Storm Maiden (11 page)

Dag’s jaw tightened. The Irishwoman
certainly had him trapped.

“Does this have something to do with Kira?”
Sigurd asked.

Dag looked at his brother, startled. “Why
should it?”

“You’ve been strange about women ever since
Kira decided to wed with Snorri.”

“Strange? How have I been strange?”

“You refuse to wed or even take a woman to
your bedcloset for more than one night.”

“Why should I wed? Unlike you, I will never
be Jarl of Engvakkirsted, or anywhere else for that matter. I have
no need of an heir, and that’s the purpose of taking a wife.” Dag
did not like the bitter sound of his words. Truthfully, he had no
desire to be jarl. In his mind, the power that came with the
position did not make up for the responsibilities. Once his brother
was jarl, he would no longer have the freedom to go
aviking
every sunseason. He would be busy at home, negotiating alliances
and settling disputes.

“ ‘Tis not that I envy you your lot,
brother,” Dag added quickly. “I merely point out the differences
between your life and mine. A wife would only be a burden to
me.”

Sigurd nodded. “I have fared better than
most. Mina is efficient in all things and demanding in few. But it
would please me to see my younger brother wed.”

“We stray from our topic of what to do with
the Irishwoman,” said Dag. “In truth, I worry about the grief she
would cause me if I keep her. When the ale flows and the warriors’
blood runs hot, every man in the longhouse will want her, and I
don’t need the trouble of being her defender.”

“Then heed my advice and dump her over the
side of the boat,” Sigurd growled. “She’s only a woman.”

They were back to where they had begun. Dag
tried to think of another plan to protect the woman, yet banish her
from his sight. He couldn’t sell her, yet being responsible for the
untrustworthy bitch made him distinctly uneasy.

Sitting down on his sea chest, Dag let
Sigurd take the tiller. His arm ached, and he felt tense and
restless. Despite using his hand to relieve his lust only a short
time ago, his shaft was hard and ready once more. Damn the alluring
witch! He had only to close his eyes against the sea glare and see
the image of her naked body—the supple curves, the contrast between
her creamy skin and ebony hair.

Dag glanced toward the prow and cursed
again. The woman had left the tent. She was dressed and her hair
demurely braided, but that hardly diminished her allure. The snug
gown only reminded him of the lush curves beneath, and nothing
could reduce the impact of her exotic face. Such pale, wild-looking
green eyes, dark brows, and crimson-tinted lips—she was like a
siren, luring a man to an unbearably pleasurable doom.

He watched her glance around warily, as if
she might flee back to the safety of the tent. He prayed she
would.

“Ho, lass!” Sigurd’s voice boomed over the
deck. Dag’s body went rigid as out of the corner of his eye he saw
his brother beckon to the Irish wench. Thor’s fury! What did Sigurd
mean to do?

Fiona stiffened as Sigurd motioned to her.
She had found some water to wash her face and arms and Duvessa’s
kirtle covered her decently; but despite being better prepared to
face him, she didn’t want to be anywhere near the man called Dag. A
quick glance told her he was seated close to where his brother
steered the ship.

“Come,” Sigurd called insistently. “My
brother has need of you.”

Aware that she had no choice, Fiona stepped
gingerly among the clutter of sea chests, booty, and men. She kept
her own gaze fixed on the swaying deck. Not all of it was to keep
her balance. She also feared to meet the lustful looks that
followed her.

She reached the stern of the ship. Avoiding
the fair Viking’s gaze, she met Sigurd’s. He reached out and
grasped her by her shoulder, thrusting her toward the other man.
“Make yourself useful and look to my brother’s arm, wench. See that
it heals so he can use it as before.”

Dag didn’t look up as Fiona reached for his
injured arm. Pretending a calmness she didn’t feel, she unwrapped
the bandage and examined the wound. The stitches were still intact,
despite the Viking’s rough treatment. The angry redness around the
sword cut had faded, and there was no other sign of infection.
Fiona couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction. Without her
aid, this man would have died. Her skill and patience had not only
saved his life but preserved the use of his sword arm.

She raised her eyes to the dark Viking.
“Tell your brother that his injury heals well,” she said. “In a few
days, I will remove the stitches.”

Sigurd grunted in apparent satisfaction, and
Fiona refastened the bandage, then released the Viking’s arm. She
took a half step back, feeling the man’s hot gaze on her body. She
longed to seek shelter in the tent, away from his disturbing
presence, but she was not certain she had leave to go.

Sigurd spoke a few words in Norse to his
brother. There was a mocking, playful cadence in his voice, and
Fiona was not surprised when the other Viking didn’t answer. After
a moment, she began to move away.

She gasped as the man called Dag reached out
and caught her skirts. She whirled around, and his icy-blue eyes
impaled her. His gaze raked over her, like hands caressing her
body. His silent scrutiny unnerved her.

The Viking spoke a few words to Sigurd. The
big man nodded, and Fiona looked at him in puzzlement. “He asks why
you saved his life.” One of Sigurd’s dark brows shot up
speculatively. “Why would you aid one of your father’s
enemies?”

Fiona stood utterly still, racked by
conflicting emotions so powerful she didn’t know whether to sink to
her knees weeping or dissolve into wild laughter. This man asked
why she had aided her enemy so that he might burn her home and
destroy her life? There was no answer she could give them, no
answer that would not shatter her into pieces with shame.

She swallowed. “I will not tell you.”

Sigurd, appearing puzzled, translated her
words for his brother. Without even looking at Dag, Fiona could
feel his rage building. She stepped back. The man raised his hand
as if to strike her, then abruptly lowered it. His mouth worked and
he gave her a look full of loathing and something else, something
like fear.

Fiona met his stricken gaze in amazement.
What was wrong with him? The Viking’s wits seemed as addled as hers
were.

She began to shiver, overcome by the fear,
anger, and grief that had battered her since she’d awakened. Sigurd
appeared to curse, and she sought his eyes, wondering if he knew
what ailed his brother. His cold look said he did not. She worried
he might strike her as his brother obviously wanted to do.

* * *

Dag heard Sigurd growl something in Irish,
and the woman moved away, her blue dress swishing.

“I ought to have you ravish her again to
discover whether you hate her or care for her,” his brother
said.

Dag gave him a threatening look, and Sigurd
grunted. “So, that would not help it either, eh? By Frey’s power,
what ails you? I’ve never seen such looks as you give the woman.
They are potent enough to melt glaciers and set the North Sea
boiling. Are you certain you were not hit on the head when you were
taken? Your mind doesn’t seem right anymore.”

Dag shook his head. He had not been struck
down, yet his wits were clearly awry. The woman had defied him
outrageously, yet when he’d started to deal her the appropriate
punishment, he’d been unable to do so. What power did she have over
him?

The uneasiness in his gut deepened as he
took the tiller from his brother.

When Fiona awoke, she was certain it was
night. No light shone around the edges of the tent, and the harsh
voices of Sigurd’s men had quieted. Her stomach burned with hunger,
and she wondered if anyone meant to give her food. A shiver of
dread went through her. She was so alone, so helpless. If the fair
Viking turned his back on her, there was no one who cared if she
lived or died. Except mayhap Sigurd. She didn’t think he would
starve her. More likely, he would tire of her angering his brother
and throw her into the sea.

As if her thoughts had conjured him up,
Sigurd suddenly appeared in the tent opening. She knew it was him
because of his massive size.

“I see the fine Irish lady is awake.” The
contempt in his voice didn’t reassure her. “Get up,” he ordered.
“You can’t sleep here. My men think I have favored you too much
already.”

Something came sailing toward her. Fiona put
her hands up before it hit her in the face.

“A bedsack,” Sigurd said. “Take it to the
far side of the ship, near my brother. I would order you to share
his, if he would stand for it.” He laughed. “It will be
entertaining to see how long he persists in his stubbornness.”

Grunting, Sigurd pushed his bulk into the
tent. Fiona crawled away from him as he settled into the pile of
furs she had just abandoned. Her heart racing, she made her way
toward the tent entrance, dragging the bedsack after her.

The sea air was cool, and she shivered
violently as she left the tent. Above her, a veil of stars
glittered across the heavens, and the soft sound of snores greeted
her ears. She took a deep breath and began to edge past the
sleeping Vikings. Harsh anxiety filled her as she neared the stern
of the ship. Dag hated her; his brother had said as much. Yet, she
was to lie near him, for protection.

She couldn’t see him, but it seemed she was
near the sea chest where Dag had sat earlier as she’d tended his
arm. Surely this was close enough to satisfy Sigurd.

Shaking out the bedsack, she lay it down on
the hard ship bottom, then found the opening and crawled in. The
bedsack was made of otter furs stitched together; it smelled musty
and old. She rubbed her arms and squirmed around trying to generate
some heat so she could be comfortable.

The strange sounds of the sea disquieted
her. The creak of the mast, the whipping noise of the sail, the
splash of waves against the keel of the boat—they all reminded her
of the foreign, threatening world she now dwelled in. Her life had
been spent in the timeless, soothing realm of Eire, a land of warm
mists, gentle hills, and water-smoothed stones whispering of the
past. All that was behind her now. The Viking world was filled with
the sting of the sea wind, the blinding glare of the waves, and the
sharp odor of stale fish and sweaty men.

She thought with longing of the warm snug
bed she had shared with her foster sister. Burned. Destroyed. Her
father, little Dermot. Dead. Murdered. Duvessa, Siobhan—perhaps
alive, but lost to her forever.

Fiona’s throat burned and tears seeped into
her eyes. She had not known until now how much she had to lose.

Memories of her father swam before her
closed eyelids. She recalled his teasing her as a child, gently
tugging her dark braids and calling her little
darling—
acushla.
There had been a gentleness in Donall, a
tenderness most warriors lacked. Mayhap that was what Fiona’s
mother Aisling had seen in him, why she had left the world of trees
and spirits to wed a Christian warlord.

Fiona had never appreciated her father; now
it was too late. Or was it? The priests said a man’s soul went to
heaven when he died. Was her father there now? Could he see her and
understand her troubles? If only he could tell her what to do. This
time she would listen. She would not be so stubborn and
willful.

She choked back a sob. Her former life was
ended, gone as if it had never been. The concerns and troubles that
had once obsessed her seemed hopelessly petty now. To think she had
been consumed with loathing at the thought of marrying Sivney
Longbeard. She had not known then what true misery was. Although
Sivney might be disgusting and crude, he would never have denied
her physical comforts. He would have protected her, even pampered
her. Now she was to be reviled, treated as if she were no more
important than a dog.

The harshness of her new life had only
begun. She knew the Northmen used slaves to do the hard labor on
their farmsteads. Would that be her fate—cursed to a life of
endless servitude in the fields? Or would she be used as a
bedslave, a vessel for the Vikings’ lust, then tossed aside when
she lost her looks or her body thickened with a Viking offspring?
Once she had dreaded the thought of lying beneath Sivney’s
repellent body; now she might be forced to endure the attentions of
many men.

Fiona let loose a sob, her throat choking
with grief and despair. She had been a fool of the worst kind, a
spoiled, misguided child. She had failed her kin, her father. The
terrible pain of regret pierced her, and she could hold back no
longer. As the Viking ship sailed into the darkness, she wept
bitter, hopeless tears.

The woman wept. Dag could hear her ragged
breathing, detect the rhythm of her quiet sobs. He hardened his
heart against the pitiful sound. She was naught but a deceitful,
wicked creature. He had been taught from childhood that loyalty to
kin was more important than life itself. Her aiding him, people’s
enemy, seemed unforgiveable.

Why had she done it? Had she pitied him,
wounded and helpless in her father’s prison, and decided to heal
him because she couldn’t bear to see him in pain? Dag could almost
understand such feelings. He’d always found it difficult to ignore
suffering. As a boy, he had sometimes tried to mend wounded animals
he found, despite the ridicule of the other boys who thought such
sentiments a sign of weakness.

But empathy couldn’t be all of the
Irishwoman’s motivation. She’d not only tended his wound, but
attempted seduction. What drew a highborn woman to a foul
underground prison, there to strip naked and try to entice her
father’s enemy?