Storm Maiden (8 page)

Dag adjusted his burden and began to walk
through the fortress. Around him, fire raged, sending up billows of
smoke into the midnight sky. A horse’s whinny of fear caught his
attention. Dag turned toward the sound, frowning. Sigurd had told
him that the Irish nobility used horses to pull their wicker-work
carts. The local chieftain must be wealthy enough to afford such
luxuries.

The horse screamed again. Dag’s limbs went
rigid. He hated to see animals suffer. Mayhap if the animals were
only penned, not enclosed in a stable, there was a chance he could
free them so they could flee to safety. He walked swiftly toward
the sound, panting with the weight of the woman.

At the eastern edge of the palisade, he
found three horses milling around in a small pen. The shed next to
the pen was ablaze, and the flying sparks and the smell of smoke
had panicked the horses. Dag quickly found the pen gate and jerked
it open. The animals ignored the opening and continued their
frantic circling. Cursing, Dag slid the woman off his shoulder and
onto the ground. Then he charged into the pen, waving his arms and
shouting. The terrified animals veered away from him. Making his
way to the back of the pen, he was able to drive them toward the
opening, and they finally ran through the gate.

Dag leaned against the timbers of the pen,
gasping from exertion and the smoke eating into his lungs. He could
do nothing else to aid the fleeing animals. They would have to
escape through the palisade gate or run through a gap in the
burning walls, else they would die from the smoke. At least now,
they had a chance.

A man’s scream in the distance made Dag jerk
around, and a sudden twinge of guilt went through him. He had
sought to save the Irish chieftain’s horses, but no man or woman
would survive this night’s work. Anyone found inside the palisade
would be slaughtered, then tossed into the flames. As much as he
told himself the Irish deserved their fate, a part of Dag could not
help pitying them. His gaze turned to the woman lying senseless on
the ground. The people dying around them were her kin. What would
she think of him when she woke?

Shaking off the thought, Dag retrieved the
woman and began to make his way toward the fortress entrance. When
he reached it, he saw that the timber gate was gone, utterly
consumed. As he moved through the gaping opening in the fiery ring
of the burning palisade, a man caught him roughly by the arm. “What
goes here?” the man growled. “Sigurd said we take no
prisoners.”

Dag turned and met the coarse-featured,
filthy countenance of the warrior Brodir. “I owe this woman a blood
debt. I would have perished in the Irish chieftain’s prison if not
for her aid.”

Brodir furrowed his leathery brow and his
deep-set eyes glinted with malice. “A man can’t owe a blood debt to
a woman. You mean to take her for a slave, and Sigurd has forbidden
it. He says we have no room or supplies in the ship for
captives.”

Dag’s temper flared. If only he had both
hands free and were uninjured, he would challenge Brodir for his
insolence! But he was weak and tired, and the ship lay some
distance away. Instead, he said, “Seek out Sigurd if you don’t
believe me. He’ll tell you he has made a gift of the woman’s life
to me.”

Brodir’s mouth twisted resentfully, but he
moved out of Dag’s path.

The fresh air cleared Dag’s aching lungs and
helped revive him as he began the journey through the darkness to
the ship, called
Storm Maiden.
His broken rib still pained
him and his injured arm throbbed. Thank the gods that the woman was
so small and light or he could never endure her weight on his
bruised shoulder. He considered putting her down and leaving her in
the damp grass.
Nei,
he would carry her a little farther; he
did not want to risk her being found by one of the other men. The
sight of his brother handling her still filled him with wrath.

The recollection of the woman’s gentle touch
also remained bright and sharp in his mind. She had given him his
life. Despite Brodir’s words, he knew he owed her protection.

He shuddered as a skein of mist floated
across his path. With the heat and light of the fortress behind
him, it seemed he entered the fairy realm. The very air of this
isle felt alive, like a clammy hand against his skin. Near the
river, the mist thickened, and Dag’s pulse accelerated. He still
feared the spirits haunting this place. And tonight he walked
alone, injured, his own spirit weak. He would be easy prey for a
wraith or phantom.

With superstitious dread, he clutched the
Irish maiden’s body more closely against his chest. The feel of her
flesh warm against his own helped ease his fear. Although not a
true fairy, she was of this place. Mayhap her presence would keep
him safe.

The moon moved from behind a cloud. Ahead,
he caught a glimpse of the curved prow of the
Storm Maiden
rising from the river. Dag sighed with relief. This was the world
he belonged to—the realm of wood, water, metal, and men, not the
strange, misty pathways of this spirit-plagued isle.

Two men had been left behind to guard the
ship. As Dag approached, one of them shouted a challenge: “Who
goes?”

Dag relaxed further at the sound of Rorig’s
familiar voice. “ ‘Tis Dag,” he answered. “I left as the fortress
burned to ashes and the Irish curs lay in the death straw.”

“Sigurd?”

“He comes soon. He and the others are
gathering what booty they can claim from the licking flames.”

The other sentry stepped forward. “What do
you carry? I heard Sigurd say ‘no captives.’ “

Dag grimaced. Would he have to defend his
right to keep the Irishwoman to each of his brother’s men? As
exhausted as he felt, it seemed a daunting task. Why had he not
left the woman before he reached the river? He had saved her life.
What more did he owe her?

“This woman kept me alive during my
imprisonment. Sigurd has agreed to spare her life in return.”

“That he spares her life doesn’t mean he
will allow you to take her back to Engvakkirsted. Sigurd warned all
of us that this was not a slave run. We must be satisfied with
jewels and gold and naught else.”

Angered by Kalf’s arrogant answer, Dag
stepped toward the ship. The woman was his, and he would do with
her as he wished!

“Hold!” Kalf moved to block his advance. “We
guard the ship, and I say you cannot bring her aboard.”

Dag’s fingers itched for the axe at his
belt, but he could not reach it with the woman slung over his
shoulder. Releasing his grip of the woman’s thighs, he let her
slide down his body. When he had settled her limp form on the
ground, he pulled out his war axe and brandished it.

“You seek combat with me, Kalf?”

The warrior took a step backwards. “You’re
injured, Dag. Sigurd would not wish to return and find me fighting
with his wounded brother.”

“Neither would Sigurd wish to return and
find you bleeding in the river mud, but it matters not to me.” Dag
shrugged in nonchalance, although the motion pained him dearly. “If
you would keep me off the ship, you must dodge Blooddrinker’s fiery
kiss.”

Kalf took the measure of the axe’s gleaming
blade, then stepped aside. Dag reslung his axe in his belt and
stooped to pick up the woman. Pain screamed down his body and his
knees nearly buckled, but he managed to heave her over his shoulder
once again. He suppressed a groan and began wading out to the ship.
By the time he reached it, his breath came in gasps and sweat
poured down his forehead.

He dropped the woman over the side, none too
gently, then dragged his trembling body in after her. The sway of
the ship soothed him, but he still felt sick onto death. For a
moment he lay there, breathing heavily, then he began searching the
hold where the supplies were stored, hunting for a skin of water.
Finding one, he unstoppered it and gulped the contents down. He let
out a deep sigh and lay back in the gently rocking craft.

He closed his eyes, halfway to oblivion. As
he sank toward sleep, the image of the fairy woman floated before
his eyes. He saw her as she had first come to him, her midnight
hair swirling around her hips, her skin golden in the torchlight,
her face both uncertain and proud.

With a sigh, he rose from his resting place.
Groping in the darkness, he finally located the woman’s limp form.
He felt for her pulse. The tension in his body eased as he found
it. His hand explored further and found the swelling lump on the
side of her head. His brother had a heavy hand; the woman would
have a fierce headache on the morrow.

His fingers touched her face, and he
recalled the delicacy of her features. She was like a bird, an
exotic lovely bird. His hand slipped further down, caressing her
slender throat. Her skin was so soft. He could not resist the lure
of her silken warmth. Holding his breath, he allowed his fingers to
glide beneath the woman’s ruined clothing. His hand closed over a
full, lush breast.

The Goddess Freya, but she was beautiful! He
could not see her, but his fingers experienced her perfection. What
would it be like to lie with her, to feel her fine-boned softness
yielding beneath him? The thought made Dag’s head swim and his body
throb with desire.

A second later, he pulled his hand away.
Fool! That was the danger of women. Their beauty made a man blind
to their other flaws. Did he not know that they were all vain,
petty and incapable of loyalty? And this woman, she was no
different. She had aided him—her enemy. No matter that she’d saved
his life, he could not help but suspect her motives.

Dag frowned as he recalled the woman’s rich
attire the first time she’d come to him. Why would a fairborn woman
seek to couple with a prisoner? Unless she meant to defy the man
she belonged to.

A sense of disgust crept over him, and he
eased farther away from the woman, glad the darkness hid her
extraordinary charms.

Fiona woke to shards of light piercing her
skull like a band of nails around her forehead. She lifted her head
and fought back the wave of nausea that threatened to overwhelm
her, then touched her hand to her throbbing temple. She must have
bumped herself there—or been struck. With sudden, awful clarity,
she remembered the huge Viking. She opened her eyes and suppressed
a scream as a vision out of a nightmare swam into view.

Vikings! She was surrounded by Vikings! A
dozen of them crowded her vision, their huge, sweaty shoulders
flexing as they rowed, the sun gleaming on their fair hair. Beyond
them, a ship’s prow rose high above the horizon. Fiona shrank back
into the corner where she lay among wooden chests and bulging
sacks. She was a helpless prisoner on one of the Vikings’
monster-headed ships!

Cold terror filled her body, blotting out
the pain of her head. There was no escape. They had kept her alive
so they might ravish her repeatedly. The image of a dozen naked,
grinning Vikings coming toward her made Fiona’s limbs go rigid.
Better to jump off the side of the ship and sink into the sea. She
gained control of her trembling body and rose, determined to seek
out death by drowning before her nerve gave out.

She had barely taken two shaky steps when
she heard a man’s voice behind her. She turned, responding to
something familiar in the guttural tones, and her gaze met cold,
gleaming blue eyes.

Fiona’s heart twisted in her chest in
recognition. It was the Viking from the souterrain! He watched her,
his face as unfeeling and impassive as when he’d lain unconscious,
but his eyes blazing with intense emotion. Although she tried, she
could not read any sense into the turmoil of his gaze.

She put a hand to her head, abruptly aware
of how shaky and sick she felt. Her vision dipped and swayed as
though the ship itself had tilted upside down. She sat down where
she stood, her legs useless. The blue-eyed Viking took a step
toward her, and a look of concern crossed his face. Then it was
gone, and he glared down at her. Fiona felt too sick to care. Her
head throbbed as if it were being pounded, and her stomach felt
none too steady.

Rough hands pulled her up, and she felt a
skin being pressed to her lips. She drank greedily and her
disorientation eased. When she could see clearly, those
wintery-blue eyes again gazed into hers. The Viking’s left arm
cradled her shoulders, and she could feel the strength of his
muscles and the warmth of his body. The sensation evoked a pang of
memory. A few days ago, she had held this man’s head as he drank. A
few days ago, she had caressed his sleek shoulders and marveled at
the muscled heat of his chest.

Tears filled Fiona’s eyes. Now everything
was changed. Because of this man, her father was dead, her kinsmen
and loved ones murdered. She had been a fool to succor him. Better
that she had let him die in his dank prison.

The Viking seemed to guess her bitterness,
for he released her. She fell back limply onto the bottom of the
ship. The impact made Fiona’s head throb anew, and she closed her
eyes, seeking the comfort of oblivion.

When she next awoke, her first sight was of
a bright, red- and-white-striped sail billowing out from the tall
mast of the ship. Fiona sat up and saw that the Vikings around her
no longer rowed. Most of them slept, curled up awkwardly between
the large, heavy chests that lined the deck; a few men remained
alert, busy adjusting the sail. Deciding that she was not in
immediate danger of ravishment, Fiona stood unsteadily. Someone had
thought to cover her with a cloak, and she picked it up and wrapped
it around herself, hiding her torn shift.

Her gaze took in the long narrow ship
crowded with her enemies. Panic started to set in again; she fought
it. She had survived, so far relatively unscathed. It would be
senseless to throw her life away.