Viking: Legends of the North: A Limited Edition Boxed Set (67 page)

“Let me help you,” he said huskily, slipping her trousers down over her curved hips and deliciously rounded bottom. When she was standing naked before him, her body silhouetted in gold from the lamp behind her, Rurik doubted he had ever known such desire. She was fashioned so finely. Perfection.

His instincts screamed for him to take her, now, but another part of him wanted to savor the treasure that had been placed in his path. Wadding the sash, he dipped it into the bucket until the cloth was soaked. Then he began to bathe her, first her face, taking care to rub gently over the bruise upon her cheek that was just beginning to fade.

Her entrancing blue eyes never wavered from his gaze, and she stood still for his ministrations as if it were a common thing for a man to perform such a task upon her. Again he found himself filled with envy, but he did not stifle it, the emotion part of the spell under which she held him captive.

Next he slid the wet cloth down her lovely throat, across her fine-boned shoulders, and along slender arms he couldn’t wait to feel wrapped tightly around his back. Dipping the sash into the bucket, he brought it to her breasts and squeezed, the coolness of the water that slicked her golden skin causing her to gasp and her apricot-brown nipples to pucker.

Rurik thought for sure that he had endured enough, but he continued to bathe her, down her taut belly, over her hips and between her legs, when suddenly she lost his gaze. Closing her eyes and whimpering deep in her throat, she arched against his hand, her soft woman’s curls tickling his skin.

It was too much. Sweeping her into his arms, Rurik laid her upon the bed and leaving her for only a moment, undressed more swiftly than he had ever thought possible. As he blanketed her with his body, he no longer cared about savoring her or taking his time. He wanted her so badly that he was shaking. Believing she wanted him just as much, he parted her legs with his knee and thrust inside her with such vehemence that she cried out…not a man’s name, not in ecstasy, but in raw pain.

“By Odin…?” Rurik had had virgins before, and in that unsettling instant, he knew the woman moaning beneath him had never known another man. Yet he could no sooner stop his wild assault than the furious hammering of his heart.

“Sshh, little one…sshh,” he soothed, knowing from experience that soon her pain would pass and rippling pleasure take its place.

Kissing her hungrily, passionately, the wine-scented taste of her mouth driving him into a frenzy, he nonetheless drew back a little and slipped his hand between their bodies. His fingers found the slick, wet heat he was seeking and he slid them into her, teasing the tender bud hidden there that seemed to swell beneath his touch.

He was rewarded at once by her sharp inhalation of surprise, then broken whimpers as she began to toss beneath him, her hips thrusting upward as urgently as he delved within her, neither his fingers or his deepening kisses giving her any peace. He almost laughed in triumph against her lips when her arms curled around his neck to grip him tightly, her panting as hot and breathless as his own.

Then he thought no more, the searing sensation in his loins building to such intensity that he grimaced as if in mortal pain.

From some far-off place he heard her cries of rapture, her incredibly tight, blistering sheath gripping him like a throbbing vise…squeezing him, teasing him, until he reached that point where his body stiffened and his breath jammed hard in his chest. As a pure hot explosion of sensation overwhelmed him, more blindingly powerful than anything he remembered, he called out to the woman beneath him, no matter that he didn’t know her name…

Rurik could not say how much time had passed before he raised his head, but he guessed a good while for the woman’s eyes were closed, her breathing deep and regular as if she were asleep. Either that or she had fainted from the force of her passion. He had seen such a thing before. Fearing his weight was too much for her, he rolled over and carried her with him until she was lying on top of him, their bodies still joined.

Loki take him, the wench had been a virgin, he thought incredulously, cursing the devious god of mischief who had wreaked this havoc. A damned virgin! The last thing he had expected was innocence.

Rurik sighed heavily as the woman’s gentle breathing stirred the blond curls upon his chest. He hadn’t expected the powerful feelings that were crashing in upon him either. Instead of being satiated, he was more intrigued than ever.

A concubine, yet a virgin? An innocent possessing the passionate nature of a wanton? A woman who had looked to him for protection, yet who might now be compromised in value to her master because Rurik had stolen her chastity? An insistent inner voice demanded that he save her from the wrath his defilement of her might arouse, that he keep her safe from harm and take her back with him to Novgorod. He had never felt so strongly drawn to any woman since Astrid—

No, by Odin! For that reason alone, he would leave this wench to her fate!

His actions had been impulsive since the first moment he saw her, but no more! Women were trouble of the worst kind, and he would do well to remember that.

Besieged by bitter memories, Rurik shifted the woman from his body and rose from the bed. To continue touching her, holding her, was a torment he did not need. After covering her with a soft fur, he threw several skins onto the floor and lay down.

Tomorrow morning he would rid himself of her, even if he must abandon his plan to use her for information. He wanted no woman around him that made him feel like this one. He would leave her near the gates of Prince Mstislav’s palace, where someone would surely recognize her and return her to her rightful master.

It had to be done.

A
waking with a start, Zora winced at the tenderness between her legs. It wasn’t a true pain, but a dull ache, yet she had never felt such a sensation before.

She shifted slightly, amazed that her entire body was sore. She stared in confusion at the raftered ceiling, trying to gather her muddled thoughts. Where was she? Rubbing her hands over her face, she sharply inhaled as she touched her left cheekbone. Ouch, it hurt! Frowning, she ran her fingertips more gingerly over her skin, wondering what she could have done

“Holy Mother Mary,” she breathed in horror, all too suddenly remembering why her cheek hurt so painfully as if a ray of brilliant light had pierced her brain. He…he had struck her! That Varangian trader, Halfdan Snakeeye!

Dreadful memories leapt to life in her mind, lurid sights and sounds: Halfdan’s scarred face, his leering grin, his terrible laughter…and the naked slave women in the tent, all of them writhing, moaning, then the trader throwing her down upon a bench and stroking himself right in front of her!

Halfdan’s coarse words flew at her “You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have you, here, now, in the dirt!” Then she was running, running, and begging for aid but no one would help her. No one would listen! Fierce-looking Varangians were everywhere, and Halfdan was coming closer and closer. She remembered crying out, “You cannot do this!” then he struck her down and she was falling

“Oh, no…” Zora whispered, feeling suddenly very sick. “Oh, God, no.” Rising abruptly on her elbow, Zora flung aside the furs, her hand moving to the place where the dull throbbing was centered. She felt a wetness and gasped in disbelief at the scarlet blood staining her trembling fingers, the same telltale sign smeared upon the inside of her thighs.

He had raped her! That brutish, dung-smelling Varangian had raped her!

A half sigh, half groan suddenly drew her gaze to the floor. She stared wide-eyed, her heart pounding in rage and fear, at the naked man sleeping only four feet away with his broad, muscled back to her. In the dim lighting she could see that he was huge, his hair blond. She didn’t need to see more.

Halfdan!

Her first thought was to flee. Then the bright glint of metal near the sputtering oil lamp caught her eye and she drew fresh courage. Focusing with deadly intent upon the sword lying within arm’s reach, she decided then and there that she was going to kill him for what he had done to her.

Burning for vengeance, Zora vaulted from the bed, and grabbing the sword hilt, she yanked the heavy weapon from its sheath. She staggered beneath its weight, but clenching her teeth from the effort and fueled by blinding fury, she managed to lift the sword high enough to deal one fatal, hacking blow.

“Now you will pay!” Yet the blade had no sooner begun its downward motion when she was knocked violently to her knees, the sword wrenched from her hand.

In the next instant she was hauled by the shoulders to her feet, coming face-to-face with a man she realized at once was not Halfdan. In fact, she could not recall ever seeing him before, although she guessed from his sheer size and fair hair that he must be a Varangian. She gaped up at him in astonishment, his expression so thunderous that she was swept by cold fear.

“This is something new, little one,” he said in a low husky voice that sent strange chills through her. He gripped her upper arms tightly. “I’ve heard of those who walk in their sleep, but to engage in swordplay? A most dangerous affliction indeed. Someone could have been hurt.”

Confused that he addressed her as if he knew her, Zora stared into eyes that appeared black as night in the room’s dimness and a bearded countenance made no less handsome by his obvious anger. “Who-who…are you?” she finally demanded, her voice hoarse.

“You don’t recognize me?”

Again, she was startled. Recognize him? How could she? She had never seen this man before.

Zora shook her head.

Now the blond giant seemed somewhat surprised. “Yet you raised my own sword against me,” he said, searching her face. “Why?”

“You raped me! You deserve to die for what you have done, you…you filthy pagan!”

Rurik stared at her incredulously, his head beginning to pound. It seemed his docile charge had at last recovered. Gone was the acquiescent child-woman who had so captivated him, and in her place, a defiant avenging angel with apparently no memory of the past few days, let alone the last few hours. Thor’s blood, if he hadn’t heard his sword sliding from the scabbard, he would have been dead!

“It was no rape,” he said tightly. He had never taken any woman to his bed against her will. That might be the sport of other Varangian warriors, but not his. “You did not spurn my advances, wench, but eagerly welcomed them.”

“Liar!” Her eyes snapped indignant fire. “I would rather die than submit to a barbarian such as you!”

Suddenly she ground her heel into his big toe with such fury that he released her, cursing. She fled to the foot of the bed, and as if realizing for the first time that she was stark naked, she yanked a fur off the mattress and flung it around herself.

“Say what you like, wench, but you did submit to me and willingly.” Undaunted by her insults and her behavior although his toe throbbed in pain, Rurik took a step toward her but reconsidered when she lunged for the empty wine jug and held it poised in front of her like a weapon. Perhaps if he tried to reason with her, he might coax her into cooling her temper. She had already tried to kill him once and then stomped upon his foot. He didn’t relish the idea of sustaining any further injury at her hand.

“I didn’t know you were a virgin.” He used the same soothing tone she had responded to favorably in the past. “If I had, I wouldn’t have touched you. It was not my intent to cause any trouble between you and your master—”

“Master?” Zora interrupted, deciding that this Varangian must be mad. He had made little sense since first opening his mouth. She was glad when he picked up a pair of trousers and tugged them on, although she would be the last to admit how disconcerting she had found his nakedness. Keeping her gaze trained upon his face had been almost impossible for what lay below, his physique more formidable than any man’s she had ever seen—

Furious at herself for even thinking that this Norseman was remotely attractive, especially after what he had done to her, she spat, “I have no master.”

“No? Before I took his life, the Slav merchant who stole you from the caravan told me that you did.”

“You killed Gleb?” Stunned, Zora recalled all too clearly that ruthless merchant’s plans for her.

“So you remember him.”

“Yes,” she replied bitterly. “He was going to cut out my tongue and sell me in Constantinople. How could I forget such a man?”

“Then you must remember Halfdan as well.”

Zora eyed the Varangian with renewed suspicion.

“Do not fear, little one. He is also dead. I told you all of this before, but you’ve been ill since I took you from that trading camp. You suffered a severe shock. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, even though you’ve shared my and my men’s company for almost four days now.”

Four days?

Unwittingly lowering the jug, Zora wondered if this astounding statement could be true. She remembered the events at that horrid camp so clearly, as if they had happened only an hour past. Yet here she was in a tiny room at some unknown place with a half-naked stranger who was leading her to believe that he had saved her from Halfdan and Gleb.