The Viking's Woman (4 page)

Fury revived him. He ripped off a piece of his mantle, tying the wound, and staggered to his feet. His jaw tightened and his eyes were like frost as they swept the area. A two-story lodging lay far to his back. It wasn’t burning and there was a window on the second floor where an assassin might well have taken aim upon him.

“Hold, Eric—” Rollo called to him. But Eric lifted a hand and shook his head. “Nay, I will find this treacherous assassin and I will deal with him.” He paused only a second longer, indicating the fallen horse. “Have mercy on this beast and set him free from his misery.”

He strode toward the building, heedless of the danger that another arrow might fly. Rage blackened his vision now, but he knew that no one lurked in the window. Whoever had attacked him surely meant to run now, but there would be no escape.

He burst into the building. It was a fine manor home with a great hall and a line of shields upon the wall. There was a great fire in the center of the room,
with an open shaft to the sky above it. Trickles of rain came through the flume of the shaft and hissed and steamed on the rocks that surrounded the fire.

Eric turned from it and looked to the stairs.

His attacker surely was waiting for him to take to the stairs. The man had doubtless come down there already and waited to attack his back as soon as it was turned.

He did not walk toward the stairs.

He looked about the room and saw a fine table set with plates and cups and ewers of ale and mead. Limping, he dragged his injured leg with him and poured out a long draught of mead.

He waited and in time was rewarded. Staring across the hall to a storeroom, he saw the slightest movement beneath a covered table. Casually he leaned down to slip out his knife from the sheath at his calf. Slowly he approached the storeroom. He moved as if he had no purpose. Then he swept up the linen that covered the table, and prepared to seize the man beneath it.

He swore as a cloud of flour hit him in the face, blinding him. A scurrying sound assured him that the man was trying to escape. Ignoring the pain in his eyes and in his leg, Eric lunged at the fleeing assassin. His hands curled around an arm, and he dragged the man down easily. He fell hard upon his attacker and swiftly brought up his knife, ready to deal out death.

Then he heard a woman scream, and he saw that he had caught the woman from the parapets, the creature with the fiery hair and the deadly arrows. He stayed his hand.

She trembled beneath him but swallowed her
scream, angry that she had already released it. Her eyes were glazed with tears that she would not allow to spill. Her irises were blue gray, almost silver, and though her hair was that curious color of sun and fire, her eyes were fringed by midnight-black lashes. They were both startling and beautiful. Her skin was fair, a creamy ivory, and as soft as a rose petal. She lay beneath him, gasping for breath, her breasts rising and falling, their firm mounds apparent beneath the soft, taut wool of her fur-trimmed tunic. He was assessing the fine curves of her mouth when suddenly she pursed her lips and spat at him.

He sat back, his thighs hard around her hips, and with a flick of motion brought his blade to her throat. He saw her pulse race there, and then she gulped. The long, brilliant length of her hair was tangled beneath her to her buttocks, and he knew that his knees pulled it where it fell beneath them. He offered her no mercy. A man would not spit at him and live. But a woman …

He wiped the spittle from his face, then dried his hand upon her breast. He felt her flinch and felt the full, evocative softness of the woman beneath the gown.

“You’ve hurt me gravely, madam,” he told her in her own language. His tone was low. She seemed to sense its deadliness, and yet she seemed not to care.

“I meant to
kill
you, Viking!” she retorted vehemently.

“’Tis a pity then that you failed,” he warned her. He moved his blade against her cheek, and let it fall, ice cold, against her throat again. He felt her shiver and drew the knife away. He stood, yanking her to
her feet. With the effort he felt fresh blood surge from the wound in his thigh. Blackness spun before him. He should have had his physician cleanse and bind the wound before coming against an enemy—any enemy—whether ten men with swords and maces or this fire-haired young bitch. She knew how to aim an arrow, and one look at her silvery eyes assured him that she was watching for his every weakness. She trembled, but her eyes emanated hatred.

Suddenly, fiercely, viciously, she brought her knee up against his groin. He caught his breath at the raw agony, doubling over as everything went black on him again. He did not release her, though. He kept his fingers wound around her wrist, and as he staggered back, seeking a chair at the banqueting table, he dragged her with him. He fell backward, dragging her down to her knees before him. He wanted to kill her at that moment. He wanted to strike her so hard with his powerful hand that her neck would snap. He gasped for breath and forced himself to open his eyes. For a moment, a moment so brief that he was certain he imagined it, he saw pure, wild terror in her gaze, like a pheasant caught in a snare. But the look was quickly gone, and though he tempered his anger so he would not strike, he was certain she knew the extent of his wrath, for, upon her knees now, she desperately began to fight for her freedom. He almost forgot the fight as he found himself watching her, studying her. She was an uncommon beauty, with fine, beautifully chiseled features; a long, stunning neck; and the startling crowning glory of her shimmering hair. Evidently she was of noble birth: The
fine linen, wool, and fur she wore were testaments to a high station in life.

He watched her too long. She was quick to assess the slight easing of his hold. She bit into his hand; he released her wrist, grabbed her hair, and smiled grimly as she cried out in pain. She might be beautiful, but she was also quick and cunning—and decidedly his enemy. He pulled her very close to his face, his eyes were merciless daggers as they bore into hers. “What happened here?” he demanded.

“What happened?” she repeated. “A scourge of bloodthirsty crows sailed in from the sea!”

He tightened his grip, dragged her closer. “I repeat, lady, what happened here?”

Tears hovered on her eyelids. She clawed at his fingers and her hand slipped. Unwittingly she had found his weakness, striking his thigh.

Stars burst before his head. His grasp eased. He was going to black out; he knew it. He forced himself to fall forward, catching her beneath him. He fought for consciousness and they rolled together. The mud and flour that covered him covered her. Their legs intertwined, and the movement of his thigh pulled up the length of her tunic. She cried out again in fear and fury. Ambushed by unexpected desires he let his rough warrior’s hands slide over her naked flesh, finding it soft and silky smooth. She coughed and choked and fought more madly, and curiously he felt the fever within him burn, for her thighs were warm and supple. He hadn’t thought previously of carnal pleasure, not even as he noted the beauty of her eyes or felt the erotic tangle of her hair about him. But then, with her breasts crushed beneath the chain mail on
his chest and his hand against the soft inner flesh of her leg, he felt a surge of desire spill hotly through his loins.

He clenched his teeth and saw that her eyes widened with alarm. She tried to roll and further wedged him on top of her. She swore, struggling fiercely. Her nails raked him, and he caught her wrists and dragged them high above her head, his eyes ice blue and frigid as they gazed upon her.

He had ordered Rollo to stay behind, but where in Valhalla was the man now? Eric needed him. His strength failed more completely with each second that passed, and he had lost a tremendous amount of blood. He had battled countless men and not received a scratch, but this bitch with her silvery blue eyes had nearly brought him down. A small sound escaped her. She twisted her eyes not to stare at him, and he saw that she bit into her lower lip.

“You will die for this!” she cried out suddenly, passionately.

“For this? For what, my lady, precisely? For coming to your coast or for refusing to die despite your talented aim? Ah, or for touching you so …?” He shifted his weight, fighting the darkness that threatened and softly sliding his fingers along the bare length of her inner thigh.

Her face flushed with anger, and perhaps other emotion, and he laughed. But then pain streaked through him again. She’d shot him with her damn arrow, had kicked, bitten, and clawed him; and he was a fool if he didn’t realize that a beautiful enemy was a deadly one indeed. He hardened himself against her beauty, as well as against the raw desire
that the bitter fight and the brush with her soft, naked flesh had ignited.

“Don’t fear, English witch,” he taunted, and he ran his hand freely along her thigh, dangerously near the apex of her limbs. “You are neither gentle, nor tender, nor appealing, milady. My options are to slay you or enslave you, and that is all. When I take a woman, she is just that—all woman, evocative and enticing. Don’t provoke me, madam, for if I were to touch you, it would indeed be mindless savagery.”

“What else can be expected from a Viking other than savagery and death?” she charged him.

He gritted his teeth, fighting the temptation to strike her again. He forced himself to smile slowly. God, where was Rollo? He saw everything through a red haze, but even through that haze she was beautiful … and deadly. Skeins of fiery gold hair entangled them, hair as fragrant as the spring flowers, as soft as swaths of the finest silk. Her blue-gray eyes were wide set and lovely, except for their expression of pure hatred.

Her breasts rose and fell, nearing spilling from the confines of her tunic. “Perhaps I should take you,” he whispered. He touched her cheek with his knuckles, and she twisted her head violently. His fingers trailed over her throat and cupped over her breast, caressing the soft mound. His thumb moved in a rhythmic circle over the crest that hardened to his touch. She inhaled sharply, tossing her head again; her eyes glittering and wide as they touched his.

“No … Viking!” she swore.

He frowned, wondering why she insisted upon harping on his Viking lineage when he had come
from Ireland. Not that he would bear the insult, or any insult, against his father or his father’s race. But he had come from his mother’s country.

He ceased to torment her, his anger taking precedence. He hadn’t much time, he knew. “I want to know what happened!” he thundered at her.

She stared at him in absolute silence for a moment. He released her wrists and reached for his dagger where it had fallen from his grasp, away from them. He started to sheath it at his calf when suddenly he was seized with weakness. Blood was pouring from his thigh again.

He fought to stay conscious. To clear his head. “Nay, milady,” he began, “you’ll tell me who is the lord of this place, and why—” He broke off. He was falling again. He leaned forward, fighting darkness.

He was going to die. The great warrior, the Spawn of the Wolf, was about to die because this chit of a girl would slay him when he lay down and closed his eyes.

“Oh!” He felt her move beneath him. She shoved him, and an awful lethargy swept over him. She was up upon her knees, staring down at him, meeting the blue ice in his eyes. She reached for the knife. His fingers closed around it but he was fading fast. She dug at his hand where he held the blade. He heard her sobs, coming hard and fast and desperate. She intended to slay him. She needed the weapon.

“My lord! Where are you?”

Rollo was coming at last. Horses’ hooves pounded against the earth and then ceased, and Eric knew that help had come. He held fast to the knife.

The girl rose to her feet. Her pulse palpitated furiously in her throat. She turned to run.

Eric pushed himself up, holding the knife. She made it to the hall and turned around.

He had a vision of her for a moment in the haze of his mind, caught in the dying light of the day. Tall and slim and regal, her radiant hair flowing out around her like a glorious golden cloud.

She saw the dagger and his icy gaze, and she gasped, her back against the wall. He held her life in his hands.

He could have slain her then and there, and they both knew it. Instead he took careful aim and threw the knife, catching her sleeve, pinning her to the wall. He caught the material of her gown, just to the left of her heart.

He smiled at her with deadly, chilling intent. “I am a Viking, as you say, and you live. Pray, lady. Pray to your God with all your heart that we do not meet again.”

Her thickly lashed eyes betrayed her terror and her hatred. She stared at him, cried out, and spun around, tearing her tunic free from the blade and the wall, and ran again.

Then she was gone.

Rollo burst through the doorway. “Eric!”

“Here!” Eric called. Rollo reached him, came down to the floor, and helped his leader to his feet.

“Get me to a bed,” Eric breathed. “Get my physician and an ample supply of ale or mead.”

“The blood!” Rollo moaned. “Hurry, we must get your wound bound. My prince, you must not die!”

He smiled at Rollo with grim determination.

“I’ll not die. I swear it, I’ll not die. I’ll live to find vengeance for this day. I will know what happened
here, else Alfred of Wessex will soon find himself battling the Norse and the Irish, as well as the Danes.”

High atop a white-cliffed hill, overlooking the destruction of the Wessex town, a slim youth pushed to his feet from the dirt, backed his way into the foliage, and then ran. His fleet young legs carried him swiftly into the forest on an old Roman trail. His heart pounded, his legs were raw with pain, but he kept on moving until he entered into a copse and there found two mounted English noblemen from Wessex. They were fine lords of the realm, the elder in blue wool and stoat, the younger in forest green trimmed with white fox.

“Well, boy, tell me of it,” said the elder nobleman.

The boy panted and was urged, none too gently, to speak up. “It went as you wished. Lord Wilton of Sussex led the battle and fell to the Viking blade immediately. None knew of the king’s invitation or that the Viking ships carried Irishmen as well. Wilton and Egmund are assuredly dead and may well be fingered as the traitors. The townspeople met the Vikings as invaders. The town burns. The men not slain are caught. They will be slaves, and the women concubines.”