The Viking's Captive Page 11

  ‘Mayhap in England ’twould be wrong to surrender,’ mused Britta, completely misunderstanding her. ‘But here our lives will be different. Who’s to say what is right or wrong? Not I.’

  ‘Nor I,’ agreed Anna. ‘Besides—’ she indicated Britta ‘—some good has come of Rorik wanting you, lady.’

  ‘But I said nothing to him about either of you. Except when I asked him to free us and he threw my ring into the sea.’

  ‘Then perhaps there’s hope for the man. Who knows, in another month or so he might even give up his heathen ways.’

  Yvaine had to smile at this unlikely prospect, although the expression wobbled a bit at the edges. ‘Somehow Christianity seems very far away,’ she murmured. Then seeing the looks of concern on the other girls’ faces, she straightened and held out her hands. ‘But not far enough away that I can’t pray for you both.’

  ‘And we for you, lady.’

  The ship bumped gently against the pier as they clasped each other’s hands. No longer thegn’s lady, tradesman’s daughter and serf, but three women facing an uncertain future with courage and the will to survive.

  Chapter Seven

  An hour later, uneasily aware of the silence in the tent, Yvaine contemplated a tub of water, a bowl of soap and a chest full of clothes and ornaments. They’d been delivered to the ship by a stout, elderly merchant who had treated her with the utmost respect.

  She supposed she should be grateful.

  Instead, she felt very small…and very lost…and utterly alone. Despite the guard on the pier outside, the prospect of climbing, naked, into the tub while the other girls were not by was distinctly disquieting.

  She glanced at the curtain, telling herself not to be foolish. After yesterday, she doubted any of Rorik’s men would dare venture near the tent, let alone enter it. She was perfectly safe.

  For the moment.

  Quelling a shiver, she stabbed a finger into the water as though expecting a leering Viking to leap out at her. Then whirled, snatching her hand back when light footsteps sounded outside.

  The curtain was swept aside and a small, sturdy figure hurried through the aperture.

  ‘Anna!’ With a squeak of surprise, Yvaine sprang forward, flinging her arms around the girl. ‘What…?’

  ‘Rorik bought me,’ explained Anna breathlessly, returning Yvaine’s embrace. ‘To be your maid.’

  Yvaine drew back and gaped at her. ‘My maid?’

  ‘Well, I think that’s what he said. He and Gunnar were speaking in Norse. Gunnar had taken me into a tavern just beyond the pier. He was boasting about carrying me off, but then Rorik came in, ordered me back to the ship and gave Gunnar some money, so it must be true.’

  ‘But why?’

  Anna pursed her lips. ‘Mayhap after what Othar called you yesterday, Rorik thought to provide you with some respectability, lady. After all, you’re no tavern wench who’s used to dispensing her favours. To put it no lower.’

  Yvaine could only stare at her while hope and puzzlement danced a dizzying reel in her head.

  Anna was probably right. Rorik could be doing nothing more than throwing a sop to the conventions—if such conventions existed in Norway—but surely it was an act of kindness to see that Anna stayed with her. He could have given her a maid from his own slaves, rendering her completely alone among strangers and thus more dependent on him, if his only motive was to supply her with a façade of respectability.

  Or, she thought, suddenly shaken, after Othar’s blunt description of her yesterday, he could be supplying her with a maid who could testify that she hadn’t been molested, because he intended to return her to England, unharmed.

  A ripple of something that felt very like dismay brushed her mind. A wave of apprehension immediately followed. What was she thinking? Did she want to be kept here against her will? Taken before she was ready to give?

  No, no. She didn’t mean that! Ready to give what, for heaven’s sake? Submission wasn’t giving. Besides, Rorik would never force her. If she believed nothing else, she did believe that.

  But if he still wanted her, how long could she stand against seduction? If he treated her with kindness, how long could she hold him off when her own emotions were in turmoil? What was she waiting for, anyway? What did she want?’

  ‘My lady?’

  Yvaine blinked, abruptly aware that she’d been staring at Anna for several long seconds.

  ‘This is what comes of not asking these questions yesterday,’ she stormed as worry and doubt got the better of her. ‘Well, he’ll soon learn that I won’t be making any decisions until I have some answers.’ Ignoring Anna’s goggle-eyed expression, she stalked towards the curtain.

  ‘But, my lady, your new clothes. Wait—’

  Anna spoke to the empty air.

  She saw him immediately, leaning against the side where it began the upward curve into the prow. There was nothing relaxed about his stance. His arms were braced, his big hands gripping the side rather than holding it. The tension in his body was palpable, but it wasn’t caution that had Yvaine jolting to an abrupt halt. Sheer surprise held her spellbound.

  Gone was the rough tunic, the iron helm, the barbaric gold armrings. Rorik still wore his sword, but the terrifying Viking warrior had, by some mysterious transformation, become a Norse nobleman. Tan woollen trousers, tucked into thonged boots, closely hugged the length of his legs. His red tunic, also of wool, was heavy with braid and rich gold thread. A long blue cloak of rare pell hung over his left shoulder, drawing her gaze to the broad sweep of his back, and upward.

  Sunlight gilded his newly trimmed hair, and the backdrop of dark green hills threw into prominence his strong, sharply etched profile. He looked powerful, heart-breakingly handsome, and utterly daunting.

  And she was suddenly aware that her own appearance more closely resembled something he’d fished out of the sea.

  She took a step back, and bumped into an oar left lying on the deck.

  He straightened, whipping around in the same fluid movement. Then went still.

  The questions pounding in her head vanished beneath the look in his eyes. Desire, fierce and barely restrained, leaped out at her, bathing her in incandescent heat. Thought, breath, will, tottered and threatened to crumble. She tried to move, realising in a blinding flash of insight, that, after their first encounter, Rorik had kept the full extent of his desire from her while they’d been at sea. He’d held her, kissed her, true, but this was different. This was terrifying. This was ravenous hunger about to be unleashed by a man who knew a banquet was within reach.

  ‘I…uh…just wanted to thank you for Anna, but…’

  The fire in his eyes was instantly banked. It didn’t help. The smouldering embers that remained mirrored the leashed power in him as he closed the distance between them in two long strides. He caught her arm before she could retreat further.

  ‘And ’twas kind of you to see that Eldith stayed with Britta,’ she babbled.

  ‘I’m sorry you had to witness two violent deaths yesterday.’

  She blinked at him. Yesterday? She scarcely remembered yesterday. She was too busy making a mind-numbing discovery about the present. That it was far easier to heed fear and run, when it wasn’t mixed with a shivery kind of excitement.

  ‘You’re sorry?’

  He gave a short humourless laugh. ‘I’m not sorry Ketil’s dead, given the circumstances, but none of it should have happened. I knew there was bad blood between him and Orn, but…I allowed myself to be distracted.’

  Yvaine frowned. At the back of her mind she was aware of danger still, but there was something more here. Something imperative. She sensed it dimly and struggled to comprehend ‘You couldn’t have stopped it. I heard what was said. No one knew what Ketil intended until the knife—’

  She shuddered and let that pass. ‘I also heard that you’d forbidden them to speak to each other.’

  ‘Only Ketil,’ he said. ‘’Twas a condition of his service. And my misjudgement. Ot
har asked if his friends could join us and I thought he’d settle easier, so I agreed. But neither Orn nor I took account of what cowardice can drive a man to do.’ He paused and glanced down at his hand still wrapped about her arm. ‘What anything can drive a man to do,’ he added beneath his breath.

  His brows drew together and he released her, stroking the backs of his fingers against her arm. ‘But ’tis done. Of what use to question?’

  Because I need answers.

  But her response was silent. She watched the movement of Rorik’s hand against her arm with a kind of dazed fascination. It was a caress he might have used to gentle a frightened hawk, she thought wonderingly. His hand was so big, so powerful. She fought against the sharp awareness of his touch, the heat emanating from his big body. This was important. Whether Rorik knew it or not, he was showing her something of himself. She needed the knowledge, desperately.

  ‘I understand justice,’ she said haltingly. ‘’Twas the manner of his death…to be roped to the body, unable to free himself…’

  ‘Ah.’ Understanding softened the hard line of his mouth. ‘You’re remembering how it felt to be tied and helpless. But consider. It might have taken Ketil longer to die if I’d thrown him overboard, unfettered, and sailed away.’

  ‘We weren’t sailing.’

  ‘True. But would you rather have witnessed him trying to climb on board and being beaten off until he was exhausted?’

  When she didn’t answer, he smiled. ‘This is why I didn’t want you witnessing such a death, little cat. You have a soft heart.’

  The moment was over. Frustration muttered at the back of her mind with the thought. ‘My heart might be soft, but my head isn’t,’ she retorted, jerking her arm out of his hold.

  ‘No.’ He lifted a hand and stroked the tip of one finger across her brow. ‘But I’m in here just the same. Or if not yet, I will be.’

  Yvaine’s mouth fell open. ‘You’ve made it clear ’tis not my head you’re interested in,’ she finally got out. ‘As for the rest—’

  ‘You misunderstand me, sweeting. Once I’m in here—’ he raised his other hand to cradle her head between his palms ‘—the rest will follow.’

  ‘Rest?’ She gulped in air and tried to remember she was furious. ‘And what then? Have you given any thought to afterwards, you…you pirate?’

  His mouth crooked. ‘You think there’ll be an afterwards, sweet witch? Only if you free me from your spell.’

  Yvaine gaped at him. Her spell? What was the man talking about?

  ‘Why would I weave a spell that results in me becoming a prisoner, a discarded mistress, then a slave?’ she demanded. ‘If there’s a difference between those things, which I doubt.’

  She tried to wrench out of his hold, only to find that his grip, though gentle, was inescapable.

  ‘Oh, there’s a difference,’ he assured her. ‘But never fear, little cat, you won’t see it. I intend to show you something else entirely.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Hush,’ he murmured, and lowered his mouth to hers. ‘There’s no need to be afraid. I want you, but I’ll never hurt you. Yvaine.’

  Dear God, had she ever heard him speak her name before? Surely not, for the sound of it whispered in that deep, dark voice, threatened to cloud judgement, stroked over nerves that were already quivering, shivered over flesh that was suddenly yearning. She wanted the warmth of his arms about her, the thrilling heat of his mouth on hers. She’d been cold for so long. So cold…

  His mouth brushed hers, retreated, returned. Then took with a power that emptied her mind.

  Questions, demands, even pleas, vanished beneath a cascade of thrilling sensation. Heat streaked through her, warming, weakening. She had to grasp his wrists or fall. She felt him shudder in response, felt power ripple through him even though an inch or two still separated them. A peculiar sensation of drowning began to wash over her, her lips parted…

  The loud thud as someone jumped into the ship wrenched them apart almost violently. Rorik jerked his head up, his hands falling to her shoulders.

  ‘Sorry, did I interrupt something?’ asked Othar in a voice totally devoid of apology.

  Yvaine barely heard him. She felt Rorik’s gaze on her, unnervingly intent, before he released her and turned, shielding her from his brother.

  ‘I’m glad you’re back, Othar,’ he said, ignoring the youth’s rudeness. ‘You can summon the men. I want to reach Einervik this afternoon.’

  ‘This afternoon? But I’ve got a girl waiting and—’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to control yourself for once!’

  The lash of his voice jolted Yvaine out of her daze. She stepped back, intending to retreat into the tent, then saw Othar’s face and froze.

  ‘For once?’ he shouted. ‘We’ve been at sea for more than a week!’

  ‘Then the sooner we’re home, the better. Now, do it!’

  Fuming, but powerless, Othar obeyed. ‘Witch!’ he hissed at Yvaine as he passed her.

  There was such malevolence in his voice, such rage in his eyes, she shrank back. ‘I’m not a witch.’

  ‘I’m not so sure about that,’ muttered Rorik. Then as she turned horrified eyes on him, added impatiently, ‘Don’t take any notice of Othar. Witches are usually respected in Norway. They even travel around the country, visiting farms to foretell the future, or make spells for good crops. One comes every year to Einervik. My stepmother dotes on the woman.’

  Yvaine shivered, not comforted in the least by this careless dismissal of heathen practices. A vast distance might be opening up between her and Christianity, but she wasn’t ready to embrace paganism just yet.

  She crossed herself. ‘The priests say witchcraft is evil. The Devil’s work. In England such—’

  ‘This isn’t England,’ Rorik snarled, turning on her. ‘You’d do well to remember that from now on. And to start with you can get rid of those English clothes. You look like a damned street urchin.’

  Yvaine blinked in surprise before glancing down at herself. She knew she looked like a street urchin. A particularly scruffy one. That wasn’t what startled her. An irresistible urge to laugh was welling up inside her. It had been so long since she’d felt such a thing she’d forgotten what it was like.

  ‘Aye,’ she said softly. And suddenly, irresistibly, she felt her mouth curve in a smile. She looked up. ‘Perhaps ’tis as well it was only Othar who saw you kissing me.’

  His stunned expression was quite wonderfully satisfying. There was no better time to stage a strategic retreat. Feeling ridiculously pleased with herself, she turned and walked into the tent.

  ‘I swear, Anna, ’twas worth agreeing with him just to see his face. Never have I seen a man so confounded. But he’d better not see it as a sign of encouragement,’ she added, narrowing her eyes at this heretofore unanticipated possibility.

  ‘I wouldn’t count on that,’ mused Anna, drawing a beautifully carved comb of walrus ivory, discovered in the chest, through Yvaine’s hair. ‘He’s too direct a man to see agreement as anything but encouragement, and yet…’

  ‘What?’

  ‘I’m not sure, lady. Sometimes he seems like two different men—and ’tis not the change of clothes that makes him appear so. You’ll think me foolish, but I can’t explain. Thorolf, now, he’s the same all the time.’

  ‘I know what you mean.’ Yvaine frowned as she bent to lift a long-sleeved shift from the chest. It was made of the softest linen, dyed green, and was very finely pleated. She laid it aside and gazed thoughtfully at the exquisitely made under-shift she was wearing.

  ‘Sometimes I wonder if I’m drawn to a ruffian because he can be gentle and honourable, or if I’m trying to convince myself he can be gentle and honourable because I’m drawn to a ruffian.’

  ‘Hmm. It sounds complicated. I think I’ll stick with Thorolf.’

  ‘Why, Anna.’ Yvaine turned to look over her shoulder. ‘You’ve never said…do you care for him? Does he like you?’

&nb
sp; Anna blushed. ‘You go too fast, lady. He hardly knows I exist. But he’s rather appealing—in a ruffianly kind of way.’

  Anna gazed at her mistress, startled by what she’d confessed. Then both women burst out laughing.

  The shared humour momentarily lightened Yvaine’s mood. Succumbing to the lure of new clothes, she delved into the chest for another pleated shift; yellow this time, with short fluted sleeves. Beneath it, resting on a folded length of cream-coloured wool, lay several articles of jewellery.

  ‘These brooches are beautifully crafted, my lady.’ Anna leaned forward to lift out a gilded oval clasp, examining it with the eye of an expert. ‘See how the animals are all intertwined. And look at this necklace of silver, set with crystals.’

  ‘The Norse have some of the finest craftsmen in the world,’ Yvaine agreed, picking up a necklace of sparkling glass beads. ‘I shall wear this,’ she decided, entranced by the flashing colours. ‘With the yellow shift and the cream tunic.’

  ‘But it has no sides.’ Anna frowned as she shook out the length of wool.

  ‘No. It hangs from the shoulders and covers the outer-shift at front and back. See, you fasten it in front with these oval brooches just below the shoulders, and this—’ she held up a fine gold chain ‘—hangs from the right-hand brooch. Ladies attach all sorts of things to the ends of the chains. The household keys in most cases, but we have this comb and here is a little silk purse.’

  ‘How do you know all this, lady?’

  ‘The Norse legends,’ Yvaine explained, checking to see that everything was fastened as it should be. ‘I listened to them over and over as a child, but—Oh, Anna…’ She swung about, hands clasped, her pleasure in the clothes fading. ‘Never did I think I’d be one of those ladies who are kidnapped in the sagas. Of what use is all this finery when underneath I’m still English? Will it stop Rorik using me? Of course not. Oh, why didn’t I plead with him to ransom me from the first, instead of arguing, instead of demanding? Why—?’