The Viking's Captive Read online

  Wrenching her arm free, she stepped back. ‘Well, your brother has tendered an apology, albeit reluctantly. I’m still waiting for yours.’

  He sent her a look that could have shrivelled lightning. ‘You have a reckless notion of humour, lady.’

  She gave him back look for look. ‘Then you should laugh yourself silly at my next words. I demand that you ransom me immediately.’

  ‘You expect me to conjure your cousin out of air?’

  ‘Of course not. Send a message to him.’

  ‘And sit around here waiting for his reply I suppose.’ He grabbed her wrist, turned on his heel and started towards the ship. ‘You’re right. If I didn’t have my hands full with the trouble you’ve caused, I would laugh myself silly.’

  ‘I’ve caused?’ The injustice sent her voice soaring. ‘’Tis not my fault if your stupid brother—’

  He stopped so abruptly she cannoned into him. He cursed, steadied her, and stepped back. ‘What the Hel else do you expect him or any other man to think when you’re running around dressed like that? Look at you! Kirtle falling off. Chausses clinging like a second skin. Gods! In Norway you’d be outlawed for dressing like a man.’

  ‘I didn’t ask to be kidnapped,’ she yelled, trying to fling off his hand. ‘If you don’t like the way I dress then set me free. I’ll be only too happy to see the back of you.’

  Rorik’s teeth snapped shut on a curse that blistered her ears. Jerking his hand from her arm, he wheeled about and raked his fingers through his hair. Then stood, fists clenched tight on his hips, staring out to sea.

  Yvaine studied the back she’d expressed a desire to see. She wished she’d kept her mouth shut. He stood so tall and straight, broad shoulders tapering to narrow hips and long legs; a dark lance spearing through the golden disk sinking into the sea beyond him. His very stance was a blunt statement of invincible strength.

  ‘I went inland to find a gown for you,’ he said, so abruptly she jumped. ‘But no one was there. The whole damned village had gone.’

  She eyed him for a moment, weighing caution and defiance. ‘The Danes had fled? Well, who could wonder at it?’

  ‘No, not Danes. English.’ He turned. ‘There are some in the Danelaw. We trade with them.’

  ‘You astonish me.’

  A shadow of a smile came and went. He looked away again, towards his ship, and a strange kind of silence fell. Almost peaceful, she thought. The sea lapped at the shore in little wavelets that chased each other back into deeper water. A gull marched along the water’s edge, leaving a trail of prints in the sand. Further up the beach, a cooking fire had been lit, the flames just visible against the golden sky.

  She lifted her head and took a deep breath of the balmy air, letting the serenity of the beach, bathed in the lambent glow of sunset, settle about her. Just for a moment she could almost imagine she was on a journey. That her captor was her escort, her protector, her champion.

  Then she turned her head, their eyes met, and a sharp little arrow of awareness pierced her insides that had nothing to do with safety or protection.

  ‘Did my brother hurt you?’ he asked softly.

  She shook off the strange sensation and sniffed. ‘Saints, no. What is a strand of hair or two?’

  ‘Clearly nought, for you seem to be none the worse for losing them.’ He reached out and ran his hand down the braid hanging over her shoulder.

  She smacked his hand away before he felt the tremor she couldn’t suppress. ‘’Tis not your brother I fear. He’s nought but a boy, and a sulky one at that.’

  ‘In Norway, lady, a boy is considered a man at twelve. Othar’s sixteen. He no longer thinks like a child. Unfortunately, he’s been indulged by his mother from birth, and thinks all women should do the same.’

  ‘Hmph. The fault seems to run in the family.’

  ‘My mother died when I was born,’ he murmured. ‘By the time my father took Gunhild to wife I was ten and, I assure you, she did not feel inclined to indulge me.’

  ‘Ah, well…’ She ruthlessly banished a picture of a motherless little boy. ‘It must have been your father who instilled in you this odd notion that murder and kidnapping are nought but summer pastimes.’

  ‘Egil raided a-plenty in his youth,’ he acknowledged, amusement glinting briefly. Then he sobered. ‘But he’s very ill now. He won’t see out the summer.’

  ‘Then I wonder that you left him.’ She’d meant the words to sound snippy, critical. They came out softly, faintly questioning. She could have kicked herself.

  He sent her a quick, searching glance, frowned and took her arm. ‘I had a vow to fulfil. Come. You need food and rest. ’Tis time you were back on the ship.’

  And with that the brief moment was gone. Yvaine went without protest, but later that night, when she lay on the bearskin with the others, her mind was a seething mass of confusion; plans for escape tangling hopelessly with questions that had no answers. For some reason she kept thinking about the sense of peace, almost of companionship, that had fallen over her and Rorik on the beach. She knew he’d felt it, knew his anger had dissipated as abruptly as her own.

  And that was another thing. She’d never shouted at anyone in her entire life. Indeed, when she’d finally recovered from their first encounter, she’d vowed to treat her captor with the same cool composure she’d used towards Ceawlin. And what had she done instead? Argued with him, yelled at him, continued to throw verbal darts at him—secure in the knowledge that he wouldn’t hurt her. At least, not in a rage.

  Was she mad as well as reckless to put that much belief in the man’s honour? To treat him as if they’d met under different circumstances and—

  Different circumstances. Now there was a question. How would she have felt about Rorik if she’d met him at Edward’s court? Would she have seen the toughness, the hard edge of danger? She thought so. They were too close to the surface to be completely hidden. But how would she have responded to the fleeting moments of humour? To the hints of gentleness?

  Yvaine shivered and hugged herself against a sudden chill. Why was she asking such questions? They hadn’t met at Edward’s court. Rorik had kidnapped her. He’d murdered her husband before her very eyes—never mind that she wasn’t broken-hearted over the deed. He was pagan, a Viking. He’d stolen the freedom she’d risked her very life to gain.

  And he’d done something else, she realised in that moment. Something that made her heart stand still, something more terrifying than all the rest. Something she hadn’t thought possible.

  He’d brought her alive again.

  Suddenly, escape was more imperative than ever.

  Chapter Five

  Thin, translucent clouds drifted, wraith-like, across the face of the moon.

  Yvaine glanced skyward as she slipped out of the tent. The misty light seemed as bright as a beacon to her anxious eyes, but if she waited for deeper darkness, dawn would be upon her before she’d gone more than a mile or two into the forest.

  She hovered in the shadows cast by the shelter, searching out deeper patches of night in which to hide—and trying not to picture her fate if one of the men sleeping in two rows down the centre of the ship heard her and woke.

  And yet, she had to pass them. She had no choice. The ship had been beached prow first. If she clambered over the high, curved side at this point and jumped down to the gritty sand at the water’s edge, the guards on the beach would see or hear her for certain.

  The first few steps wouldn’t be so bad; several yards separated her from the sleeping men. After that, she could only pray that the cacophony of snores and grunts might muffle her footsteps.

  Holding her breath, expecting with every passing second to feel hard fingers reach out of the darkness and seize her ankle, she tiptoed forward, moving as silently as the drifting clouds. Her goal was the centre of the ship, the shallowest part, where she could slip easily over the side and let herself down into deeper water. Then she could swim parallel to the shore until she was a safe dist
ance away.

  She hadn’t thought past that point. Couldn’t afford to. Slipping soundlessly through the night was taking all her attention.

  Except for one tiny part of her mind that was conscious of a faint whisper of regret.

  She closed it off and counted paces instead. A few more and—

  Without a sound a shadow loomed out of the night. A hand was clamped over her mouth, she was locked to a hard male body. Moonlight glinted, cold and merciless, on the dagger an inch from her breast.

  ‘Not one word,’ growled a soft voice in her ear. ‘Or I’ll slit your throat.’

  She couldn’t utter a word. She had no breath, no voice. It wasn’t Rorik. That was the only thought in her head.

  She felt herself being dragged over the side, felt the gentle tug of ripples against her chausses. The sea was warm compared to the ice sliding through her veins.

  Why didn’t anyone stir? If she’d made a tithe of the noise her attacker was making, the entire crew would have been on her in seconds. But now they chose to keep snoring.

  Oh, God, she had to think. Where was he taking her? He was moving swiftly, up the beach, away from the guards where they’d be out of sight, out of hearing. He didn’t speak again; only his breathing broke the silence. Light and rapid, the excitement in the sound finally had comprehension exploding in her brain.

  He wasn’t only preventing her escape. His purpose was far more sinister.

  Panic jolted her into action before she remembered the dagger at her waist. One arm was pinned by the Viking’s grip, but the other was free. Flinging it out, she brought her elbow back into the man’s ribs with all the strength she could muster, at the same time kicking out with her legs.

  The suddenness of her attack took him by surprise. His hand slipped from her mouth and she drew breath to scream.

  To her horror the only sound that emerged was a thin gasping cry that wouldn’t have carried more than a few feet. Before she could drag in enough air for another attempt, he cut off her breath with a stranglehold around her neck.

  Roaring filled her ears; blackness threatened. She felt the Viking pull her down to the sand, felt his weight pinning her there while he tugged at the neck of her kirtle. An image of Skull-splitter flashed through her mind; revulsion had her choking. She went limp. He must have thought she’d swooned, because the arm across her throat lifted.

  And this time her scream was piercing, cutting through the night.

  The man above her cursed once, viciously. Then as a shout came from the ship, he sprang to his feet and vanished into the darkness as quickly and silently as he’d appeared.

  Yvaine rolled, hugging herself into a tight little ball. She had to clench her teeth to stop them chattering. She couldn’t stand, couldn’t run. There was something she had to do, but she couldn’t think what it was. And when she remembered, darkness no longer shielded her. It was too late. She looked up, straight into Rorik’s face. The flaring light of the torch he held illuminated his expression with brutal clarity. A phalanx of warriors stood at his back.

  He reached down, grasped her arm and lifted her to her feet. ‘Were you taken from the tent?’ he demanded. His voice was low, but held the promise of death to anyone who crossed him.

  Yvaine could only shake her head. She didn’t even consider lying. It would have been useless. Those glittering eyes probed to her very soul, and at her silent answer they turned violent.

  ‘You went willingly?’

  ‘No…no!’ She winced at the snarling fury in his voice. ‘I was trying to escape. I don’t know who—’

  He cut her off with a slashing movement of his hand, then turned, thrust his torch into the hands of the warrior nearest him and ordered his men back to the ship with a few terse words.

  The night closed around them again, broken only by the fitful moonlight, but the darkness did nothing to hide Rorik’s mood. Yvaine felt menace coming from him so strongly it was almost visible.

  ‘By Thor, I ought to take the flat of my sword to your sweet backside,’ he grated. ‘Where in Hel did you think you were going?’

  ‘Swimming,’ she offered weakly.

  He seized her arms in a grip that raised her to her toes. ‘Don’t be so damned flippant,’ he snarled. ‘Little fool! I warned you. Do you know how close you came to being raped?’ His eyes flashed silver as the moon appeared from behind a cloud and his fingers tightened. Yvaine got the distinct impression he wanted to shake her. Hard.

  ‘Take your hands off me,’ she snapped, reckless anger coming to her rescue. She wrenched out of his hold and backed away. ‘Do you think I cared for your warnings? You said yourself there were English in the Danelaw. I might have found shelter with good people who would help me return to Edward. And even if I didn’t, I’m dressed as a boy, so—’

  ‘By the Gods, woman! Only a blind man would be fooled by that ridiculous disguise, and even he’d know the truth the minute you opened your mouth.’

  ‘I would’ve tried to escape if I’d been naked!’ she yelled back. ‘Did you think me so tame I’d stand still for your ravishing? You’ll know better, my lord.’

  ‘No,’ he said, taking a step closer. ‘You’ll know that you belong to me. That you’re mine. That—’

  Yvaine whirled and ran. It was useless and she knew it. Even taking Rorik by surprise she couldn’t hope to outrun him, but his fierce claim of possession caused her to panic instinctively. She flew down the beach as though pursued by demons, only to be brought down by a neat tackle before she’d covered more than a few yards.

  He twisted as they fell, protecting her from the impact, then rolled. For the second time that night Yvaine lay flat on the sand, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe, overwhelmingly conscious of a man’s weight over her.

  Then the suffocating pressure lifted, she was flipped over and imprisoned between Rorik’s thighs as he knelt above her. He reached out and captured her wrists when she lashed out at him.

  ‘Stop that,’ he ordered, his calm tone at odds with his anger of a moment ago. ‘You can’t fight me. You’ll only hurt yourself trying.’

  ‘What do you care?’ Panting, trying with every futile twist of her body to throw him off, she fought back with the only weapon left to her. ‘You intend to hurt me anyway. Coward! Pirate! No real man would use a woman so.’

  His eyes narrowed. ‘Be grateful I know ’tis panic speaking, otherwise you’d regret those words.’ He smiled faintly. ‘Also be grateful I don’t abuse what is mine.’

  ‘I…am…not…yours! Do you hear me, barbarian? I won’t belong to any man. Ever again!’

  Rorik’s eyes gleamed down at her. ‘You’ll 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 arrogant, 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. He didn’t crush her, but the awareness that she was thoroughly helpless beneath his much greater weight was absolute.

  She tried a tentative wriggle, then went utterly still, her breath seizing, as the movement brought her harder against him. 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.’

  He certainly could, she thought, swallowing the sudden constriction in her throat. He was primed and ready. Hard, huge, nudging the place where her thighs were clamped together with just enough pressure to be threatening.

  She swallowed again and hoped she could speak. ‘No honourable man would even be capable—’

  He laughed. A low growl of amusement that sent a ripple of heat from her throat to her toes. Her fingers clenched in his hold as she fought the sensation.

  �
��Sweet innocent. A man couldn’t hold you beneath him and not be capable.’ His gaze held hers as he lowered his head. ‘A man couldn’t hold you beneath him and not do this.’

  ‘No…’

  ‘Hush.’ His breath bathed her lips. ‘Just a kiss, little cat. Nothing more.’

  ‘I don’t care what it is. If you try to kiss me, I’ll…I’ll sink my teeth into you.’

  He was so close she felt him smile. ‘Go ahead,’ he challenged softly. ‘Bite me.’ His mouth brushed her lips, leaving fire in its wake. Then closed with devastating gentleness over hers.

  Time stopped; thought blurred. Yvaine tried frantically to remember what she’d threatened to do. Instead, a whirlwind of confusion buffeted her mind. His mouth was warm and gentle on hers, in stark contrast to the hard male flesh pressed firmly to the most vulnerable part of her body.

  She didn’t know which was more dangerous; tried to gather her wits to fight him, and couldn’t hold on to any one thought. Her senses swung dizzily between the threat of violent possession and the unexpected sweetness of his kiss. And when she finally forced her lips apart, forced the command to retaliate into her mind, she discovered to her dismay that she couldn’t bring herself to hurt him.

  And then she couldn’t think at all, because he slipped his tongue between her lips and…oh, so gently…stroked it over hers.

  A tingle of heat streaked her, making her cry out. But even as she softened, Rorik wrenched his mouth from hers. He pushed himself to his feet, pulled her upright and gave her a none too gentle shove towards the ship.

  ‘Move!’ he growled.

  Dazed, her head spinning from the abrupt shift, Yvaine stumbled forward. Confusion, anger, shock that she’d all but responded to him, jostled about in her head until she wanted to scream. She hadn’t even managed to escape. And now see what came of it, there were tears on her cheeks.

  She swiped a hand angrily across her face. She never cried. She wasn’t going to start now.