Storm Maiden (9 page)

She turned. Behind her, in the stern, stood
the bronze-haired Viking from the souterrain. He appeared to be
steering the ship by means of a rudder mounted at the rear of the
hull. He did not see Fiona but stared off toward the starboard
side. She followed his gaze and felt a sick ache in her belly. In
the distance, a blue-green shape floated on the horizon. Eire—her
homeland, her people. Would she ever see Duvessa again? And what of
her aunt? Had Siobhan—hidden away in her little hut in the
woods—survived the Viking attack?

For a moment, grief struck Fiona another
blow and she had the urge to leap over the side of the ship to
drown her pain in the depths of the gleaming blue waves. Then her
reason reasserted itself, that and a cold hard anger. If she died,
there would be no one to avenge her father’s death. No one to make
the Vikings pay for the destruction they had so casually
wrought.

Fiona braced herself against the wicked sway
of the ship and made a vow. “Da,” she whispered, “I shall avenge
you. Somehow I will make up for what I have done.”

Tears streamed down Fiona’s cheeks. She
brushed them away. She could not afford the luxury of self-pitying
sorrow; from now on, she must concentrate on survival.

She glanced back at the Viking at the
rudder. His very existence infuriated her. She had cared for him
and saved his life, and he had repaid her by killing her kin and
burning her home, then taking her prisoner. For such treachery and
betrayal, he deserved to die a gruesome death.

Fiona sighed. She could not kill him
herself, especially weakened as she was. Her head still ached. Her
limbs were stiff. Worst of all, she had a terrible need to relieve
herself. It was a petty problem, but on a ship full of lecherous
Vikings, real enough.

Her eyes perused the craft, searching for
some sort of shelter. There was a leather tent near the bow of the
ship, although it was too small for even her to stand up in. Fiona
guessed that it must be the sleeping area of one of the Vikings or
it might be used to protect valuable goods from the weather.

She gauged the distance to the tent,
wondering if she could make her way there without attracting the
notice of her captors. If there were a jar or vessel inside, she
might use it in private, then empty it over the side of the
ship.

She took a step, but as the ship swayed, she
lost her balance and found herself smack on her bottom. She
grimaced at the sting of solid timber against her flesh, then tried
once more to rise. Bracing herself against the roll of the vessel,
she took several more wobbly steps. With her eyes focused on the
pitching ship bottom, she did not see the man step in front of her
until his bare, sweaty chest loomed inches away from her face. She
raised her eyes and stared into the leering countenance of an
unknown Viking.

The man responded to her horrified gaze with
a harsh laugh then lunged for her. Fiona shrieked and stepped
backwards, losing her balance. As she was tossed to the ship’s
bottom once again, her captor grabbed at her clothes, tearing off
the cloak and very nearly yanking off her shift as well. Fiona
clutched the ruined garment to her body, closed her eyes, and
screamed again.

She heard harsh, angry voices, then the
smack of a fist against bare skin. When she finally summoned the
courage to open her eyes, she saw two men standing over her—the
bronze-haired Viking and, next to him, the gigantic fiend who had
attacked her in her father’s fortress. She looked from one to the
other, speechless with mingled terror and relief.

The huge man turned to his cohort and spoke
abruptly, then walked past Fiona. As his bulky form moved out of
the way, Fiona caught a glimpse of a third man, the one who had
grabbed her. He sprawled on the deck of the ship, rubbing the side
of his head and looking dazed. Fiona felt a grim satisfaction. She
knew exactly how the monster Viking’s blows felt, and she did not
sympathize with the man’s misery one whit.

* * *

Dag glowered at the woman lying at his feet.
“Take her,” Sigurd had ordered him. “Sink your shaft between the
little witch’s white thighs before the other men start snarling at
each other like hounds fighting over a bitch in heat. If you think
you owe her privacy, seek your pleasure in my tent. But make
certain she screams a little. Leave no doubt in any warrior’s mind
that I have given her to you and she is yours to do with is you
will.”

Take her.
Ja,
Dag wanted to do
exactly that. He would make certain she knew who her master was,
inspire enough fear in her weak woman’s heart that she would not
dream of defying hm. It would be sweet indeed to enjoy her
exquisite body. He could not blame Brodir for wanting her. With
that thin, filthy ‘own outlining her breasts and hips, ‘twas a
wonder the other men had kept off of her this long.

She stared up at him with those strange,
pale- green eyes. He had not known what an unusual color they were
until he’d seen them by daylight. An otherworldly hue—the color of
a murky, moss-bottomed pool. If he had seen them clearly when he
lay in his delirium, he would have been even more certain that she
was not a mortal woman. But mortal she was. He could see the terror
in her eyes, the desperation. He meant to use that fear to bend her
to his will.

He reached down to grab her hand and jerk
her to her feet. She swayed and fell against him. The feel of her
body along he length of his made fire burn his flesh. Slowly, he
stroked his hand down her back, then eased it lower to cup a round,
firm buttock. She stiffened against him and tried to draw away. He
pressed her closer and brushed the fabric of her shift smooth so he
might feel her more intimately.

He felt her heart pounding beneath her
fragile ribs. He moved his hand lower, between her thighs. Let her
know his absolute power over her, let her try to fight him.

She tried to wrench away, but he held her
tight against his hips and brought his mouth down to hers. For a
moment, her body quieted and Dag forgot everything except the taste
and feel of her. He closed his eyes, lost in the sensation of her
mouth beneath his.

Suddenly, she fought him again, her body
twisting frantically in his arms. Dag pulled his mouth away and
tightened his grasp. The woman continued to struggle. He gazed down
at her, at her wet, rosy lips and flushed cheeks. Her furious eyes
burned a vivid jewel-like green.

He took a deep breath and tried to clear his
mind. A cacophony of whistles and crude taunts made their way to
his ears, reminding of his purpose. He meant to conquer this woman,
to convince her that he was her master. With his good arm, he
lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder, then pushed past his
leering comrades.

It was impossible to maintain his grip on
the woman as he bent over to enter his brother’s tent. He released
her, then once inside, leaned out and got a grip on her shift. The
garment began to rip. He grabbed another handful and jerked her
into the tent.

She sprawled half-naked next to him, looking
dazed. One breast and both slim legs were bared to his view. The
aching heat rose in his body, and his mind seemed to go blurry. Dag
reached out and ripped off the ruined remains of her clothes. The
sight of the silky, black triangle at the juncture of her thighs
inflamed him. His breathing grew heavy and labored as he moved
toward her.

Fiona watched the Viking advance, all fiery
blue eyes and bare golden skin. This was the vision of her erotic
dreams, but gone horribly awry. The Viking and his kind were
responsible for her father’s death. She could almost imagine blood
dripping from his hands and smell the awful odor of smoke filling
her nostrils. Her home, burned. Her people, slaughtered. And al
because of this dread Viking.

She drew away. He was her enemy. Once,
foolishly, she had gone to the souterrain, defying her father to
seduce this man. She had been a child then, naught but a stupid
child. Now she was a woman, hardened by grief and despair. This
time she would not submit meekly to this destroyer of her life, her
home.

Fiona faced the Viking with grim
determination. He might be twice her size, but she knew where his
weaknesses lay. She would aim her blows for his injured right arm,
his broken rib.

He was upon her so quickly she had no time
to strike at all. In seconds, his thighs straddled her hips and his
left hand grasped a handful of her hair. She writhed beneath him,
helpless.

But he had miscalculated as well. With his
good hand occupied in keeping her upper body still, he had no way
to undo the drawstring that held up his trews. Realizing his
dilemma, he cursed, then gingerly lowered his wounded arm to his
groin. As he fumbled with the drawstring, Fiona watched in
satisfaction. The use of the stiff, sore muscles in his injured arm
caused him significant pain. With luck, he might tear the stitches
out and bleed to death, she thought spitefully.

The garment finally fell away, revealing the
man’s engorged phallus. This time, Fiona felt no fascination or
desire. She gave his member a look of revulsion, then gazed
straight up at the Viking and spat in his face.

His eyes darkened with rage, and Fiona felt
a belated tremor of fear. She was completely vulnerable to this
man; to taunt him was madness.

Their eyes locked, her contempt meeting his
fury. His grip tightened in her hair, and for a moment, Fiona
thought he meant to twist her head around until her neck snapped.
Then his fingers relaxed. He released her hair and slid his big
body off of hers. He paused a moment, still kneeling, then grasped
his swollen shaft in his left hand and began to rub it with short,
rapid strokes.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. In what
seemed like seconds, his features contorted and he exhaled in a
gasp. A glistening white liquid spurted over his fingers.

He opened his eyes, caught his breath then
reached over to wipe his hand on Fiona’s torn and filthy shift
lying nearby. He moved awkwardly to the entrance of the tent and
paused there. His trews still gaped open, exposing his male organ.
But it was not that which drew Fiona’s eyes, but the murderous
expression on his face.

She edged backwards, sure he meant to come
back and kill her. He did nothing, merely turned and pushed his way
out of the tent.

Harsh laughter echoed through the tent’s
leather walls at his reappearance on the ship’s deck, and Fiona
felt a sickening wave of shame. The Viking obviously intended for
the rest of the men to think he had raped her.

A delayed reaction to the fear and shock she
had endured set in, and Fiona began to tremble violently. Clutching
her nakedness, she tried to calm herself. She was whole, safe. She
had survived the Viking’s attempted ravishment. There was hope that
the worst horrors were behind her.

Another stab of terror went through her.
What if the Viking changed his mind and came back? Or what if he
decided to give her to the other men? They might be lined up
outside, ready to take a turn with her. How would she survive if
she were raped repeatedly?

You must,
a voice inside her said.
You must survive or your father will have died in vain.
The
thought gave her courage. Someday, if she managed to stay alive,
she would return to Dunsheauna. If Duvessa and the other women
lived, there might be some hope of rebuilding the settlement. The
dynasty of Deasunachta need not perish altogether. But to ensure
that, she must keep her wits about her.

Fiona got to her knees. It was
self-defeating to dwell on the tortures the Vikings might inflict
upon her. She could not afford to be immobilized by fear; she must
see about surviving as a captive, and her most pressing need was
for a means to relieve her bursting bladder.

She crawled toward the rear of the tent,
planning to search for a vessel which could serve as a chamber pot.
A slight sound at the entrance of the tent made her whirl around.
Her heart leaped into her throat at the sight of the dark-haired
Viking’s head thrust through the tent opening.

Fiona grabbed for her shift and held the
tattered remnants over her nakedness. She feared the giant meant to
be the next to attack her, and she had no wish to further incite
his lust. The man crawled through the opening, surprising Fiona
that he actually fit into the small space. He crouched down and
regarded her.

“I see you are whole and unhurt. I did not
think my brother would use you harshly. He is not known for hurting
creatures weaker than he.”

Fiona gaped at the man, too stunned at
hearing him speak in the Irish tongue to comprehend what he
said.

“How...” she whispered. “How do you come to
speak Irish?

“I wintered a few years ago at the Norse
garrison at Dublin,” the man answered. “ ‘Tis a skill I have, to
learn the speech of foreign lands, a useful aptitude for a
trader... or a warrior.”

The man’s earlier words suddenly sparked
Fiona’s awareness. Brother—he had called the blue-eyed Viking
‘brother.’ She observed the man’s features carefully. The giant was
dark, the other Viking, ruddy fair. This man wore a full, curly
beard of black with reddish tones, while his brother’s jaw had been
clean shaven, his mustache of coppery gold. The giant’s features
were heavier, as befitting his massive size, but both Vikings had
straight, finely-molded noses, high cheekbones, and deep-set
eyes.

“What do you mean to do with me?” she asked,
then held her breath. Would it be easier to endure if she knew what
was planned for her? Or more difficult?

The huge Viking’s eyes narrowed. “Your fate
is up to my brother.”

“Does he recall that I saved his life?”
Fiona asked boldly. “That he would have died if not for my
care?”

“If your kinsmen had not cruelly left him to
perish in a hole in the ground, there would have been no need for
you to aid him. Among my people, it is considered a grave insult to
refuse a dying warrior the chance for an honorable death.”