Maidensong

by Mia Marlowe

  “No harm?” Bjorn demanded. “Ask Gimli Bluenose and you’ll get a different tale. The raiders took his milk cow but left her new twin calves to starve. We brought back the cow, but nothing can bring back the calves. Every karl in Sognafjord has a similar story. How could you allow it to happen, Gunnar? As jarl, you can’t stand by and let the land be raped by strangers.”

  “Ah, the land.” Gunnar’s voice was oily and taunting. “Always the land. Even though you hunt and trade and go viking with the best of them, you always did have dirt under your fingernails, didn’t you, little brother? Or wanted to?”

  Bjorn ignored the jab. “I’ll admit I’m land hungry, but you’re neglecting your holdings, and you can’t. The farmers look to Sogna for protection. You can’t abandon them like that.”

  “You forget yourself, brother. Don’t tell me what I can or cannot do.” Gunnar's tone frosted over, colder and sharp-edged. “Are you not my sworn man still?”

  In the silence that followed, Rika heard the steady drip of condensed moisture pattering from the ceiling beams to the stone floor.

  “Ja, Gunnar, I’m still your man,” Bjorn finally said. “I’m no oath-breaker.”

  “Good. Then listen and know my mind, little brother.” Gunnar’s voice dropped and despite the heat, a shiver ran over Rika. The jarl might speak freely to his kinsman, but what might he do to a thrall who’d heard his secret thoughts?

  “The world is changing,” Gunnar said. “We can take a few lessons from the Franks. Why should I be content with just Sogna? I need the men who eat at my table to expand my holdings. 1 inherited the fjord from our father, but when my son is born, he’ll have more to look forward to than I did.”

  “There’s never enough for you, is there?” Rika detected the bitterness of a second son, who inherited nothing but what his own two hands could bring to him.

  “If you were in my place you’d realize that in order to keep what’s mine, I must be strong enough to increase it. For the good of all,” Gunnar added quickly.

  “But to feed your mercenaries you’re taking more from the farmsteads than the law allows,” Bjorn argued.

  “Law, what law?” Gunnar spat out the word like a bitter berry. “In Sogna, 1 am the law. You’ve spent too long hunting in the frost lands, Bjorn. When men of talent arise, they can’t be bound by law.”

  “Is that you talking or did Astryd plant those words in your mouth?” Bjorn asked.

  Gunnar was silent for a moment, but then he hissed through the steam. “I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. Listen to me, little brother, and I’ll leave you with one last thought. The Danes have a king. Why shouldn’t we?”

  The bench flexed under Rika as one of the men stood.

  “And why shouldn’t it be me?” Gunnar asked. He padded to the door that led to the cooling barrels of tepid water in the next room.

  How she longed to plunge into one of them herself. She’d been in the steam far too long and sweat tickled down the length of her spine. A drowsy, languid feeling sapped her strength and just holding up her head felt like too much effort.

  The room began to clear, but she was unable to make sense of the formless blobs and colors that swam before her. Her eyelids fluttered, stinging moisture dripping from her lashes. She made herself focus. Dark hair. Bjorn still hadn’t left the bathhouse.

  She forced the hot, moist air in and out of her lungs, her head lolling. Shadows gathered at the edge of her vision. A slow spiral pulled her into the irresistible tug of blackness. She winked out like a candle flame pinched off between two fingers.

  When her head slammed into the wooden bench with a thud, she didn’t feel a thing.

  * * *

  Rika came to herself with a start, disoriented and gasping at the water. She was up to her chin in one of the cooling barrels, the excess liquid surging over the sides and splattering onto the stone floor. Bjorn stood over her, a deep furrow between his dark brows.

  “You’re awake.” His eyes blazed. “Good. When you threatened to drown yourself to avoid my bed I thought you were just bluffing. If you really are trying to kill yourself, you've made a pretty good stab at it. Another stunt like this and I may even decide to help you with it myself.”

  Rika’s eyes started to roll back in her head, but Bjorn grabbed the nape of her neck and splashed water on her cheeks. “No, you don’t. You’re not getting away that easily.”

  Her eyelids fluttered and then she focused on his face.

  “Have you any idea what the jarl would’ve done to you if he’d been the one to catch you spying on him like that?”

  “I wasn’t—” Rika gulped at the fresh air.

  “You have no business being in there. What you heard wasn’t intended for just anyone’s ears.”

  “I’m not just anyone. I’m no one.” She swallowed the hard knot in her throat. “You’ve made me a thrall. I know no one here. Who could I tell?”

  “That’s what I'd like to know.” He leaned toward her, hands on the edge of the barrel.

  “I wasn’t spying.” Her voice caught. “I just wanted to get clean.”

  His gaze swept over her and she remembered with a jolt that she was naked.

  She hugged her forearms across her chest and tucked her knees up to shield herself from him. Her chin quivered. She’d lost her father, her freedom, and now the last trace of her dignity. A tear trembled at the base of her lashes and then slid down her face.

  Bjorn cupped her cheek with his rough hand, smoothing away the tear with his thumb. Rika was too numb to pull back from him. His touch was almost gentle. Then he turned away from her and strode across the room for a towel.

  Rika decided that if he could look on her nakedness, she could stare at him as well as he scrubbed himself unselfconsciously with the cloth. His chest was dusted with dark hair. Years of living on the sea had bronzed his exposed flesh and sculpted his muscles into hard masses. A livid scar snaked across his ribs on the right side. Even with that flaw, Rika conceded that Bjorn was well-made.

  When he propped a long foot up on a bench to run the towel down his heavily muscled thigh and calf, his sex dangled between his legs. She’d seen statues of Frey, god of increase, with his outsized phallus proudly erect. The quiescent Bjorn didn’t look so dangerous.

  He pulled another towel from the stack of fresh ones and strode back across to her barrel.

  “Get out.” He held out the cloth for her. “You’re looking a little . . . cold.”

  Rika followed his gaze to her bobbing breasts. Her nipples had puckered into hard pink pebbles. She stood and snatched the towel, wrapping it around herself. Just before she climbed out of the barrel, she noticed a startling change in Bjorn’s male member. It swelled and rose, as though possessed of a life of its own. He looked as though he might indeed have modeled for the statues of Frey, potent and virile.

  Definitely dangerous. She slid her widening eyes away from him before he caught her staring.

  Too late. To her surprise, he laughed.

  “Don’t worry. I still don’t intend to force you.” Bjorn closed the distance between them. He leaned toward her with a long arm braced on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. “Even though losing the dirt is a real improvement, my little mud-hen.”

  “Stop calling me that. I’m not a mud-hen,” Rika said. “And certainly not yours.”

  “What shall I call you then? She-wolf?”

  “I have a name.”

  “And you’ve yet to tell it to me,” Bjorn said. “Though I gave you mine at our first meeting. Who are you?”

  She straightened and mustered all the dignity she could when wearing only a towel. “I am Rika Magnusdottir.”

  “Rika.” He caressed her name as he ran a hand over her close-cropped hair. “Who did this to you, my Rika?”

  She cringed under his touch, a small swelling lump leaving her head tender. “Who do you think?”

  “Astryd, of course.” Bjorn leaned closer and inhaled her freshly wa
shed scent. “I’m sorry she cut your hair. I didn’t think about that when I let her take you. It was a thing of rare beauty. But ‘twill grow back.”

  “If I’d known my hair pleased you, I’d have hacked it off myself. It’s good for a thrall not to possess any beauty.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “If it keeps her from the unwanted attention of her master.”

  “I didn’t say you weren’t beautiful.” Bjorn frowned. “You twist my meaning.”

  “And you ignore mine.”

  “I let you work for Astryd today for a purpose.” Bjorn traced one of his fingers along her jaw line. “I figured that if you had to choose either serving that dragon or serving me, I’d win the contest.”

  He caught up one of her hands and uncurled it. Bjorn shook his head at the rough, reddened skin. A blister festered at the base of each finger. He pressed a soft kiss into her palm. “You were not made for hard labor, little one.”

  “Better hard labor than your bed-slave.”

  “And how would you know enough to make that choice?” Bjorn clasped her palm to his bare chest, covering it with his warm, dry hand. His face hovered near hers. “You’ll find my bed is full of delights you haven’t imagined. You see, my pleasure is only complete in giving an equal measure to my bedmate. And that means you have to be willing.” His eyes widened, urging her to tumble into their black depths. “You don’t know enough to choose between me and hard labor. Why, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”

  Rika felt his heart pounding beneath her palm. Her breathing went shallow as she pressed herself against the rough planks of the wall. She backed away as far as she could, but he advanced steadily toward her. His breath was warm and moist on her lips.

  She couldn’t let it happen. Rika turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut. If the beast was going to kiss her, he’d have to force her. But closing her eyes didn’t make him vanish.

  She heard his uneven breathing. Smelled the clean scent of his male flesh. Felt the tickle of his hair against her bare shoulder. The solid thump of his heart under her palm sent a message up her arm and her own matched his quickening rhythm. A strange stirring ruffled through her belly, clenching her gut, and sending alarming signals to her skin. A shiver rippled down her body, but she didn’t feel cold. She felt warm.

  All over.

  Rika sneaked a peek at him. Bjorn was just looking at her, intent and sure of himself. One corner of his mouth ticked upward. He reminded her of a great tom cat waiting at a crack in the wattle-and-daub, body tensed and ready to pounce. The only trouble with that picture was that it made her the mouse. No, she’d have none of that.

  “What are you trying to prove?” She opened her eyes wide and shoved against his chest. “That you’re bigger than me? Stronger? That you can take me whenever you like whether I will it or no?”

  Bjorn stepped back half a pace, stunned by her outburst.

  “We both know all those things are true.” Rika hurled the words at him. “For all your fair speech about pleasuring, we both know that while I wear this collar, you hold all the power. But there is one thing you don't control. My hatred of you. I despise you, Bjorn the Black. And if you take me unwilling, I’ll hate you all the more with every rutting thrust.”

  For a long moment, Bjorn did nothing. Then he cupped her face with both hands and planted his lips on her forehead. A dismissive kiss, like one bestowed on an errant child. He turned away from her and stalked over to his pile of clean clothes.

  “Get dressed, Rika.” His voice was flat. “You’ve naught to fear from me. I’ll not bed you till you beg me.”

  The tightening in her gut loosened. She breathed a sigh, but she didn’t feel relieved. Her insides still writhed like a ball of snakes, first surging in defiance, then wilting in confused disappointment. But she squared her shoulders and glared at him. “In that case, I’ll die a maiden.”

  His dark gaze slid over her, a slow, deliberate search. “That would be a terrible waste.”

  Chapter 4

  When Bjorn and Rika entered the great hall, the meal fires had smoldered to glowing embers, producing just enough heat to keep the soapstone kettles warm. Torches burned at intervals on the walls, making the long room even brighter than during the day. Scores of burly fighting men swilled mead and gnawed on dripping haunches. Loud conversations buzzed all around Rika, men swapping insults and bawdy songs. A fistfight erupted in one corner.

  Rika passed Ketil, who was seated next to Surt. Her brother had a bowl set before him, filled with a thick porridge of cracked grains and seasoned with a big dollop of butter. At least the thralls of Sognefjord ate well. Ketil smiled, lifting a hand to wave at her. She started to join her brother, but Bjorn caught her arm.

  “Your work is not yet done, Rika,” he said. “You’re to fill my trencher and don’t stint on the portions. I’m a man of great appetite.” His tone left no doubt that his appetite included more than food.

  She gave him a mock curtsey. “As you wish, master.” The word dripped venom as it slid through her lips.

  One corner of his mouth twitched, but he seemed willing to let her insolence pass unremarked.

  She retrieved a wooden trencher and bowl, then made the rounds of the cooking fires. By gathering the choicest offerings she’d give him no cause to rail at her publicly. She filled his bowl with nettle soup, her own mouth watering at the thought of fresh greens after the long winter. Then she selected half a fat chicken cooked in beer, a meat pasty, two gulls’ eggs, honey-glazed root vegetables, and rye bread that she slathered with elderberry preserves. The trencher groaned under the weight of the portions.

  “Here now,” one of the fighting men said, stopping her with a hand on her hip. “You’re a pretty thing. Isn’t this the redhead we saw today at the ironmongers, Kormack?”

  “Leave her alone, Canute,” his friend said. “She belongs to the jarl’s brother.”

  “Then let her say so.” Canute’s mouth twisted under his heavy blond mustache. He ran his hand down the length of her thigh. “Do you belong to Bjorn the Black?”

  “He seems to think so.” She directed her gaze toward the dais where Bjorn was seated beside Gunnar. “Why don’t you ask him?”

  Canute swiveled his head around and met Bjorn’s scowl. The intense dark eyes sent a clear warning. It reminded Rika of the wild-eyed glare of a stallion to another male who’d come sniffing around his mare. Bjorn claimed her from across the room. Canute jerked his hand away, evidently deciding not to challenge the jarl’s brother.

  “So he does.” The big blond man’s laugh sounded forced. “What do I care? There are plenty of serving girls in Sogna.”

  At least Bjorn’s interest would spare her from being molested by any of the other men in the hall. She lifted her chin and wound through the knots of people to the dais.

  “Your nattmal, master.” She slid the soup bowl and trencher before him.

  “You’re forgetting something,” Bjorn said.

  “What?” She stared at the heaping trencher. There wasn’t room for anything more.

  “Ale.” He handed her a hollow cow’s horn. “Dark ale.”

  * * *

  She snatched up the horn and turned sharply, muttering things under her breath. Things Bjorn decided he probably didn’t really want to hear.

  He watched her as she elbowed her way around the room to the barrels of ale. Her long-limbed body moved with fluid grace when she had room to lengthen her stride. There was tension in the set of her shoulders and grim determination in her bow of a mouth. She had spirit. He had to give her that. Still, he wasn’t used to being turned down by women, and it stung his pride that this one rejected him. And with such vehemence.

  But if there was one thing a second son had to learn in life, it was patience. Gunnar had given Bjorn charge of his land and the land demanded patience. Patient, back-breaking toil to clear the trees and plough the fields. Patient sowing of the seed and waiting for Frey to send the rain and sun in proper mix. Patience to wait
for harvest and save back the best part for seed the next spring. Even as he worked his brother’s holdings, he yearned for his own. But Bjorn could be patient.

  Like having his own land, Rika would be worth the wait.

  “Dark ale, just as you requested.” Her pale green eyes glinted at him with the opalescence of a pair of icebergs. And just like those treacherous floating obstacles, the most dangerous part was always under the surface. She turned to go, but he gripped her wrist.

  “No, Rika,” he said as though explaining to a child who was trying to skip away from her chores. “You are not finished yet. I need you to hold the horn. I can’t eat and hold it at the same time and if I set it down it will all spill and then you’d have to clean it up.” He shrugged at her. “Save yourself more work. Sit.”

  “I’d rather join my brother.”

  “And I’d rather you sit here with me.” Bjorn smiled as he said it, but it was an order nonetheless. He wondered whether she'd defy him openly. He watched a string of emotions—indignation, ire, and finally resignation—flit across her face. She sat. A worthy adversary, he judged, and one who knew how to pick her fights.

  “Besides, given the way you feel about me, you don’t really think I’m going to eat this without a taster, do you?” Bjorn grinned at her. “Thor only knows what kind of poison you’ve seasoned this with.”

  “What a charming idea,” Rika said. “I wish I’d thought of it.”

  He sliced off a generous bite of the glistening chicken and held the piece to her mouth.

  “I can cut my own food.” Rika ignored the meat on the point of his knife.

  “But can I trust you not to try to carve out my heart while you’re cutting your meat? I don’t think I’ll chance it.” He lifted the bite toward her again.

  She narrowed her eyes at him and opened her lips to receive what he offered. Bite by bite, he fed her the most delectable part of his supper and offered her the nettle soup to enjoy on her own. She drank from the same horn of ale as he and used the same spoon.