no! Of course not! ’Tis just…don’t you think it wrong to surrender so tamely, Britta? You say Grim seems kind, but you’re to be given no choice. Indeed, are grateful for a little time. ’Tis not…right.’

  ‘Lady, what else can we women do but comply when men arrange our lives? Look at yourself: cousin to the king, a lady born and bred, but were you allowed to choose your own husband? Or even if you would wed at all?’

  ‘But this isn’t the same. At least marriage is respectable.’

  ‘Well, as to that…’ Britta flushed and darted a quick glance down the ship to her Viking. ‘Grim dodged around the word, and mumbled something about children, but it crossed my mind that he meant for us to wed some day.’ She eyed Yvaine thoughtfully. ‘Would you feel better if Rorik intended the same?’

  ‘No! I wasn’t speaking for myself.’ Then why, she wondered, were her arms crossed defensively over her body? Why was she backing away? And why hadn’t she noticed what was happening with Britta and Grim?

  Because she’d been too busy being shattered by the knowledge that the savage display of barbarity she’d witnessed yesterday hadn’t turned her against Rorik.

  Something shuddered inside her once, violently, before subsiding to a faint tremor. She held herself tighter. ‘I’d rather choose the cloister. In fact, that will likely be my only choice if I ever get back to England. But we’re here in Norway, and how can I submit…how can I even contemplate submission when he doesn’t…when I don’t…?’