The Viking's Conquest

by Felicity Brandon

  After bathing she handed me a long, almost white gown. I held it in my hands, feeling the softness of the fabric and then noticing just how sheer it seemed.

  “I am to wear this?” I asked her incredulously.

  Brigida gave a small nod. “These are my Lofðungr’s commands,” she replied.

  After making a small fire in the golden fire box in the centre of the space, Brigida departed, leaving me to my thoughts. I glance down at my body, draped in the gown. I have never worn anything like this before. Despite its length and the warmth of the long sleeves, I am chilled by its translucence, noticing my femininity for the first time beneath its covering. My bosom is visible through its gossamer surface, the buds of my nipples now tight at the end of each breast.

  From the middle of Anders’ private portion of the pavilion I take stock of my current situation. I glance around, absorbing my surroundings properly for the first time. I drag my eyes over the wooden chest that Anders had sat upon when he spanked me. A rush of heat whips through my body at the memory and I swallow it down, suppressing the dampness it produces between my thighs. Away to the right is a large bed, dressed in deep blue and gold covers, with a matching canopy secured overhead. There are four strong wooden posts at each corner of the bed. I eye the thing intently, wondering if Anders expects me to share this with him. I pour scorn at the thought, despite my increased breathing at the prospect.

  I am secured loosely by a long chain, this time fastened to my right ankle. I wander to the far side, into the shadows and find the other end anchored into the ground. Crouching down, I reach for the metal, tugging at it hard, but to no avail. The metal is moored well into the cold ground and my strength does not come close to shifting it. I sigh, resenting the chain already although its confinement is better than the wrist bondage I’d endured for several hours earlier.

  It’s then that I realise just how exhausted I feel. I have no clue what the time may be, but it must be well into the evening and I recall how I did not sleep much the night before either, the battle and my abduction taking up the entire hours of darkness. I am reluctant to even contemplate sleeping here; considering my current vulnerability, the idea makes me feel nauseous, but the blanket of fatigue is heavy. I move toward the fire, feeling its warmth caress my skin, and wonder if I could sneak a few moments of rest whilst I am alone. I turn, checking the room for any other inhabitant and straining my senses to listen for approaching ones. I see and hear nothing that rouses any greater anxiety, so I fold myself onto the deep-set animal rug near the fire. Curling into a small ball, I wrap my arms around my shins and exhale. The desire to rest my weary eyes is overwhelming and my heavy lids soon close of their own accord.

  * * *

  I am running carefree through the grasslands around the castle. My heart is racing, but I realise only from exhilaration and excitement. Heavy footsteps follow me through the grass and I spin to see their owner, but know in my heart to whom they belong already. The Viking prince stands just a few steps away, towering over me in stature. He is bared from the waist upward, a pair of thin breeches being the only clothing hiding his musculature in the sunlight. I move toward him boldly, eyeing every inch of his chest as I go.

  “My lady,” he says, and I hear the jocularity in his voice. “Do you desire what you see?”

  I raise my eyes and stare into his big blue orbs. For one moment it feels as though I am jumping into their deep, watery pools.

  “Aye, I do…” I reply, before I can stop myself. I feel the heat rising in my cheeks at my own audacity and yet there is no denying the truth in my words. I do utterly desire him.

  I reach a hand out to touch his chest, feeling the soft blond hairs there and then his hot skin beneath. I look back into his eyes and drag my digits downward toward his navel. His hand halts me in an instant.

  “Not without permission, my lady,” he says.

  I stare up at him, trying to decipher the words. Are they a rejection, a command, or a sensual threat?

  “May I?” I ask, feeling the sunlight burning into my face as I move out of his shadow.

  He smiles and leans in toward me, blocking the glare again.

  “It will not be so easy,” he purrs and then those hot lips press against me, crushing my mouth with their intimate authority. My hand rises, finding his loosely braided hair and grasps at it as I receive his kiss. The heat of his body and the sunlight threatens to overwhelm me and yet the moisture between my thighs tells me that I care not of the consequences…

  Our intimacy is disturbed by the sound of impending footsteps. He pulls back from me, breaking the kiss and I turn, watching the fields and the sunshine disappear. My eyes fly open and in a second the weight of my predicament falls over me again: I am a prisoner, chained in the prince’s quarters. I hear the impending footsteps again and realise I had not dreamt them. Rising slowly, I feel every fibre of my body and mind heightened and alert.

  The footsteps gather, definitely more than two sets. Hard, heavy feet are marching into the space next to me and then come the voices. Two, three, or maybe more loud, gruff-sounding voices fill the air around me. I rise from the rug, walking toward the long drape that separates Anders’ private chamber from the main throne room. The length of chain drags behind me, gradually tightening as I approach the partition. I manage to get within a couple of inches of it, touching the coarse, heavy material. I peel the left portion back, taking care not to reveal myself. The space creates just enough room for one eye to see some of what’s transpiring in the next room. I peer cautiously into the gloom, allowing my limited sight time to adjust to the scene ahead of me.

  Three large men stand a few feet away from me. Like the others I have seen, they are giants with long, tangled hair, and I realise I am still becoming accustomed to the sheer brawn of these men from the north. The one nearest to me is turned away, facing the throne-like chair that Anders was seated upon earlier. His huge frame is draped in a large, fur-lined cape, which makes him seen even bigger from this angle. He approaches the throne casually, stretching his left leg up onto the step that Anders’ chair is anchored onto. Behind him two other men also face the throne and they are all embroiled in an animated discussion. I try to tune into their words, but realise soon that they are all speaking in their native tongue. Their body language suggests the conversation is somewhere between jocular and contentious.

  Since they are all facing toward the throne, I assume that Anders must be in place there, although I am yet to hear his voice. A small chill runs through my body as I picture him there in my mind—this foreigner who has already made such an impact upon me. As I muse on this, I catch sight of Magnus. He comes into view from the far side of Anders’ throne and must have been obscured from my limited view. I recognise his face in an instant and a deluge of anger fills my veins as I recall how he has treated me. He’s making some impassioned speech to Anders, waving his arms in the air to illustrate some point or another. The man nearest to where I am standing sneers at him, and counters his point in low tone, at which point both men descend into a deafening tirade of what I can only assume is abuse. The scene continues for a moment before Anders’ booming voice calls the room to silence.

  “Enough!”

  For the first time there is speech that I can understand and I wonder why he would choose to use a tongue I recognise unless he wants me to hear this also… Is it possible that he knows I am here, chained and waiting for him? At the sound of his voice, the wrangling ceases and all four men fall to one knee in front of him.

  As he stands, Anders finally comes into view. He strides down from his elevation and walks a line in front of his men. As he approaches the place where I am standing, I swear he pauses and looks in my direction. Out of instinct I fall backward, leaving my viewpoint and skipping away from the dark drape. The chain still attached to my ankle scrapes across the floor loudly and I take a sharp inhale of breath. I wait, barely able to breathe. Anxiety thumps through my chest, dreading the consequences of Anders fin
ding me here, listening in on his conversation. For the longest time there is no further sound and I wonder what is going on, although I dare not resume my position.

  At length I hear his voice continue, heading away from his private chambers where I stand trembling. Full of trepidation, I move slowly back to my original place, taking care to hold the chain away from the ground and thus reduce the noise it makes. Resuming my position, I peer through the small gap between the material and the side of the structure. Anders circles his men, speaking mostly in their Nordic tongue. His tone makes it clear that he is unhappy with something that has transpired. The man nearest to me is the first to rise and offer some conciliatory word. Magnus follows almost immediately afterward and soon all four men have made their apologies. A few further words are exchanged, before the men are dismissed by their prince.

  They pass from their places to the far end of the pavilion, exiting to the right, where I had unceremoniously entered earlier over Magnus’ shoulder. At their departure, Anders follows their trail to the end of the room, before turning on his heel and striding back toward the throne. He does so with such intent that for a moment I worry that he will draw back the drape and find me standing there, but as he reaches the place where the men had been kneeling, he turns again and goes back. He paces this way, like an angry caged animal for some time, hands gripped behind his back and his handsome face contorted by his obvious internal monologue.

  I watch him with fascination, grateful for this opportunity to observe my captor with anonymity. Earlier he had seemed so cool, calm, and in control, his masterful performance as maddening as it was also erotic. This broody behaviour by contrast shows a different side to him. He is clearly riled by something. I can see the anger literally boiling inside of him. As he makes his way back in my direction, I press myself against the partition. Somehow I want to maximise this rare chance to really take him in and try to understand him. If I can know the man, then I may be able to formulate some way to evade him and return to my father’s castle.

  He pauses by the step to the throne, hand on his hip and elbow on his knee. I peer forward, still amazed at his stature. Never have I seen a man so tall and muscular—even Bowen pales by comparison. I am drinking him in when all of a sudden he looks up, directly at where I am standing. I freeze, unsure if he sees me or maybe just senses that he is being watched. A small smile climbs over his bearded lips and my belly twists in anticipation, already knowing the answer.

  “Ah, my captive!” he muses out loud. “Come out, come out, Aurelie! I know you’re there!”

  He almost sings my name and no longer tries to repress his amusement.

  Gingerly I pull back the drape that had been concealing my presence. As I do so, I remember my current attire and immediately I want to wrap the thing back around me. His eyes widen as they absorb my feminine form, now clearly visible beneath the translucent material.

  “I can’t come any closer, my Lofðungr,” I say in an almost hushed tone.

  His smile widens, visibly pleased that I have remembered to use the correct title, but he gives me a quizzical look. “And why is that?” he enquires.

  I look to my right ankle coyly. “Brigida left me chained here, and this is as far as the metal will stretch.”

  His face is practically gleeful as I confess my new bondage arrangements.

  “My clever little Brigida!” he murmurs, drawing closer to me. Instinctively I take a step backward, awed yet again by the sheer size of the man. “Now, don’t run away from me, my lady. I won’t hurt you!”

  His voice still has that singsong quality, but the tone has changed. It’s more threatening somehow, darker than before. I scuttle backward, barely avoiding one of the tall candle holders placed around the edge of the pavilion. Despite the panic rising in me, I acknowledge that there is really little point in running; he has me right where he wants me. Swallowing back the rush of fear and excitement that his presence produces, I remember myself. I am a daughter of Donrose and no man is going to openly intimidate me.

  “Do as you will,” I spit at him, contempt oozing from my voice, “but you will never have my consent! Only a savage would take a lady by force this way!”

  My words take him by surprise and for one second he hesitates, his palms flying up to face me as if to protest. “My lady, you misunderstand me,” he says soothingly. Suddenly he is all large blue eyes and innocence. “I intend not to force you to love me.”

  I laugh, unable to contain my scorn. “Just to chain me up and spank me at your leisure, I suppose?”

  He moves to within a few inches of me, until I can feel the heat radiating from beneath his blue tunic. My thoughts fly back to my recent dream and I wonder fleetingly what his chest would look like bared to me.

  “Of that there is no denying. You are mine, and I will mould you to my liking.” His words swim around my head as though they have taken on a life of their own. “But as for the act to which you refer, I will never compel you to consort with me. You will do so only by choice. You have the opportunity to submit to me and if you choose to, then I will give you a piece of each world that I claim for myself. I will bestow you with my time, my attention, and my respect. If you consent to lie with me then I will satiate your every desire, my lady, but never will I force this carnal act on you. It is and always will be—your choice.”

  I cannot believe the arrogance of this man; taking me prisoner, chaining me up, and now trying to tell me that I will somehow—willingly—give myself to him! It takes every ounce of my will not to laugh in his face. Something about the look in his eye tells me that this would indeed be a big mistake.

  For the longest time there is a standoff between us. I stare up at him, into those eyes, bursting with defiance for his suggestion, but not daring to openly challenge it. For his part, Anders towers over me, eyeing me with intensity and entreating me in silence to engage with him. He moves so close that for one moment I think he is bound to kiss me; his lips are literally less than an inch from my face. I swallow hard, trying to control myself and decide what I will do if his lips do indeed brush my own. For every part of me that wants to bury an axe between his shoulder blades, there’s another part of me that wants that tongue buried deep inside my mouth, taking what it desires. As though he can read my mind, he smiles and all of a sudden the spell is broken.

  “I will never come willingly to your bed, my Lofðungr,” I assure him, calming my racing heart and catching my breath. Despite my bold assertion, there’s no denying my appetite for the prospect and the yearning within me both scares and angers me.

  “As you wish, my lady,” he smiles, drawing back a fraction, regarding me again. “And so in that case you must prove to be useful to me in some other way.”

  I tense. In what other way can I be useful to him? I pause, searching his face for a clue, the sense of dread already clawing at my insides.

  “How?” I splutter. “How will you use me?”

  He raises one dark blond eyebrow at me and holds me in his gaze before he replies. “I am prince and master of these people and all here must serve me. Your service, Aurelie, will be unique indeed, but nonetheless it is my will and what I choose will transpire.”

  Chapter Seven: Furniture

  The anxiety in my belly knots at his words and yet I find I have none of my own to counter with. He retires to the large canopied bed in the far corner, seating himself and turning to face me.

  “There is plenty you can do for me,” he says softly. “And in all things you will show me obedience, or I will spank you again. Do you understand, Aurelie?”

  I consider this, musing that I secretly quite enjoyed the last spanking. Maybe I will disobey him again, pushing his resolve and take my punishment instead of whatever lowly chore he intends for me. Reading my face, he shakes his head at me.

  “No, Aurelie, that will not be an option. If you test me, you will find I can be a cruel and unforgiving master. Deliberate disobedience will result in your pretty little behind being span
ked in the marketplace, for all of my men to see and enjoy.”

  I gasp as I conceive the threatened punishment, imagining the horror—and the thrill—of such a reprimand.

  “So?” he says, now lounging back against the soft-looking covers. “Will you behave or won’t you?”

  His voice is demanding, penetrating me as much as his eyes. I sigh, acknowledging defeat for the time being.

  “What will you have me do?” I ask, although uncertain if I truly want to know the answer.

  He nods at me, apparently satisfied with my response. “Come here,” he says, pointing to the floor at his feet.

  There’s the smallest hesitation as I consider running at him with some weapon or another. My eyes scan the room again, finding no such implement to hand and then I feel my feet moving. I walk slowly to the place he has asked, now right before him again.

  “Good,” he says. “It has been a long day and an even longer night, my lady, what with riding south to meet my men, conquering your fine hamlet, and now capturing you.” He stretches his arms up toward the canopy theatrically. “I am exhausted and yet I still have many duties to attend to. Please bring me those parchments on the desk over there.” He gestures away to his right and in the half-light I make out a small writing desk.

  Much though I do not appreciate being treated like a servant, his request is innocuous enough, so I move again without further encouragement to the place he has indicated, scooping up the large pile of parchments. My eyes scan over the top one and are met with a host of letters and characters that I do not understand. Turning, I walk back to Anders and retake my place in front of him, holding out the papers in my hands. The whole time the chain still attached to my ankle follows behind me clumsily.