Storm Maiden (33 page)

“I serve my jarl well,” Sorli answered
evenly. “I put food on his table and fill his carts with goods for
trade. He remembers that. He also recalls that I fought beside him
in a dozen battles. Leave us.” Sorli gestured with his good
hand.

To Fiona’s surprise, Brodir gave her a
vicious look, then abruptly left the slave’s dwelling. She looked
at Sorli, regarding him with new respect. She had seen few men
stand up to Brodir as he had done.

“What are you looking at, wench?” Sorli
demanded. “The next time you see your master, tell him that I want
posts carved with dragons’ heads for my bed. I trow, I have earned
them.”

“Fiona.”

She looked up from the tunic she was mending
for Aeddan, the youngest of the field thralls. Smiling, she put the
garment aside and rose to greet Dag. His impassive expression
warned her to refrain from embracing him, but she could not resist
moving close, drinking in the sight of him. In the firelight of the
thrallhouse, he reminded her again of a sun god—so big and strong
and golden.

“Come, walk with me,” he said.

Fiona obeyed with delight. Outside in the
twilight, she inhaled deeply, then made a face. The thrallhouse was
much too close to the cattle byre and the privy for her taste.

“How do you fare?” Dag took her arm and
began to lead her toward the turf wall.

“Well enough. For the last two days, my lot
has almost been easier than it was in the longhouse. Sorli does not
know what to do with me, so he set me to mending. I have repaired
all his work tunics and trews, and now he has me sewing for the
other thralls. I don’t know what he’ll have me do when I
finish.”

“Good, I would not have your skin and hands
ruined by field work. I’m pleased that Sorli has kept his part of
the bargain.”

“And what of your part?” Fiona asked. “Have
you made any progress toward securing a bed for the
slavemaster?”

“ ‘Tis complicated, but I am close. Ranveig
will make the bed, but only if he can have a new sail for the mast
he is making for the
Storm Maiden.
I have bartered with
Ingeborg to sew it. She cannot do it unless she has a woman to
watch the two youngest of her three girls. Mina had agreed to keep
them with her in the longhouse, but only if she does not have the
boys underfoot as well. I am taking the boys out hunting and
fishing with me. That is why I did not come last night; we did not
get back to the steading until late. Then the jarl called a meeting
to talk about the raids.” Dag sighed.

“Jesu!” Fiona exclaimed. “You should have
been a merchant. All that bargaining and negotiating to obtain one
bed!”

“There have been some other things involved
as well. Ingeborg wanted some silk for a girdle she is weaving. I
gave her the blue garment you wore on the ship and said she could
unravel it and use the thread.” Seeing Fiona’s dismayed look, he
added, “I promise to buy you a new gown, even finer, as soon as
Sigurd agrees to make a trading voyage to Hedeby.”

“ ‘Tis no matter. Much of the skirt was
stained by salt water on the journey.”

“I see that it grieves you, though.”

Fiona sighed. “The gown belonged to Duvessa,
my foster sister.”

Dag nodded. “I will see Ingeborg tomorrow
and ask for it back.”

“
Nei!
You have worked too hard on
this arrangement for me to ruin it with my selfishness. I know you
do all this to protect me, and I am grateful.”

“Has anyone bothered you?” Dag asked,
pausing on the pathway leading up into the hills beyond the
steading.

Fiona hesitated. Should she tell him about
Brodir? Sorli had handled the situation successfully, and she did
not want to worry Dag. Then she remembered the slavemaster’s
request for a
carved
bed. “Brodir did come once, but Sorli
sent him away. I’m afraid the slavemaster has upped his payment for
protecting me. He said to tell you that the bedposts must be carved
with dragons’ heads.”

Dag’s eyes darkened with rage. “Brodir dared
to threaten you? I will kill him!” He jerked away as if he meant to
return to the steading and do the deed that moment. Fiona ran after
him and grabbed his arm.

“
Nei,
Dag! Do not fight Brodir! I
would not see you hurt, and the jarl will blame me for coming
between his oathmen. It will only make things worse!”

Dag took a deep breath. “You are right,
although it scarce tempers my anger.” He turned toward her. “I
cannot stand this—to see you harassed and intimidated.”

“I am well, Dag, truly.” Fiona pressed her
face against his chest. “When you hold me in your arms, I forget
all else.”

Dag’s hands came up to stroke her neck. “Ah,
Fiona, what will become of us?”

Fiona buried her face deeper against Dag’s
warm strength as tears filled her eyes. What, indeed? Although she
struggled to avoid thinking of the threatening future, it remained
like a cloud over their lives. Brodir would never leave her in
peace, and sooner or later, Dag would be forced into a
confrontation with his sword brother.

“I would forget, too.” Dag’s fingers moved
lower, from her neck to her breasts. His stroking grew urgent,
provocative rather than soothing. Fiona’s nipples tingled in
response, and a low, fervent heat spread through her lower body.
She gasped at the intensity of her desire and swayed against
him.

Dag melded his mouth to hers, kissing her
with long, deep tongue strokes that left them both shaking. When he
began pulling at her clothes, Fiona found the presence of mind to
remove his hands. “Let me undress,” she whispered. “I’m tired of
mending things.”

Dag nodded, his face intent in the
half-darkness.
Shivering
in the evening air, Fiona pulled
her kirtle over her head and bared herself to her lover. Dag
groaned. “A bed—what I would not give for a bed. I would lay you
down and...”

“I know of a bed.” A mischievious notion
took hold of Fiona. “There is a meadow just beyond this rise. Meet
me there!”

She dashed off, naked, giggling with
exhilaration, a girl again, playing games in the magic hours after
sunset. But this time it was not Duvessa who chased her, but Dag.
She could hear him behind her, following with long, ground-eating
strides. Fiona shrieked and quickened her pace. She reached the
meadow, breathless with exertion and anticipation. Dag moved toward
her and struggled out of his clothes. Fiona watched him bare his
long, muscular, breathtaking body in the fading twilight.

She waited, helpless with desire for this
beautiful Viking.

“Elusive, bedeviling wench.” Dag reached for
her, drawing her against him. His jutting erection pressed against
her belly. Boldly, Fiona moved her fingers to enclose him. Her
breathing quickened. Such a fascinating plaything men possessed. So
eager and enthralling, beguilingly silky and rigid. She wanted to
kiss him there, to bury her face against him.

Dag had other ideas. He grabbed her hips and
lifted her up, then slid her body slowly down his until her thighs
met his belly. Fiona moaned and parted her thighs so his shaft slid
into her wet, slippery sheath.

Neither moved. “I want you,” Dag said. “I
cannot be gentle the way I feel.”

Fiona nodded against his chest. Somehow he
manuevered them both to the ground. She closed her eyes and
surrendered.

He loved her with fury, as strong as the
wind tearing at a ship’s sails or the waves lashing against the
shore. He was her Viking god, thundering amid the heavens. She
accepted him, loved him, melded into him.

Afterwards, Dag rolled on his back, feeling
the grass cold and wet against him. With his sword hand he reached
out to touch Fiona’s face. The warm wetness on her cheeks alarmed
him. “I hurt you?” he whispered.

“
Nei
.”

“You weep!”

“Not with sadness.”

“Ah.” He felt it, too. Some emotion so
powerful it was like a bird taking flight within his breast. “I
will love you slow next time. I will be gentle.”

“
Nei.
‘Twas perfect. I will never
forget.”

Dag stared up at the stars. How far he had
travelled to reach this place. He lay naked in a mountain meadow
watching the moonrise with an Irishwoman. At this moment he could
not even remember what it meant to be Norse. There was only
himself... and Fiona.

“A messenger from Ottar’s steading just
arrived,” Sigurd said. “They’ve called a meeting of the
Thing.”

Dag put down the barrel of salted fish he
was carrying to the storage shed and faced his brother. “Because of
the raids?”

“
Ja.
Like you, other men think the
Agirssons should pay wergeid for the attack on the Thorvald
steading. They hope to end the feud before it involves more
families and causes more deaths.”

“Where will the meeting be held?” Dag took
off his sealskin gloves and flexed his fingers.

“At Skogkrasse, a sennight hence.”

Dag nodded in satisfaction. He would see
warriors from other steadings and feast and drink with them. He
would have a chance to discuss his plans with other landless sons.
Not only did he need a ship, but men willing to sail with him. The
thought of Ireland reminded him to ask, “Who will go?”

“You and myself, of course. The jarl does
not feel well enough for the journey, so we will represent him. We
will also take a full complement of warriors to watch our backs. In
times like these, you cannot be too cautious.”

“Brodir?” Dag asked.

“
Nei.
He is exactly what we do not
need at a peaceful gathering. The man is always stirring up
trouble. He enjoys raiding and bloodshed; he would probably
encourage the Thor- vald clan to break the truce as soon it was
made.” Sigurd regarded his brother warily. “Why would you want him
along?”

“I fear that Brodir might harm Fiona while
we are gone. He has threatened her already. I have asked Sorli to
look to her safety, but without my presence to discourage him, I
fear Brodir will grow bold,”

“You asked the slavemaster to look after
Fiona?”

Dag met his brother’s eyes with defiance.
“Ja,
I did. She is my property, after all. Why should I not
seek to protect her?”

“Brodir would not dare hurt the woman. He
knows you would return and exact vengeance.”

Dag shook his head. Sigurd did not
understand how deep Brodir’s hatred of Fiona ran. His passion to
destroy her had twisted his mind and made his reasoning dangerously
warped. Dag felt certain the warrior was capable of anything.

Anxiety over Fiona plagued Dag as he
finished stacking the casks of dried fish in the storehouse. By the
time he completed the task, his anxiety had grown until he could
not stand it. He must see Fiona and reassure himself that she was
well.

Finding the thrallhouse empty, Dag decided
Sorli must have set Fiona to work outside after all. He walked down
the pathway toward the grainery.

In the area in front of the storage
building, slaves busied themselves cleaning out the baskets of
rotted grain and debris from the last harvest so the new crop could
be stored for the winter. Seeing no sign of Fiona, Dag turned,
intending to look elsewhere. He nearly stumbled over a small
black-and-white cat carrying a mouse flushed from the grainery. A
smile came to his lips as he righted himself and met the feline’s
wary, amber eyes. WHiile most Norsemen considered cats as
bothersome and disgusting as the rodents they preyed upon, Dag
admired the lithe creatures. They were such clever hunters, and
their knowing, mysterious eyes always made him feel as if their
spirit spoke to his.

Dag left the steading complex and headed
toward the stubbly fields behind the longhouse. He grimaced as a
pungent smell met his nostrils. So, that was where the rest of the
thralls were—rendering fat for soapmaking. Although important to a
prosperous steading, soapmaking was a disgusting process and always
done as far from the living area as possible. Thinking of Fiona
working amid such a mess made him angry. He had asked Sorli to look
after the Irishwoman, to keep her from the more odious tasks. What
if she were burned? The thought of her smooth skin being scarred
made Dag walk faster.

Reaching the work area, he waved aside the
billowing smoke and scanned the half-dozen grubby thralls
overseeing the work. No Fiona.

Torn between relief and aggravation at not
finding her, Dag whirled and strode back toward the longhouse.
Where could she be? He did not like the idea of her working by
herself any more than he favored the thought of her doing the crude
tasks the other thralls did. If she were alone, it would be too
easy for Brodir to accost and threaten her.

By the time he finally cornered Sorli by the
water trough, Dag’s temper was running hot. “Where’s Fiona?” he
demanded of the older man.

Sorli’s pale-blue eyes narrowed. Remembering
what Fiona had told him about Sorli’s defending her from Brodir,
Dag softened his voice. “Your pardon, Sorli, I did not mean to
shout at you. I’m only concerned for my thrall’s welfare.”

The bitter look in Sorli’s eyes eased. “She
should be in the slaves’ dwelling. I’ve set her to cooking meals
for the other thralls. She has a fair hand with a cooking pot, for
all that she says she has not prepared food much before. Her bread
is better than most; her porridge actually quite savory...”

“I just looked there,” Dag interrupted. “I
did not see her.

Sorli shrugged. “She asked for access to the
forest to gather herbs. Mayhap she went there.”

Dag’s heartbeat quickened at the thought of
Fiona alone outside the steading, collecting the last of the
season’s plants. He strode off toward the woods, his stomach
tight.

An hour later, he gave up and returned to
the steading, sick with helpless worry. He would check the
thrallhouse one more time, then go to his brother and demand men to
search for her.