Storm Maiden (26 page)

“It seems to me that if the woman’s intent
had been escape, she would not have run
toward
the
longhouse,” he argued to Sigurd. “More likely she was afraid Balder
meant to molest her.”

“Once again, your brother defends the little
Irish witch.” Brodir moved close to Dag, his eyes narrowed in
hatred. “It makes me wonder what the woman did to him when they
were down in that hole together. I think she has bewitched your
brother, Sigurd. If you want him as he was, you’d best kill her
before her venomous beauty poisons the rest of his mind.”

Dag met his brother’s gaze, wondering if
Sigurd believed a little of Brodir’s accusations.

Sigurd regarded him intently, his eyes dark
with displeasure. “ ‘Tis obvious that my brother wishes the woman’s
life preserved,” he said grimly. “Because there is no clear proof
of her disobedience, I will grant his request. But from this moment
on, I make him completely responsible for her behavior. If she
breaks Norse law, he will suffer as well as her.”

“I will go to Knorri!” Brodir howled in
outrage, turning to head toward the longhouse. “If you will not
punish her, I will see that the jarl does!”

“
Nei,
you will not.” Sigurd’s
commanding voice stopped Brodir in his tracks. “The incident took
place on the beach, near the ship that is under my authority. You
will not trouble the jarl with this matter. You will accept my
decree.”

Brodir stared at Sigurd, then his shoulders
sagged with resignation. Dag watched with relief. Despite his
hatred, Brodir was obviously not fool enough to defy the man who
led him into battle, who guided the ship he sailed on. Then Dag
turned toward his brother, and the grinding dread in his belly
returned. Sigurd wore an expression which made it clear what he
felt about the Irishwoman and Dag’s defense of her.

Dag tightened his grip on the woman in his
arms. He could not keep doing this, defending Fiona against the
wrath of his sword brothers. Somehow he must teach her meekness.
Somehow he must impress upon her the futility of defiant
behavior.

At Sigurd’s abrupt gesture, the crowd of men
dispersed. Dag led Fiona toward the longhouse. Breaca met them and
gave Dag a puzzled, worried look. He motioned with his head toward
his bedcloset, and the slave girl indicated she would be there
soon.

Inside his sleeping chamber, waiting for
Breaca, Dag released Fiona and heaved a sigh of aggravation. He’d
had the Irishwoman’s life spared, but what foolishness would she
think up for the morrow? As soon as Breaca arrived, he would have
her warn Fiona that she must be an obedient thrall from now on or
he would beat her himself.

The woman appear to have collected herself.
She no longer trembled, and her eyes held sense once again. Dag
wasn’t certain he trusted a rational Fiona any more than a crazed
one. He remained blocking the doorway.

There was a faint knock. Breaca entered and
rushed to Fiona, examining her for injury. “What did they do to
her?” she asked Dag breathlessly. “Did Balder try to rape her?”

“
Nei
,” Dag answered, his voice cold.
“She left the steading and went down to the beach. Balder found her
there and nearly convinced everyone that she was trying to escape.
Her dim-witted behavior nearly cost her her life.”

The woman responded to his words with an
angry retort. Aggravated that she could not wait for Breaca to
translate his explanation, Dag reached out and grabbed Fiona’s arm.
He shook her lightly, punctuating his next words. “Because of her
stupidity, I am to be held accountable for her future actions. Her
disobedience will be counted as my disobedience. Her punishment
will be mine!”

Breaca’s eyes widened, then she turned to
Fiona and spoke rapidly. The Irishwoman’s gaze jerked to meet his.
For a moment, there was amazement in her expression, then it
gradually froze to anger. She spoke vehemently, then turned her
back to him.

Dag looked to Breaca. She hesitated,
obviously reluctant to give him Fiona’s words. “She says... she
says she didn’t ask for your help.” Breaca swallowed. “She says you
were a fool to save her life.”

Fury washed through Dag, blotting out all
fear, sympathy, and concern. “Leave us!” He ground out the words to
Breaca, not looking at her. She took a sharp breath and scuttled
from the room.

He advanced toward Fiona, his hands itching
to finish what Balder had begun. When he grabbed her arms and
turned her around to face him, fire leapt into her eyes. She jerked
away and moved backwards until she could retreat no further, then
squared her shoulders and raised her chin. On some level he was
aware of how beautiful she appeared in her defiance, how
awe-inspiring. No
valkerie
had ever faced an enemy with more
spirit and courage. She was a goddess.

He reached out and grabbed a handful of her
gown, pulling her toward him. Her chin lifted higher; her eyes
seemed to flash green sparks. He sought to tear the gown down the
front. She yanked it from his grasp, protesting. Before he could
lay hands on her again, she lifted the skirt of the garment and
began to pull it over her head. He watched, spellbound, as her
naked body was revealed. She pulled the garment free of her tousled
hair and flung it aside. Her breasts heaved, with exertion, with
excitement, he knew not what, only that he was utterly bedazzled by
the sight of her.

Dag felt himself lose control, felt the
heavy, intoxicating desire flooding his veins. His anger vanished.
He moved toward the bed, half-dragging her onto it. When she lay
beneath him, he tore down his trews and mounted her. She moaned
softly, but didn’t struggle. He cried out, overcome with the lush
warmth surrounding his flesh, thrusting fiercely inside her. She
keened her pleasure with a harsh, animal-like cry. He thrust again,
harder, knowing he could make her scream, knowing anyone hearing
them in the longhouse would think the cause pain, not passion.

How rough he was! This was what she had
expected the first time—not the gentle expertise he had shown her.
He was a beast now, a wild, lust-filled beast. But Fiona didn’t
care. It didn’t hurt. Nay, it felt wonderful. To feel his power,
his strength, his maleness impaling her body to the edge of her
womb. She shuddered and gave in to him, reveling in the tremors
that wracked her arms and legs and pulled him deeper inside her.
Clutching his shoulders, she reached for the heights, climbing to
the very precipice. The maelstrom whirled inside her, inflaming her
every sense. She arched her back and cried out....

Spiraling down from her climax, she heard
Dag’s exultant shout. Some fierce emotion swept over her, a raging,
helpless tenderness.
This man had saved her life—again.
The
thought astounded her, utterly undid her. She reached to stroke
Dag’s sweaty skin, murmuring Irish love words.

Too late, she realized what she was doing.
Her fingers stilled on his cheek, and she looked up into his
lust-dilated eyes. Her slowing heartbeat began to race again. Did
he guess how close she had come to telling him she loved him?

As he moved off of her, she looked away,
embarrassed and disturbed. She didn’t want to be under this man’s
power. She had sought to stand up to him, to make him hate her. In
the end she had failed.

Dag shifted to lie on his back and pulled
her to nestle against him. Again, Fiona felt the lump in her
throat, the onslaught of emotion. Why could she not hate this man?
He was her enemy. Why must he try to disprove that fact? He
insisted on coming to her defense, saving her life. It made her
want to weep. She had no shield against his kindness.

Dag must have sensed her turmoil, for he
moved his hand to fondle her breast. Fiona felt an answering throb
inside her. With a sigh, she gave in to the slow, lazy waves of
pleasure lapping at her resolve.

“
Kylling. “
Breaca pointed to
brown-feathered fowl pecking in the dirt.

Dutifully, Fiona repeated the word. Her mind
whirled with strange sounds; she wondered how she would ever
remember them.

“
Ull.”
Breaca gestured to the bales
of raw wool stacked against the wall of the weaving house, Fiona
nodded and said the word, then took a seat on a stool to begin
spinning. “You must continue with my lessons as we work,” she told
Breaca. “I would speak at least a few Norse words to Dag this
night.”

Breaca repeated the words she had already
given to Fiona. Fiona repeated them impatiently, desperate for a
grasp upon this elusive tool which might give her access to Dag’s
thoughts. The lesson was abruptly interrupted by a loud shriek.
Young Gunnar came tearing in, his brother Ingolf in hot pursuit.
Mina rose wearily and said something in her quiet voice.

Ingolf exploded with a torrent of angry,
tearful words. Fiona guessed that his older brother had done
something to him and Ingolf had retaliated. Now, Gunnar was out for
vengeance.

Gunnar began to shout as well. Mina took a
sharp breath, as if in pain. She looked as if she might faint.
Fiona hurried toward her while Breaca shooed the quarreling boys
outside.

Fiona helped Mina to the stool, frowning. It
was bad enough that Mina had to work so hard, worse yet that her
sons were constantly coming to her to settle their disputes. Why
couldn’t Sigurd look after the boys for a time if no women could be
spared for the task?

Fiona picked up the spindle she’d dropped
and resumed her seat on the stool. Breaca came back in, still
carrying her spindle. Fiona looked at the simple implement, and a
sudden thought came to her. Why must the spinning always be done in
the weaving house? The spindles were portable, as was the wool. Why
couldn’t the tedious work be done outside where it was more
pleasant?

She pondered the thought, trying to decide
how to suggest the idea to Mina. The sound of the boys arguing
again gave her the perfect plan. “Breaca,” she called softly in
Irish. “Why can’t we take our spinning outside while we look after
Gunnar and Ingolf? We could take them to the orchard and give Mina
a respite from their squabbling.

Breaca seemed startled by the idea, but then
she nodded and explained the plan to Mina.

Mina assented easily, and Fiona and Breaca
gathered up their spindles, distaffs, and wool. The boys raced
ahead to the orchard. Breaca followed quickly after them. Fiona
took her time as she walked through the sweet-smelling hayfield
that bordered the orchard, savoring the warm nostalgia that washed
through her. On hot days like this one, Duvessa and she had often
found refuge under the boughs of her father’s apple trees, spicy
rich with fruit ripening in the sunshine. It seemed so long ago.
She had been such a child then, no more heedful of the dangers of
the world than young Gunnar and Ingolf. How swiftly her life had
changed. She had acquired the wisdom of a woman and been made a
thrall in one bleak, dark night.

She looked back toward the steading, and a
shadow of fear crossed her mind. What if Brodir or the other men
accused her of trying to escape again? Nay, surely they would not.
Why would she take Sigurd’s sons if she meant to flee?

She turned again toward the orchard and
willed the rare sense of peace to return.

The boys took turns seeing who could climb
each tree the fastest, then made a contest of gathering apples.
Finally, exhausted by their competition, they joined the women in
the shade and began to munch the tart, still-green fruits. Fiona
had Breaca warn them not to eat too much, lest they get a
stomachache. They ignored her, and Fiona resigned herself to having
to brew some chamomile that night to soothe their bellies.

Not yet satisfied, the boys thought of
another game, seeing who could eat apples the fastest. Fiona shook
her head at their foolishness and went back to her spinning and
repeating the words Breaca taught her.

She was concentrating so intently, she
didn’t realize what had happened until Ingolf grabbed her arm.
“Gunnar,” he said, his voice high with panic. Fiona turned to see
Sigurd’s eldest son in the throes of choking. He clutched his
throat and tried to cry out, but could not. His face was
purple.

Fiona dropped her spinning and leapt up to
pound the child on the back. She guessed immediately that a piece
of apple had blocked off his breathing passage.

“Run,” she told Breaca. “Get Dag, Sigurd,
any of the men.”

Breaca didn’t hesitate, but set off at a
wild pace. Fiona bent the boy forward and tried to pick him up by
his legs. As she feared, she wasn’t strong enough to hold him
upside down and pound his back at the same time. She looked
desperately toward the steading, hoping Breaca could find someone
quickly.

Moments passed as Fiona futilely pounded the
child’s back. Gunnar went limp. Ingolf sobbed great gulping sobs.
Fiona felt like crying herself. She dropped to the ground, then
maneuvered the boy’s body so it rested over her knees. Again, she
struck him brutally on the back. Once... twice... with a popping
sound, the piece of apple flew from his throat.

Fiona took a deep breath of relief, then
went rigid as she examined the boy. His face remained bluish and
still.
He did not breathe!
Fiona’s panic increased. Too late
had she jarred the apple loose! Too late! She ran her fingers over
the small perfect child’s face and felt tears flow down her cheeks.
Then something took hold of her, a fierce determination

“Nay,” she whispered. “You will breathe. You
will!”
She shook the boy, then again thumped him on the
back.

She knew not if it were the third or fourth
or tenth time she struck him when she was rewarded with a faint
gasp. She turned the boy over. His pale-gold lashes fluttered.
“Breathe,” she whispered. “Breathe.” She held her own breath as his
narrow chest began to expand and contract with a normal rhythm.