Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (65 page)

“By the gods, Lord Rurik, you’ve turned my beard a lighter shade of gray twice this day! When I saw you dive for the wench—”

“Surely you didn’t think you’d seen the last of me.” Rurik wiped the moisture from his eyes and gave Arne a wry half smile. “You were the one who taught me to swim, remember?”

“Aye, thank Odin, like a dolphin.” The burly warrior jerked his head toward Kjell, who stood in a widening puddle of water, the dripping, exhausted woman in his arms. “Mayhap we should tie the wench to the mast for the rest of the journey, what do you think? She’s proving as much trouble as she’s worth.”

“I’ll take her,” was Rurik’s only reply, sobering as Kjell brought the woman to him. By the light of an oil lamp set upon a nearby rowing bench, he noted with concern that her face was ashen, her teeth chattering, her lips and closed eyelids tinged with blue. If she wasn’t warmed and soon, they still might lose her…and their best chance to gain some information.

“Set her down, but hold her so she doesn’t fall,” Rurik ordered. Without ceremony he drew the sodden tunic over her head and threw it on the deck. Ignoring his men’s sidelong glances, he lifted her into his arms, grabbed the lamp, and strode with his nude charge to the tent, ducking inside.

“No…Halfdan,” came a small whimper, the woman burying her face against Rurik’s chest as he placed the lamp near the tent’s back wall. “Must get away…please—”

“Halfdan is dead.” Rurik hoped the finality in his tone would reassure her. “He cannot hurt you anymore.”

Kneeling, he laid her upon the fur pallet, attempting to ignore her nakedness—impossible task! Hastily he brought the blanket up to her chin. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her eyes the most stunning shade of blue in a face hauntingly pale and marred only by the ugly bruise on her cheek.

“Dead?”

He nodded. She looked so vulnerable, the quality in her voice almost childlike, arousing in him a powerful surge of protectiveness. Or perhaps it was simply his own exhaustion. He sat back upon his haunches, determined to get some answers now that she had finally regained her senses.

“The Slav merchant was also killed. You no longer have anything to fear from them.”

Rurik was greeted with a blank stare, then a soft query, “Merchant?”

“The one who stole you from your master’s caravan.” This time he was answered with silence, and she seemed confused. Wondering if Halfdan’s blow or her ensuing fall might have done more damage than he had thought, Rurik tried another, more direct tact. “Tell me your name, little one.”

Oddly, she opened her mouth as if to say something, then her brow creased in consternation.

“Your name,” he tried again. “Think hard.”

An interminable moment later, she murmured almost to herself, “I…I don’t know.”

“Damn that swine!” Rurik cursed under his breath, wishing it had been his sword that had ended Halfdan’s miserable life. The terrible shock must have robbed her memory. Only the image of the Varangian’s brutality remained.

“Surely you remember your master,” Rurik pressed. “He’s one of Prince Mstislav’s boyars, isn’t he? A member of his senior
druzhina
? You were on your way to Chernigov to meet him when you were abducted.”

“Master? I don’t know…” Suddenly she grimaced. “My head…it hurts so.”

“Easy, wench, easy,” Rurik said soothingly. It was clear he would discover no information tonight. Perhaps she would remember more tomorrow after a comfortable sleep, at the very least recall her name and that of her master by the time they reached Chernigov, three days hard journey from here.

If that failed…the thought of taking her home to Novgorod was enticing. Yet he hoped, for the sake of his liege lord and the critical battle to come, that she did remember who she was. There was too much at stake for him to indulge his own selfish desires. She was only a woman, after all, and the world was full of those who could please him.

Rurik ran his palm across her forehead, marveling despite his resolve at the smoothness of her skin. He was pleased to see that some color had returned to her cheeks, and her shivering had ceased. “Sleep now,” he bade her as he tucked the blanket once more beneath her chin.

“Yes…sleep,” she said drowsily, closing her eyes.

“You are safe here. No one will harm you.”

“Safe,” came her reply, a whispered echo, then suddenly her eyes flew open and she clutched at Rurik’s hand. Her gaze was wide and fearful. “You will not leave me?”

“No, little one. I will not leave you.”

But he did exit the tent a short while later when he knew from her steady breathing that she was fast asleep and probably would not wake again until the morning. In the night air, his tunic felt cold and clammy, the fabric clinging to his body. Moments before he had barely noticed his sodden state.

Staring at the woman’s face—the soft curve of her cheek, thick, sooty lashes so long it was easy to imagine them playing like the finest silk against his skin, graceful gull-winged brows, a patrician nose saucily tipped at the end, and rosy lips so lush and full he longed to press his own against them and tease them open with his tongue—was enough to make him wish she were nothing but a common slave possessing no ties that bound her to another man…

“Is she well, my lord?” asked Kjell, interrupting the sensual turn of Rurik’s thoughts.

“She sleeps.” Deciding the untested warrior was displaying too much interest, Rurik looked at him sharply. He had brought Kjell along on the journey only at the special request of the man’s father, another member of Yaroslav’s senior
druzhina
, who believed his son needed toughening. Now Rurik could see why. “And sleeping is what you should be doing. The hour will come soon enough when you must take the helm from Leif.”

With that, he strode to the prow and stripped out of his wet clothes, his mood growing dark indeed. But he wasn’t so much angry at Kjell as he was at himself. He dug in his sea chest for another tunic and a pair of trousers and yanked them on, then throwing his heavy fur mantle around his shoulders, he sat down and stared out across the black water.

By Odin, had madness seized him? He had six concubines in Novgorod, each one a beauty in her own right. There was nothing special about this wench…

“You were a bit harsh with the lad,” came Arne’s reproachful voice behind him.

“He has the look about him of a lovelorn pup,” Rurik said caustically. Running his hand through his damp hair, he did not turn as the warrior took a seat across from him. “Kjell would be wise to keep his thoughts to his duties and not upon fantasies that cannot come true.”

“He is young, my lord. Wenches to him are still creatures of fascination and awe, worthy of adoration. He has not yet learned that their fickle hearts are not to be trusted…as have some of us.”

“It is not only women’s hearts that cannot be trusted, old friend. As for the wench, she remembers nothing thanks to her mistreatment at the trading camp, not her name, not her master’s name. She’s taken on the manner of a child. Only the gods can say when she may recover.”

“Yet that is not what’s troubling you.”

Frowning, Rurik could not see the warrior’s expression in the dark, yet he knew Arne looked in sympathy. The grizzled bear could read him as few could; not even Rurik’s own father understood him as well. Yet he’d be damned to admit that the woman was behind his irritation. He would be a fool to change his plans and keep her. It would be akin to treason, and let him never,
never
forget that wanting a woman too much held its own dangers.

“Dawn will come soon, Arne. I’ll stay on watch while you get some rest.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He gave a grunt as he hauled himself to his feet. “But rouse me if you decide to go for another moonlit swim. The wench may yet surprise us.”

B
ut there were no surprises during the next three days. To Rurik’s annoyance, the woman’s state did not improve. Sleeping much of the time, she ventured from the tent only to attend to her private needs behind a blanket while he made sure that all eyes were averted. To him, it seemed as if she were ensnared in a strange dreamlike daze, for she showed little interest in anything around her and cared not if she ate or drank. She still remembered nothing when questioned about her identity, and the one time he had raised his voice at her to see if she might for some reason be feigning her malady, he brought on such a fit of tears that he no longer doubted her loss of memory.

She also made no further references to Halfdan, seemingly content with Rurik’s explanation that the Varangian trader had been killed. Nor did she ask any questions about Rurik or his men or why she might be with them. In fact, she had spoken very little since that first night. Whenever Rurik questioned her about the name of her master, he had been greeted with the same blank stare.

“Slap her, my lord! That will bring the wench out of it quick enough!” Arne had urged impatiently on more than one occasion, but Rurik had decided that remedy was too severe.

Instead, he hoped that the simple trust she displayed in him would encourage her memory. She clearly viewed him as her protector, a role he knew was useful. Yet they were nearing Chernigov, and she seemed no closer to recalling her name than the first night of their journey.

“The trousers, my lord.” Kjell handed over the linen garment as well as a rope belt and a wide cloth sash. “They only reached to my knees, so the wench won’t be swallowed up by them.”

“They’ll do.” Rurik strode to the tent, glad for the concealing gray light of dusk. He had purposely adjusted the sail earlier, slowing the boat’s pace. He wanted to arrive at the fortified city at nightfall, no sooner.

The men would easily pass as fur traders, but the wench might attract attention, even disguised as a male slave. In the light of day a sharp-eyed individual might discern a female’s form so he would take the cautious path, especially since the caravan’s searching guards might have reached the city before them.

Inside the tent, Rurik was displeased to see that the woman was resting again, one small hand curled beneath her chin as she lay on her side. He had never seen anyone sleep so much, ill or no! But he supposed it was a form of healing and it had kept her from trying any tricks. The past days she had been as docile as a newborn lamb.

Usually, he preferred women with fire and passion like his tempestuous Semirah, although this woman’s tawny beauty more than compensated for her lack of spirit. Looking at her now, the seductive curves of her body outlined beneath the woolen blanket, was enough to rekindle the wanton thoughts he had done his best to repress these past few days—

Thor’s blood, man, do not forget she may still remember her name!
Rurik berated himself, angered by his wavering self-control. He went down on one knee and shook her by the shoulder.

“Time to wake, little one.”

His breath caught as she opened her eyes, huge liquid pools of cobalt-blue that inexplicably fascinated him. Their unusual hue reminded him of the faraway Sea of Marmara on a cloudless, sunlit morning. She yawned prettily and stretched, kittenlike, her slim arms extended in front of her and her bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket. Then she looked up and gifted him with a smile as open and guileless as a child’s, a becoming dimple in each cheek.

For a fleeting moment, Rurik could not remember why he had come to the tent. She made such a fetching picture with her wild tousled hair, hanging almost to her waist, framing her face, the oversize wool tunic she wore fallen from one delicately boned shoulder to reveal the soft curve of a breast. Only the sharp scraping of oars outside focused his attention back to his purpose. Cursing himself, he laid the trousers beside her.

“I brought these for you. Stand up and I’ll help you put them on.”

Without a word she obeyed him and rose, catching his arm to steady herself when the boat suddenly swayed beneath their feet, the waves grown choppy in the stiff wind whistling past the tent. Her unexpected touch sent a charge racing through him like wildfire. Rurik clenched his teeth, warning himself to move fast with what needed to be done. Standing so close to this golden goddess was proving too much of a temptation.

“Lean on my shoulder.” While she did, Rurik bent down and slipped first one trouser leg and then the other past her feet. He drew the garment quickly up to her waist beneath her borrowed tunic so that he had little time to focus upon the enticing curve of calf and thigh. Grabbing the rope belt, he secured it around her and then he turned her so she faced away from him.

“I’m going to wrap this sash around your breasts,” he told her, bringing the piece of cloth up under her tunic. “Let me know if I tie it too tightly.”

Rurik swallowed hard as his knuckles grazed firmly rounded flesh, and he must have startled her, for she gasped and stepped backward. Instinctively, his arms closed around her and for an instant he reveled in the arousing sensation of her slim body pressed against him.

Surprisingly, she did not pull away but leaned even closer, her bottom rubbing against the hard bulge his flesh had become. With supreme effort he pushed her away, concentrating again on tying the sash. Last, he gathered to one side the extra folds at the neckline of her tunic and fastened them with a plain metal cloak-pin. Her disguise would be for naught if the tunic slipped again from her shoulders.