Storm Maiden (4 page)

Finally satisfied the wound was clean, she
obtained the pack of healing herbs from her bag and sprinkled them
over the gash. Then, patiently, tediously, she took a clean needle
and some fine silk thread and stitched up the wound.

Afterwards, she leaned back on her heels to
inspect her work. Siobhan would have made a better job of it, she
knew; but for a first effort, she believed she had done well. If
the healing herbs kept the wound from swelling with poison and his
fever abated, the man would recover. Whether his sword arm would
ever be the same was difficult to say. Ideally, the wound should be
cleaned and the dressing changed every few hours; but if the man
were strong and healthy enough, his body might fight the poison and
heal on its own.

Besides, Fiona thought with a twinge of
grief as she bandaged his arm, the Viking could never be allowed to
leave his prison.

She glanced down at the rusted shackles
still binding his ankles; she dared not remove those and risk his
escaping, especially since she had yet to secure what she wanted of
him.

She struggled against her feelings of pity
and reminded herself that this man was her enemy. If he encountered
her when he was healthy and free, he would no doubt fling her on
the ground and rape her, then slit her throat and kick her aside as
if disposing of the leavings of a meal. She dared not grow too
enamored of this dangerous if tantalizing man. She must obtain what
she wished of him, then forget his barbarically handsome
countenance.

Fiona began gathering up the supplies she’d
brought. The blanket and cauldron she would leave behind; if he
roused, he might wish to use the cauldron as a chamber pot and the
blanket to cover himself. She dumped the bloody water in a corner
of the chamber and left the soiled rags there as well. The two
empty skins, the healing herbs, and the knife she replaced in the
bag on top of the cloth-wrapped meat and cheese. There had been no
opportunity to offer the prisoner food, and it seemed likely that
when next she saw him, he would still be too weak to do more than
sip broth.

The torch sputtered as she went to retrieve
it from the wall. But despite her fear of the flame going out and
leaving her in darkness, Fiona could not resist kneeling down for
one last look at the Viking. Her gaze caressed the graceful planes
of his face, the high forehead, prominent cheekbones, and strong
jaw. A curl of thick, bronze-colored hair dipping over his forehead
softened his fierce visage.

Fiona reached out a trembling hand and
brushed back the damp strand. A wave a longing went through her.
The Viking was so fair, so compelling in appearance. Never had she
seen a man so massively and yet so gracefully built. Observing the
Viking’s huge hand lying slack in the dirt, she recalled those long
fingers fondling her breast. The memory made her shudder. What
would it be like to wed a man like this, one so comely and
strong?

Shaking her head, she withdrew her hand.
This man was her enemy, her father’s prisoner. She had wasted too
much sympathy on him already.

Fiona crossed the shadowy chamber and
entered the ancient, damp hallway. A cold finger seemed to trace
its way along her spine as she hurried down the corridor and
scrambled up the crumbling stairs to the world of light and life
beyond.

“Where have you been?” Duvessa’s whisper
came hissing out of the darkness as Fiona crept into the bower they
shared. Fiona sighed and began to wearily remove her clothes. From
the moonlight shining in the narrow window in the wall, she could
see her foster sister’s slender form rising from the bed across the
room.

“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for walk and
looked at the stars,” Fiona answered.

“Alone?” Duvessa’s voice was full of
excitement as much as fear. “There might be Vikings out there.”

“Donall’s sentries guard the palisade. No
one could get by without the alert being sounded.”

“What about the spy discovered two days ago?
He was a Viking, Dermot said. And where there is one, there are
bound to be others. Dermot said your father increased the guard on
duty at night. He must expect an attack.”

Fiona resisted the urge to tell Duvessa that
Dermot was hardly a reliable source of information. Although
Duvessa’s younger brother slept in the same dwelling as the
soldiers, at eleven winters, he was not likely to be included in
any serious strategy sessions.

“Father Fearghal says all Vikings are
savages,” Duvessa continued. “They delight in butchering monks and
innocent babes—and ravishing Christian women.” There was a
noticeable thrill in her voice, despite the shocking aspect of her
words.

Duvessa moved across the room and plopped
down on a stool. Duvessa’s thick curly hair, unbound for sleeping,
floated around her shoulders, almost overwhelming her slight form.
By daylight, it appeared a deep red and was so wavy and unruly it
took a dozen plaits to keep it confined.

“Are you still brooding over your
betrothal?” Duvessa asked gently.

“Aye.”

Duvessa sighed. “Your father must have good
reasons for making this match. Mayhap it has something to do with
the Vikings.”

“Nay, it has to do with greed!”

Duvessa sighed again. “I hate to see the two
of you like this. Your father loves you. He would not wed you off
merely to increase his herds or to gain a hoard of gold. He must
have some other plan, some secret goal he cannot speak of yet.”

“At least you admit that my bridegroom
leaves something to be desired,” Fiona said hotly. “My father will
not even admit how repulsive and crude a man Sivney Longbeard
is!”

“But the Mac Cartan chieftain is powerful.
It’s said he can call up two hundred warriors with half a day’s
notice. If the Viking raids continue, we may need the forces of
another strong chieftain to aid us.”

Doubt weakened Fiona’s anger. What if fear
rather than greed motivated her father? Had concern over the
Vikings driven Donall to plan this alliance with Sivney? She
quickly dismissed the thought. If her father needed Sivney’s men,
he would have told her. Instead, he had shouted and raved and
thrown her mother’s blessed memory in her face.

Anger and indignation again flowed through
Fiona’s veins. She would not change her mind; she would find a way
to defy her father’s loathsome wishes.

“I need to sleep,” she told Duvessa curtly.
She went to the bed and climbed in. Duvessa remained seated on the
stool for a moment, then got up and made her way to the bed.

Fiona lay still, wide awake. The image of
the Viking filled her mind. On the morrow, as soon as she could
sneak away to the souterrain, she would go to him again. If the
herbs healed his wound and his fever eased, he might be able to
perform the task she required of him. Fiona’s body grew hot at the
thought. It would be better if the man were still weak, perhaps
even a bit delirious. There should be some curb to his enormous
strength, else he might think to overpower her and escape.

The idea of the savage Viking running loose
in her father’s compound made Fiona’s heart pound with fear. She
had not tamed the beast, and she dared not forget that. Mayhap
tomorrow, if his arm had improved, she would attempt to refasten
the shackles binding his wrists. From what she knew of the act, a
man could couple with a woman standing up, and it would be safer to
keep the Viking fettered.

Duvessa made a small, sleepy noise. Fiona
struggled not to squirm on her bedplace and risk waking her foster
sister. Her flesh felt as fevered as the Viking’s had, especially
her breasts. What madness was this that she desired her enemy’s
touch with such longing? Surely it was punishment for her
willfulness and lack of obedience to her father.

Guilt tweaked at Fiona, dampening her desire
but scarcely bringing restfulness.

* * *

He climbed through a long, dark tunnel, but
even as he reached the end, there was no cessation of darkness. Dag
woke to the solid blackness of his underground cell. Pain still
stabbed down his arm, but it felt different, somehow milder, more
an ache than a burning. He shifted abruptly, realizing with a start
that his circumstances had changed. No longer was he shackled to
the damp wall. His left hand was free and his head rested on
something soft.

Slowly, he raised himself to a sitting
position. The familiar scent of rot and earth assailed his
nostrils, and the pull of the shackles on his ankles assured him
that he remained imprisoned.

The moisture in his mouth told him he had
been given drink; the stale taste suggested wine. He tested his
wounded arm and found it bound near his body. With cautious fingers
he explored the bandage. Someone had tried to mend him. The
fairy?

Dag searched his mind, trying to recall
something beyond the blackness and the pain. If the fairy had come
and tended to him, he had no memory of it. But someone or something
had undone his shackles and bound up his arm. The realization of
his improved conditions did not reassure him. Even magical beings
did not do things without motivation; if the fairy aided him, then
she wanted something. What was it?

Remembering the sight of her delectable,
naked beauty, Dag shuddered. It was obvious what she desired, and
he would be cursed if his traitorous body did not want to give it
to her. Thank the gods, the fairy had not been insistent. She could
have used her fingers to entice him or rubbed up against him until
he could not resist the lure of her nakedness. The fairy appeared
too shy or inexperienced to pursue the matter beyond her first
tentative invitation. She had left him, then apparently come back
when he was unconscious and cared for the worst of his hurts.

Dag flinched again as an awful thought came
to him. What if he had lain with the fairy during his delirium? He
had no memory of her visit; how could he be certain he had not
coupled with her while senseless?
Nei,
he would know. Some
feeling of satisfaction would remain. A creature as exquisite as
that would leave some impression upon his flesh, even if the memory
of joining with her eluded his mind.

Relief flooded him as he began to
investigate his new circumstances. The blanket under him was clean
and soft but rather worn. His fingers searched the dirt floor
further and encountered an empty cauldron. If only it were full, he
thought regretfully as his stomach squeezed with hunger. Had she
given no thought to feeding him? Mayhap fairies did not consider
such mundane things.

He found nothing else. Apparently the
creature had poured wine into his mouth, unbound his shackled
wrists, treated his wounded arm, then disappeared. It was obvious
she meant to keep him alive so she could attempt seduction at a
future time.

Unless he escaped. Dag reached down with his
good hand and explored the iron bands encircling his ankles. If
such a slight being could release his arm shackles, then surely he
could pry off his leg irons. His fingers searched the uneven floor.
All he needed was a sharp rock, something to work the metal
against. It would take time, but he could eventually get free.

Once he escaped the dank hole where he was
imprisoned, he would wait until night and find a weapon to use in
case he was discovered. For a warrior trained in stealth and
spying, it would be easy to sneak out of the palisade. Ah, but that
was what he’d thought when he first saw the Irish chieftain’s
fortress on the hill above the river and bragged to his companions
that he could assess the strength of the place and be back in the
longboat before dawn. His cockiness had led to his capture, or
mayhap it was simply ill-luck that had resulted in his being
trapped between the chieftain’s returning war band and the
fortress.

He had fought hard, but no man could
outmaneuver ten warriors at once. After one of them hacked his
sword arm, leaving it bleeding and useless, they had surrounded him
and forced him to the ground. Then the Irish warriors had kicked
him, taunted him, spat upon him, and thrown him into this
helhole
to rot. Except for the fairy’s aid, he would likely
be dead already.

Anger rose in him, hot and bitter. He would
make the Irish chieftain pay for leaving him to such an
ignominious, shameful death. As soon as he could free himself, he
would find his companions. They would fire the chieftain’s
fortress. Everyone inside would die.

The fairy, he wondered—would she succumb to
the flames as a mortal would? It would be a waste for such an
exquisite creature to perish.

Dag shook his head sharply, trying to clear
it. What was wrong with him? Why was he concerned for the fairy’s
fate? The thing she planned for him was worse than death. She meant
to steal his spirit, to entrap him in her timeless fairy world.

She was a demon, as dangerous as an
undine,
the half woman, half fish creatures who lured
seafarers to their deaths upon the rocky shores. The fairy
represented a more terrifying doom than wasting away in the
darkness. If she came back, he must feign unconsciousness and hope
to avoid her alluring treachery.

Meanwhile, he would work furiously to free
himself.

* * *

Sweat trickled down Fiona’s brow as she made
her way down the stone steps into the darkness. It was reckless to
enter the souterrain door again during daylight. She should not
have returned so soon, but the image of the Viking wouldn’t leave
her. She must reassure herself that he still lived.

A slight scratching noise made her halt, and
her heart thudded loudly in her ears. What if the Viking had freed
himself? Did she have the nerve to face him if he were unbound and
alert?

She listened; there were no more sounds.

She crept forward, every muscle tense. As
she entered the final chamber, she thrust the torch ahead, prepared
to defend herself. The flame wavered with the motion, casting
spooky shadows. Slowly, she made out the Viking’s huge body lying
motionless against the wall.