Authors: Mary Gillgannon
Tags: #ireland, #historical romance, #vikings, #norseman
Storm Maiden
by
Copyright 1997 and 2011 by Mary Gillgannon
Published by Mary Gillgannon at Smashwords, 2011
Cover design by Rae Monet, Inc.
Designs,
www.raemonetinc.com
E-book format by
A Thirsty
Mind
All rights reserved.
No part of this may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief
quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are either products of the author’s
imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No
part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any
form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission
in writing from the Author.
Table of Contents
My
Viking
He says he’s Irish
But I look into those eyes
Blue as the North Sea
And know he’s an immigrant
Like all the rest.
I see him
A few centuries ago
Riding his bird boat
Seaspray halo
Gold-red hair glinting with the sunset
His bones are as white and strong
As the seafoam
His smile a bright fierce
Sea monster of passion.
He’s come
To plunder my heart
Ravage my soul
Take me away to sleep
In the Northlands
Where the gods still thunder
And we can dream in endless twilight
~Mary Gillgannon
Ireland, A.D. 805
At last they came to kill him.
Relief filled Dag Thorsson as he saw a gleam
of light in the tunnel beyond the small underground chamber where
he was imprisoned. If he went down fighting, he would know a hero’s
death and join his companions in the gleaming halls of Valhalla. He
had no weapon, and his sword arm was useless, but he would do
damage with his left arm, shackled though it was.
He blinked and tried to move. Fire seared
through his arm, and he gasped as pain robbed him of breath.
Gritting his teeth, he watched the light. His suffering was almost
over.
That had been his chief fear, that he would
rot here, slowly wasting away without food or water in this dank,
dark hole. His injuries made him lapse in and out of consciousness.
He was no longer able to separate the agonies of being awake from
those of his dreams. The idea of dying alone and helpless terrified
him, for what would happen to his spirit then? Would it be trapped
on this eerie green island? Would his soul remain entombed forever
under these ancient, musty stones?
He shuddered and focused his eyes on the
light, willing what strength he could into his stiff aching limbs.
He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue had swollen in his dry
mouth. Struggling to keep his aching head upright, he raised his
good arm as far as his chest. For all his resolve to fight, every
movement made him dizzy.
The light came closer. He could see the
shadow of the torch- bearer wavering and flickering on the far wall
of the chamber. He blinked. The shape of the silhouette reminded
him of a woman, and a horrible fear assailed him. What if the thing
nearing him were not human at all, but one of the fairy creatures
said to inhabit the misty isle? Dread clutched at his chest. He
could not fight a spirit; it would carry away his soul. Never would
he reach Valhalla. Never would he see his companions again.
The thing approached, slowly, stealthily.
Dag’s breath caught in his throat. It
was
a woman! A small,
delicately-built woman with flowing dark hair. Fear squeezed his
chest even more tightly. A fairy! He had heard the isle was overrun
with them. Tiny creatures, surpassingly fair. They bewitched a man,
carried him off to live in their underground kingdom. Time passed
differently there, so if a man escaped, he would return home to
find he had been gone for years, that his children’s children’s
children now walked the earth.
Dag dropped his arm in defeat and closed his
eyes. His muscles had no power against this thing. He would use his
mind instead. He would try to will it away, to make it disappear.
He concentrated, but his head ached and his thoughts were anxious
and fragmented. It was no use. He was not strong enough. His spirit
was too battered, too close to death to fight this enchantment. He
gave up and opened his eyes to face his destiny.
She was remarkably beautiful. She’d fastened
the torch onto a holder on the wall, and the light illuminated her
form quite clearly. He could make out the lissome curve of her
mouth, the fine, graceful bones of her cheeks and brow; her
strange, light-colored eyes. She was almost as small as he’d
imagined—her head reached no higher than his chest. She wore a
tightly fitted green kirtle, the shade of spring foliage. The color
would allow her to disappear like a shadow into the verdant Irish
woods. Her black hair was fine and silky and reached nearly to her
hips.
He was convinced now that she was a fairy.
No mortal woman would deign to descend into this damp, stinking
hole, certainly not one so exquisite. If his captors meant to keep
him alive, they would send a slave with food and water, not this
elegant creature. She looked like royalty, a fairy queen.
She stared at him, her face uncertain,
somehow tense. Slowly, she approached, warily reaching out her
hand, as if attempting to gentle a wild animal. He stared back at
her, utterly confounded by this spirit which did not act like a
spirit, this woman who could not really be here, here in this
hellhole.
She touched his chest, and he shuddered. He
had no idea how to stop her bewitchment, if that were what she
intended. He looked down at her hand and held his breath. She had
long, tapering fingers with carefully-shaped nails. Not the hand of
a mortal woman, unless an extremely pampered one.
He stiffened as her fingers stroked him. Why
did she caress him? Was it part of the spell she wove? A man could
surely lose himself in the beguiling loveliness of her face, the
feel of her smooth fingers. But, having lost himself, what fate
would he would endure afterwards?
Dag resolved to fight the soothing pleasure
her touch aroused, concentrating on the burning pain in his arm,
the agony of his battered body. The delicate fingers went away.
When he glanced up, the woman’s face wore a look of consternation
.
She took a step back, then began to undo the
clasp of the ornate gold girdle at her waist. Dag watched her
uneasily, determined to thwart her if she approached again.
The girdle fell to the filthy floor. His
eyes widened as she slipped off her kirtle and stood before him in
a short shift of white linen. His breath caught as she grasped the
shift at the bottom and pulled upwards.
In the name of Freya—now she was naked! What
sort of enchantment was this? He gaped at her, at her full, rounded
breasts, curving hips, the silky black hair covering her woman’s
mound. The beauty of her form made terror beat through him.
She meant to seduce him, and a mortal who
coupled with a fairy was doomed!
His shaft rose. Despite his weakness, the
pain, even his fear, his body desired hers. She moved closer.
Surprisingly, she looked anxious, almost frightened. He focused on
her face, trying to forget the enticing vision of her naked
body.
She was close enough to rub against him, but
she did not—thank the gods. Dag swallowed and closed his eyes. He
could fight her better if he could not see her. Time passed. He
could almost hear the beating of his heart. Still, she did not
move. Then he felt the sensation of her lips brushing against the
bare skin of his chest. He shuddered. His whole body went rigid;
his shaft throbbed. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut.
Her fingers grasped the wrist of his wounded
arm. He winced. If he held it bent and close to his body, his arm
did not pain him so badly. But if he had to move it...
She pulled on his hand, drawing it toward
her. Agonizing pain shot down his arm; blackness swirled in his
brain. His legs turned to water under him. He swooned, twisting his
weight to his good side, trying to protect his wounded right
arm.
The blackness lasted only a moment. When he
came to himself again, the woman no longer held his wrist, but he
still felt her presence. He decided to feign unconsciousness. It
was cowardly to avoid fighting something you feared, but this
creature was unlike any danger he had ever faced. Mayhap she could
not work her magic if he appeared insensible.
She touched him again, carefully examining
his wounded arm. Dag remained still, praying to all the gods he
knew. As her fingers probed the mangled flesh, he could not
suppress his groan. At the sound, the woman’s hand left him, and he
heard her sharp intake of breath. He slumped lower, hoping the
fairy would mistake his outcry for delirium. From the smell of the
wound, it had already begun to putrefy. The fever would take him
soon, if lack of water did not. If the creature knew anything of
fleshly ailments, she would guess him near to death.
She touched his forehead with her cool
fingers. Dag ceased to breathe. Then she spoke a few words, almost
a curse. There were rustling sounds. He maintained his slack pose
until he heard footsteps receding in the distance.
He opened his eyes to darkness, and shifted
his weight on his trembling legs. She was gone; he was safe. He
breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then an awful thought came to him.
What if he had not been visited by a fairy, but a mortal woman who
had come to aid him? If he had coupled with her as she’d intended,
she might have helped him escape, or at least brought him food and
water. Now, he would die for certain.
Dag stared out into the blackness of his
prison, wondering if he’d lost his last chance for life.
* * *
Christ help her—even the pagan gods were
against her! Fiona sighed in exasperation as she replaced the torch
in the hallway of her father’s feasthall. Her plan had seemed so
brilliant, so certain to succeed. Now, remembering the Viking’s
swollen, ruined arm, her hopes crumbled to ashes.
The huge warrior had swooned at her touch;
it was obvious he was dying. What a waste! she thought grimly. Such
a splendid specimen of manhood, destined to rot in her father’s
souterrain. Her breath still caught at the memory of her first
glimpse of the wounded warrior. So tall he was, so finely muscled.
His long, wavy hair gleamed reddish-gold in the torchlight. His
features—even distorted by suffering—seemed as fine and beautiful
as if cast in bronze by a master artisan.
Pity filled her. The Viking was obviously
burning with fever. She shuddered, thinking of the damp, cold walls
of the underground tunnels of the souterrain, the rats and crawling
things that inhabited the place. Without water, his end would come
soon enough.
