Viking (4 page)
“As you can see, the land is rocky and steep,” Thorne pointed out. “Farming is confined to the coastline. Fishing and hunting grounds are plentiful, but winters are harsh and long and tillable soil is limited by the mountains and bogs containing iron ore. Many of our people are seeking new lands on which to settle.”
“What about your family? Are they looking to settle on new lands?”
“Nay. My father is a jarl; his holdings are vast. I stand to inherit everything upon his death. But fortunately he is still hale and hardy. Summon Brann, ’tis time to debark. The homestead lies but a short distance from the town.”
“I am here, Lord Viking,” Brann said as he joined Thorne and Fiona.
“Fiona will ride with me,” Thorne announced. “Brann can follow on foot with Ulm and the others. Most Vikings prefer to walk and use horses as beasts of burden. They do not ride well. But I find riding invigorating. Ah, here comes a slave with my horse now.” He pointed to where a man stood beyond the dock, holding the reins of a spirited black stallion. “Father must have seen our sails and sent him down to meet my ships.”
Fiona followed Thorne onto the narrow dock, gazing with interest at the assortment of houses and buildings hugging the bank of the fjord. The stream bed had been diverted and planked as the streets spread parallel and at right angles to it.
“Most of the wooden, straw-roofed buildings house craftsmen and merchants who trade in luxury goods such as jewelry and furs,” Thorne informed her. “The landward side of the town is protected by a semicircular rampart constructed of earth and logs.”
“ ’Tis a fine town,” Fiona said as she looked her fill.
When they reached the place where Thorne’s mount awaited his master, Thorne lifted her onto its back and leaped up behind her. The horse reared and shot forward. Moments later they were racing through the countryside. Fiona found herself pressed between Thorne’s massive thighs, his arms holding her tightly lest she be thrown to the ground. He rode with wild abandon, which didn’t surprise
Fiona. Thorne the Relentless generated excitement. He did everything with vigor and passion and a zest for life that made everyone else pale in comparison.
Thorne was intensely aware of every curve of Fiona’s body pressed so intimately against his. Heat suffused him. His loins stirred, blood pounded through his veins. He
had
to be under a spell, he reasoned, for he couldn’t recall ever being so obsessed with a woman. His arm tightened around her, pulling her resisting body against the muscular hardness of his. He couldn’t remember when anything had felt better than the warm body now pressed against him.
“You needn’t hold me so tightly,” Fiona complained. “Or ride so wildly. Are you trying to kill us both?”
Thorne gave a laugh of pure enjoyment. “Fear not, witch, I can control Thor’s Hammer. Just as I will control you. One day I will break the spell you have placed upon me, and when I do, your magic and enchantments will have no teeth.”
“I am no threat to you,” Fiona claimed.
Thorne gave her a look that conveyed without words the unbearable fascination she held for him. For an entire year he had suffered her enchantment, her spells, the bedevilment of his mind and body. She had lured him to her island, bared her body to him, then cast her spell. Thorne knew he should have killed Fiona and freed himself, but something inside him had balked at slaying a woman with powers he did not understand.
Thorne was still lost in his thoughts when Fiona spied a collection of buildings built of rough pine logs sporting pitched roofs made of either straw or turf. There were so many buildings it looked like a small village. Fiona thought that Thorne’s family must be very rich to afford so much. Though plain on the outside, Fiona could see that the buildings were of sturdy construction, built to last many years.
Several people stopped their work to hail Thorne as he rode into the yard, scattering pigs and chickens. Two huge men hurried forward to greet him. One man was a slightly younger version of Thorne and the other an older version, with graying blond hair and a thick beard. Both were veritable giants. Their steps slowed somewhat when they saw Fiona.
“Welcome home, son,” Olaf greeted as Thorne dismounted and lifted Fiona to the ground.
“Was your mission successful?” Thorolf asked after giving his brother a bruising hug.
“There is sufficient plunder to satisfy everyone,” Thorne said.
“And slaves, I see,” Olaf said, nodding toward Fiona. “Does this one understand our language?”
“Nay, but she will learn. Her name is Fiona. She speaks Gaelic.”
Fiona glanced at the men with misgiving. She knew they were talking about her but couldn’t understand a word they said. Were they deciding her future?
“Are we to assume the witch is dead?” Olaf asked uneasily.
Thorne stiffened. His father wasn’t going to be pleased with what he had done, but there was no help for it. “Nay, Father.” He pushed Fiona forward. “Fiona is the maiden I encountered on Man, the one who has bewitched me.”
Thorolf stepped back, his face a mask of fear as he placed his hands in front of him as if to ward off evil. “Odin’s balls, why did you bring her here?”
“I had no choice,” Thorne said in his own defense. “Her mentor, an old Celtic wizard, claimed she was a holy woman. He threatened eternal damnation if I killed her.”
“And you believed him?” Olaf roared. “Heed me well, Thorne, trouble will come of this. What in the name of Loki are you going to do with her?”
“Fiona is my thrall. She will be as any other slave in our household, serving where she is needed.”
“You will
not
take her to your bed, Thorne the Relentless!”
Fiona started violently, stunned by the swift approach of a statuesque beauty with angry blue eyes and silvery blonde hair woven into a coronet atop her regal head. She was nearly as tall as Thorne, but there was nothing masculine about her body. She was all woman, clad in rich silks and wearing gems at her throat and upon her fingers. And she was young, possibly no more than seventeen or eighteen.
“Bretta,” Thorne greeted. “I had forgotten you were here.”
“Obviously,” Bretta said, glaring at Fiona. “I meant what I said, Thorne. Once we are married, I
will not tolerate the witch in my home. Or in your bed,” she added with a hint of menace.
Thorne’s expression hardened. “ ’Tis a wife’s duty to obey her husband and accept whatever pleases him. I will take whomever I wish to my bed. ’Tis the way of things.”
“You will take no mistresses once we are wed,” Bretta proclaimed. She wrinkled her nose at Fiona, her distaste clearly evident. “Your slave stinks, Thorne. Her stench offends me. How can you stand her near you? She shouldn’t be allowed in the house with civilized people. I understand she’s a witch. Give her to me, I will make sure she casts no more spells.”
“Fiona is mine, Bretta, do not forget it.”
Bretta’s lovely face turned almost ugly. “We shall see!” Then she turned and flounced off.
“You shouldn’t have goaded her, son,” Olaf contended. “Bretta brings a rich dowry. Her brother Rolo has accompanied her to our home. He intends to make sure the wedding goes off as planned. It seems Bretta has her heart set on this match and Rolo has indulged her shamelessly since the death of their parents.”
“Fear not. The wedding will take place as planned, Father. I have just returned home after a lengthy voyage and wish to enjoy a long rest first.”
“Is that all you wish to enjoy?” Thorolf asked, sending Fiona a disparaging glance. “Or have you already enjoyed your thrall?”
Fiona shifted nervously. She didn’t like not knowing what was being said about her. “What’s happening?”
she asked Thorne. “Who was that woman?”
“That was Bretta, my betrothed. She took exception to your being here.”
“Send me home,” Fiona suggested hopefully. “I do not wish to anger your betrothed.”
“Aye, send her home,” Olaf agreed, speaking in Gaelic. “Or better yet, kill her.”
“You speak my language,” Fiona said, stunned.
“Aye. Like my son, I am a trader. I speak many languages. So do Thorolf and some of our kin, including Bretta and her brother Rolo. But I advise you to learn our native tongue if you wish to survive in our land.”
“What I wish is to return home,” Fiona said with bravado.
“You will speak only when spoken to!” Olaf roared. “You may have my son under your spell, but I am not so gullible. I rarely order whippings, for my slaves know their places, but I may be forced to make an exception with you.”
“Father, Fiona is mine,” Thorne warned him. “If punishment is warranted, it will be by my hand. There is something else I would tell you before I bathe and eat. Brann, Fiona’s mentor, will arrive soon. ’Tis said he’s a wizard. Both he and Fiona are healers.”
Olaf looked aghast. “I cannot believe you’ve brought a wizard into my home. You are truly bewitched. Nothing good will come of this.”
Thorne was inclined to agree. He must have been mad to bring Brann and Fiona to his homeland.
Alas, it was done and he must live with the consequences.
“I take full responsibility for my thralls, Father. I intend to take them to my new home when I marry.”
From the corner of his eye Thorne saw Bretta’s brother, Rolo, approaching. Bretta must have gone directly to Rolo to complain, Thorne thought with disgust.
“Welcome home, Thorne,” Rolo said in greeting. “Bretta told me about your new thrall.” He slid his gaze over Fiona, apparently liking what he saw. “She is lovely. Unfortunately, my sister is not pleased with your new thrall. I thought I’d come and see for myself what has riled Bretta. Now that I have seen the woman, I’ve come upon a solution that should appease Bretta. Sell the thrall to me. She pleases me. I will pay whatever you ask. I have just sent my latest mistress packing and I need another to serve me in bed.”
Thorne felt the sharp rise of his temper. The vision of Fiona in Rolo’s bed sent a rush of anger through him. His fists curled at his sides and his fire-and-ice eyes darkened. “Fiona is not for sale.” He grasped Fiona’s arm possessively and dragged her away.
“What was that all about?” Fiona asked as she stumbled after Thorne.
“That was Rolo, Bretta’s brother. He wants to buy you for his bed.”
Fiona glanced over her shoulder at Rolo and shivered. He was every bit as fierce looking and menacing
as his fellow Vikings. His shaggy, unkempt hair was red instead of blond and his beard nearly touched his chest. His bushy eyebrows grew together across his brow, giving him a permanent scowl. He appeared strong enough to break her with his two hands.
Fiona dug in her heels. “You didn’t sell me, did you?”
Thorne came to a halt, dragging Fiona against the hard wall of his chest. He looked down into her eyes and saw a flicker of fear. He should sell her, he thought. It would certainly solve a lot of problems. His family didn’t want her, and his betrothed had declared her an enemy. But some perverse demon inside him balked at the thought of selling her. Aye, he was bewitched, all right, there was no other plausible explanation for his obsession with the violet-eyed beauty. It came to him suddenly that he could not wed Bretta until he had found a way to break Fiona’s spell.
“Nay, I did not sell you, though ’tis still a possibility. If you do not remove your spell, I may be forced to sell you so that I may live in peace with my wife.”
Fiona paled. “Nay, Viking. I am no witch. Look into your heart and see me for what I truly am.”
His lips were very close to hers when he said, “When I look into my heart I see more than I wish to see.”
Fiona tore her gaze away from the seductive promise shimmering in the hot blue depths of Thorne’s eyes. She recalled Brann’s prophesy and wanted to run as fast and as far as her legs would carry her. It seemed inconceivable that her future was linked to that of a violent pirate and marauder. How could his hands, stained with the blood of innocent souls, make her flesh tingle and burn? How could she look at his hard mouth and want him to kiss her? God help her, for she was in danger of losing her soul to the Devil.
Thorne felt Fiona shy away from him and came abruptly to his senses. His mouth was so close to hers he could feel her soft breath against his lips. What in Odin’s name was he doing? With a curse
he pushed her away, aware that they were being watched.
“Bretta is right,” he said harshly. “Neither of us is fit to enter the house. We will visit the bathhouse first.”
He hailed a slave who was drawing water from the well. “Bring clean clothing to the bathhouse, Tyra, I would bathe before entering the house. And bring something for my new thrall to wear. Her clothing is too fine for a slave.”
“Aye, my lord,” Tyra said as she hurried off. “Welcome home,” the pretty thrall threw over her shoulder.
“You have a bathhouse?” Fiona asked. She was of the opinion that Vikings never bathed.
“Aye, and a fine one it is.” He pointed out a small, circular hut. “The tub is large enough for two.”
Fiona’s eyes widened. “For two?”
“Are you hard of hearing, wench? Come, your first duty will be to bathe me.” He grasped her hand and dragged her toward the hut. The door was open and he shoved her inside.
The windowless room was dark and smoky. The only light came from the fire burning beneath the large cauldron of boiling water. A huge wooden bathing tub dominated the room. Fiona gazed wistfully at it, longing for a long soak … alone.
Moments later three male thralls entered the hut and began to fill the tub with equal amounts of hot and cold water. When the tub was sufficiently full, Thorne motioned them away. Then Tyra arrived
with a stack of clean clothing. She laid Thorne’s things out carefully on the bench and began to undress.
“I will bathe you, my lord.”
Thorne gave an impatient wave of his hand. “Not this time, Tyra. Fiona will bathe me.”
Suddenly Fiona realized that both Tyra and Thorne had spoken in Gaelic, and that Tyra must have come from her part of the world. “I will gladly relinquish the chore to Tyra,” Fiona said, smiling at Tyra. Perhaps they would become friends. She would like that.
“Nay,” Thorne said. “Tyra can attend my brother and father. Bathing me will be your job, Fiona.”
Tyra sent Fiona a venomous look, dashing Fiona’s hopes for a friendship with the pretty slave. “If she does not please you, my lord, I will be happy to attend you.” Then she flounced out the door, her skirt swirling around her shapely ankles.
“Are you a nobleman?” Fiona asked. “Tyra addressed you as such.”
“Aye. Father is a jarl, an earl in your country. He is a favorite of King Harald Fairhair. Help me to undress, the water grows cold.”
“Nay, my lord,” she mocked in a tone that was far from submissive.
“Do not try my temper, wench.” He braced his foot on a bench and pushed her down on her knees before him. “Unlace my shoes.”
Fiona gritted her teeth and complied. When she finished she stood up, her mouth gaping open when Thorne pulled off his cape and tunic and tossed
them aside. A nude Thorne was far more intimidating than a clothed Thorne. Light golden hair covered his chest, thickening into a dense patch across his loins. His body was crisscrossed with scars, some old, some still puckered and healing. Thick, ropy tendons rippled beneath the tanned flesh of his arms and torso. His legs were long and sturdy, a masterpiece of strength and power. There wasn’t an ounce of fat anywhere on his massive body. Then her gaze settled on his manhood and she blanched. He was in a state of full arousal. She tore her gaze away from him.
Thorne seemed not to notice the direction of her gaze as he eased into the tub and sighed audibly. “Come,” he said, crooking his finger, “the water is fine.”
“I’ll wait until you’re finished,” Fiona contended.
“You can’t wash me from there. I’ll tear off your clothes myself if you do not obey.”
Fiona feared he would do just that if she did not comply, so she started to climb into the tub, clothes and all.
“Nay, not like that. Remove your clothing. I won’t have you fouling up the water. It won’t be the first time I’ve seen you naked.”
A trail of red crawled up Fiona’s neck. That was one encounter she’d like to forget. “Perhaps Tyra—”
“Tyra won’t do. Do not prolong what is inevitable. I am the master, you are the slave. Remove your clothing and get into the tub.” His voice was hard, implacable … determined.
Fiona could turn and run, but what good would
it do her? She had the sinking feeling that Thorne would rise out of the tub stark naked and force her to do his bidding. Certainly no one in his household would come to her aid. A slave’s lot was a hard one. If she didn’t obey, she would be severely punished.
With shaking hands she removed the brooch from her shoulder. The tunic fell to her waist, revealing the thin linen shift beneath. Then she unclasped the belt around her waist and the tunic pooled at her feet. She stepped out of it and looked at Thorne, hoping he’d let her keep her shift. It was not to be.
“Everything. Take off everything. Hurry, the water grows cold.”
Her lips thinned in resignation as she slipped her arms from her shift and let it fall to the floor. She entered the tub so quickly Thorne scarcely got more than a brief glimpse of white skin, rosy nipples and taut buttocks.
“You forgot the soap.” His lips curved into a wicked grin as he glanced meaningfully at the bench against the wall.
“Why do you delight in tormenting me?” Fiona asked angrily. “Do you not fear my spells? Mayhap my next spell will render you impotent.”
Thorne stared at her, his expression one of half fear, half outrage. “If I thought that, I would have killed you instantly. You are very good at bewitching a man, but I do not believe your powers to be evil or your heart black enough to do me harm. The soap, Fiona. I’m waiting.”
Cursing the Viking beneath her breath, Fiona
climbed from the tub and retrieved the bar of soap and a cloth from the bench. Seconds later she was back in the tub. But not before Thorne had made a thorough perusal of her lush body. Her skin was smooth and flawless, her waist tiny and her legs long and shapely. Her breasts were round and perfect, with elongated nipples the color of ripe cherries.
“Wash my back,” Thorne said, moving away from the side of the tub and presenting his back.
Fiona soaped the cloth, intrigued by the sweet fragrance of the soap. The soap on Man was made of lye and ashes and not nearly so fragrant. “I’ve never seen soap like this,” she remarked.
“It comes from Byzantium. Our ships trade furs, amber, honey, swords and slaves for soap, spices, cloth of silk, gold and silver. We are not as savage as people like to believe.”
Fiona thought otherwise but wisely kept her views to herself. When she had finished soaping Thorne’s back, he held out first one arm, then the other. Then he sat in the water and presented his legs, one at a time. Next he dunked his head beneath the water and made her wash his long blond hair. Fiona felt like holding his head under the water until he ceased to breathe. Finally he took the cloth from her and washed his private areas while she turned her head and stared elsewhere.
“May I leave now?” Fiona asked, inching away from him.
Her request seemed to amuse him. “You must bathe first.” He left the tub for a clean cloth and
was back almost before Fiona realized he was gone. He turned her roughly and scrubbed her back.
Fiona fumed in embarrassment as he washed her arms and then her breasts. He was staring intently at her, as if he expected her to react in some special way to his ministrations. “I can wash myself,” she said in a strangled voice as Thorne dragged the soapy cloth below her waist.
“It pleases me to do it,” he said as he moved the cloth between her legs.
Fiona bit her lip to keep from crying out. No one had ever touched her there. It was wicked, yet the slow back-and-forth motion of the cloth was creating a clamor within her that made her legs tremble and her nerve endings tingle.
“Don’t do that.” Her voice was a parody of itself, weak and ineffectual. “My lord, please.”
Ignoring her protest, Thorne dropped the cloth, replacing it with his fingers as he caressed and teased her soap-slick creases. Fiona could not suppress a cry of shock when his mouth found a pert nipple and he began to suckle her. When his thick forefinger thrust into her wet passage, her body jerked violently.
He probed her deeply, searching, and finally finding. His face rose from her breasts. He was smiling. “You’re a virgin.” His voice held a note of satisfaction.
She didn’t answer. She couldn’t.
Suddenly he lifted her from the tub and carried her to the bench. “I will have your maidenhead, Fiona. ’Tis the price I demand for my bewitchment.”
He dropped to his knees beside her, his burning gaze fastened on her rosy, full lips. His thoughts ran amok as he thought of the erotic pleasures she could give him with that lush mouth.
His hand returned to her secret place and his mouth to her nipples as he laved the taut buds with his tongue. His fingers stroked her inner flesh, thrusting and retreating, while his thumb found a place so sensitive she arched up violently against his hand.
“Don’t do this terrible thing.” Her voice was raw with fear. She didn’t know what was happening to her.
“I’ve done naught yet but test your passion. Your breathless gasps and writhing body please me. You may be small of stature but you have passion in abundance. Aye, Fiona, I will have your passion, all of it,” he said fiercely. “You will come to me now. I command it.”
Fiona had no idea what he was talking about. She only knew she was falling apart, breaking into a million pieces while the sweetest pain she’d ever known shuddered through her. The shock of it rendered her nearly unconscious. She heard Thorne calling her name from a very long distance but couldn’t summon the strength to answer.
Thorne sat back on his heels, dismayed by Fiona’s reaction. He had taken countless women. Some in haste, some with considerable expertise, but seldom had he seen a woman who possessed more innocent passion than Fiona. He wondered how she would react when he entered her and
brought her to climax with his staff instead of his fingers. He couldn’t wait to find out. He couldn’t recall ever being so hard or so ready to take a woman.
He would take her any time of the night and day, whenever the urge to have her came upon him, he decided. He would feast upon her sweet flesh until her spell lost its power to enchant; then he would sell her to Rolo. He moved aggressively over her, then went still as a frightening thought occurred to him.
What if her spell became stronger after he took her? What if he never tired of her? What if he remained in a perpetual state of enchantment? What if…
There were too many uncertainties and frightening consequences to consider. Common sense told him to resist her subtle seduction and fight to free himself from her spell. It would take considerable willpower, but only a weak man would allow her to tempt him with her sweet body and seductive violet eyes. With profound reluctance he struggled to his feet.
Fiona’s eyes were glazed and unfocused. She knew what it was Thorne wanted and girded herself against the pain of the giant Viking’s forced entry. Then she felt him shift away from her and she stared up at him in confusion.
“Get dressed!” he ordered harshly. “I nearly succumbed this time, but I’ll not let you claim my soul.” He plucked a single garment from the bench and tossed it at her.
Fiona looked at the tunic made of coarse brown
homespun and wrinkled her nose. “I’d rather wear my own clothing.”
“You will wear the garment provided for my thralls.” He dressed swiftly in rich clothing befitting a nobleman and waited for her to don the tunic. When she hesitated, he snatched it from her hands and yanked it down over her head. The coarse material hung on her small, slender form like a sack and chafed her tender skin. He found her belt from amid her heap of soiled clothing and clasped it about her waist. “Come, Tyra will coach you in your duties. None of the other thralls can speak or understand Gaelic. I suggest you cultivate her friendship.”
Fiona doubted Tyra would ever accept her as a friend. She thanked God for Brann. Without him she would have no one. She followed Thorne out of the smoky bathhouse and into the bright sunshine. The first person she saw when her eyes adjusted to the light was Brann.
Brann’s eyes lit up when he saw her. “Are you all right?” he asked anxiously as he rushed forward to greet her. He sent the Viking a censuring glance when he saw the rough clothing Fiona wore. “Has he hurt you, child?”
“Does she look hurt?” Thorne asked harshly. “We do not harm our slaves, they are too valuable. Unless,” he added ominously, “they do something to deserve punishment. Come inside, both of you. Food and drink will be made available to you if you hunger. We do not starve our slaves, either.”
The inside of the house surprised Fiona. All the
woodwork in the long hall was carved, painted, and touched with gilt. Brightly embroidered tapestries hung on the walls. The air was smoky and redolent with cooking smells. A fire burned in a hearth in the center of the hall; a long plume of smoke escaped through a hole in the roof. An enormous kettle hung over the fire, tended by a thrall whose duty was to make sure nothing burned. Other thralls bustled around a long table that was being set in anticipation of the evening meal.
Men sat on benches lining both sides of the hall, chatting and playing board games. All activity came to a halt when Thorne entered the hall with Fiona and Brann in tow. Thorne motioned to Tyra. She hastened to his side.
“I’m placing Fiona in your charge for the time being,” he told her. “You speak her language; make sure she knows what her duties are.” Tyra bowed her head in acknowledgment.
