One thing could be said for Jonna—nobody got any free feels out of her. Dozens of men bid on her, yet not a single one of them had gotten to so much as touch her toe. She was a wild horse for sure.
Ronda just hoped and prayed to whatever higher power was listening that the tall, muscular, blond Viking who bought her appreciated that facet of Jonna’s character and didn’t try to mold her into his version of what he wanted her to be. The man had made no move to grope and fondle her, and his eyes were kind. Ronda hoped that signified an overall gentleness throughout.
And then it was Ronda’s turn. Her heart pounded against her chest, feeling like a heavy brick. When the auctioneer prodded her up on the platform, she made no move to kick, scream, or do anything besides stand there with a wicked I’m gonna fuck you up look on her face. He looked shocked.
Good.
The catcalls began. Whistles and cheers erupted as Ronda was led to center stage.
Chapter Seven
Holding the heavy hammer high above his head, Nikolas struck the metal with every bit of force he could muster. ’Twas the only way to block out the sounds of the auction taking place a level below. His jugular bulged and his teeth gritted from the labor.
He would not intervene. He had to keep reminding himself that Ronda Tipton would not care to look upon a huge, ugly beast for all of her days. Their people had carried on without intrusion from Outsiders for over a thousand years for the simple fact that none knew of their existence. Ronda was stuck in Lokitown until she took her last breath. The least that he could do was allow her to have a shot at eventual happiness.
Throwing the hammer to the side, Nikolas wiped with a rag at the sweat trickling down the side of his face.
His jaw tightened as the sounds of the marriage auction below reached his ears. His men should be up here working instead of bidding on brides! But Old Myria had encouraged his warriors to attend the event and to bid on the captives, that all might end up in honest hands. Nikolas had permitted them to do so, because he couldn’t stand the idea of Ronda ending up in the clutches of a cruel master. Any bidder under Toki’s regime was probably as sadistic as their leader was.
But can I stand to see her married off to one of my own men?
Nikolas sighed.
Grumbling to himself about what an idiot he was, he threw on his tunic and stalked off toward the caged lift. It couldn’t hurt to see how the auction was proceeding.
Nikolas’s face was the first one Ronda saw in the vast crowd of men. He was leaning against a rock wall, his arms crossed over his chest. He wore a gold chain-mail tunic today with black leather brais. The tunic was sleeveless, showcasing those massive arms clasped by gold bangles at the biceps. His dark brown hair flowed just past his shoulders, a braid at either temple tied in his trademark fashion at the back of his head.
He was the reason she was being auctioned off to begin with. Why had he come here? To remind her that he had won? To throw her another one of his mocking smiles?
The longer she watched him, though, the more she realized that wasn’t the case. Nikolas wasn’t making eye contact, and she couldn’t tell if he was even looking at her at all. His blue eyes were hooded, his expression unreadable. He didn’t look inclined to participate.
For some insane reason, that irritated Ronda. Did he think she was good enough to barter off, but not good enough to keep? Given all the obstacles between her and freedom, it might be a dumb thing to get an attitude about—but there it was.
By Odin, she was breathtaking in her beauty.
Nikolas’s manhood stirred within his brais at the sight of Ronda’s naked body. Mayhap ’twas wrong to lust after a wench being paraded around nude and in shackles, yet he had wanted her long before this moment. Even before the eve he’d stripped her of clothing and bathed her fevered, limp body.
He’d wanted her for his own since the moment their eyes had first met.
She had a glorious body, plump in all the right places. Her skin was light honey perfection. Her hair looked like ringlets of gold that cascaded to just above her rounded backside. Contrasted against dark, come-hither eyes, the combination was irresistible. Her breasts were mouthwateringly large with puffy pink nipples that stayed forever stiff. And her shaved pussy…
Nikolas took a deep breath and blew it out. He’d wanted inside her tight flesh since that first glance. He bet she’d clamp around him like an unyielding glove.
He blinked, snapping himself out of his lustful fantasies.
’Twas a certainty he would envy whatever master took her to wife.
You have the right, Myria had whispered, to know a little happiness of your own in this lifetime, Niko. Do not make every moment one where you take on the worries of the world. When you meet the gods in Valhalla, go to them having led a full life.
Myria’s words had pounded in his heart and head since yestereve. He sighed, uncertain which was the right course to take.
More than his own happiness was at stake here. Ronda’s was too.
“This, fine warriors, is Ronda!” the auctioneer cried out. Roars of approval, shouts, jests, and cheers went up like wildfire.
Ronda’s dark gaze flicked to Nikolas. He wasn’t laughing, cheering, or roaring. Just standing there.
“She’s a fiery, spirited girl, this one. Mayhap you recall the stories about her?”
Ronda frowned at the crowd’s laughter. They found it amusing that she’d put up a fight prior to capture, did they? Huh. She’d give them something to laugh about, then.
“You may approach the chattel according to rank. My lords, you have first inspection and bidding rights. Proceed!”
A hush fell over the crowd as the first high-ranking overlord made his way up to the platform. He was tall, quite gaunt and thin. Jewels were on his every finger, giving him a gaudy, somewhat feminine appearance. His hair was long and blond, his eyes green. Those eyes didn’t look kind.
A smirk twisted his lips. He didn’t bother to say anything, just reached out his hand toward Ronda’s breasts. Down here in the rabbit hole, the rules said he had that right. Ronda had never been much for following the rules.
In a lightning-quick motion, she seized the overlord by the wrist. “Touch me,” she said calmly, “and I break it.”
His face turned crimson as guffaws echoed throughout the arena. A tick started in his jaw and worked its way up to his cheek. His eyes grew impossibly more sinister. “Unhand me, wench,” he said, “or you will regret it.”
Ronda held his fragile wrist for a suspended moment and squeezed, her gaze locked with his. When she felt her point had been sufficiently made, she released him.
Immediately, the idiot reached for her breast again.
True to her word, Ronda seized his wrist with her right hand. Her gaze never leaving his surprised one, she held up her left palm in a karate move and struck.
His wrist snapped like a chicken bone. He cried out in pain, falling to his knees.
And all hell broke loose.
“Subdue the bitch!”
Two of the auctioneer’s guards responded to their over-seer’s cry.
When Ronda had broken the sadistic Nothrum’s wrist, admiration and pleasure had glinted in Nikolas’s eyes. Now he tensed as he watched the two henchmen approach her.
Her feet were shackled. What could the wee, defenseless wench do? The guards were big and brawny, ’twas an unfair match. Enraged, he started toward the platform.
In a movement so fast it seemed inhuman, Ronda flipped over into a handstand, her palms on the platform’s dirt floor, and scissored her legs. On a guttural “Hiya!” sound, she un-crossed them with enough brute force to break both of her ankles.
The shackles snapped instead.
Total silence engulfed the arena. “Holy son of Odin.” Nikolas’s jaw went slack, his eyes unblinking.
The first guard bellowed as he charged her.
Ronda countered with a jump in the air that was high enough to make the crowd gasp. She whirled aroun
d midair and kicked the guard’s face in six pummeling strikes that sent him flying onto his back. When he slowly regrouped and came up to his knees, she kicked him again, this time square in the face, breaking his nose.
Seizing the crowd’s shock to her advantage, she jumped down from the platform and ran—but her victory was short-lived. Where one or two men could not subdue her, ten could. And it took about that many to get the job done.
As Nikolas roughly pushed through the crowd to get to her, Ronda’s eyes found his—wild, desperate, and pleading. It all but broke his heart. There was nothing weak about this woman.
As the guards and a few of Toki’s men took her down to the ground, Nikolas ruthlessly shoved others aside and finally reached Ronda. They had her facedown, her wrists and feet being tied behind her back. One man laughed and reached out to stroke her buttocks, and Nikolas erupted in rage.
Roaring, he flung Toki’s trusted overlords off Ronda. The other men immediately backed away. All stunned eyes turned to him.
“Hunter’s Right!” Nikolas bellowed, his lethal stance defying any man to approach him. The vein at his neck bulged. “I claim her for my own! Does any warrior here dare challenge me?”
Silence followed the echo of his booming voice from the arena’s walls. Nikolas’s angry stare sought out Nothrum who had enough sense to look away. ’Twas a good thing, for Nikolas’s fury was powerful enough to kill any man who tried him.
His eyes narrowing into menacing blue slits, Nikolas turned his attention to the men near Ronda who sat gawking up at him.
“Lämna min fru i fred,” he said quietly.
The men scattered. Wasting no time, Nikolas knelt and began untying the knots that held Ronda painfully bound.
“What did you say to them?” Ronda whispered, her scared brown eyes wide.
“I told them,” Nikolas said as he continued undoing the knots, “to get away from my wife.”
Ronda Tipton was married.
She’d spoken no words of commitment, given no pledge of love and devotion, yet by the laws of New Sweden she was now the legal wife of Lord Nikolas Ericsson. Just like that. She was so stunned that she didn’t say a word as he slipped his tunic over her head to cover her body.
Then she followed quietly and without protest as Nikolas took her by the hand and led her from the arena.
Chapter Eight
One week later
Ronda lay in her bed way past the time when she would normally get up and start the day. So much was on her mind, so many questions, that she didn’t have the energy to force herself up from the animal hides.
She had been Nikolas’s wife for a week now. His wife! More shocking still was that she’d barely seen him since the night of the auction. He’d made few attempts to even talk to her, let alone touch her.
The night of the auction still seemed a daze. She remembered her captor-turned-savior slipping his tunic over her head and leading her away from the arena. She recalled not speaking as they’d entered the caged elevator and taken it down thirteen levels to where his surprisingly lavish home was. Misleadingly small on the outside, it was palatial on the inside. With all the silk pillows and harem-style beds, it brought to mind the home of a medieval sultan. Most of the rooms even had several skylights, allowing the sun to penetrate during daylight hours. That certainly explained Nikolas’s bronzed body and how the people remained in good health despite living below the ground.
Ronda had expected Nikolas to rape her, for Myria had warned her that warriors consummated their marriages on the evening they became wedded. That had not happened. In fact, he’d been surprisingly gentle and understanding as he gave her a tour of what he called “our dwelling.” He explained that she was free to roam its rooms and make use of them, but asked her not to leave the home without his escort because it wouldn’t be safe to do so.
Escape, he had told her, was impossible. Armed guards lined every possible way out of New Sweden, and now, since she’d stumbled upon their world by accident, they were also positioned at the upper level of the mountain.
After that quiet lecture, he’d escorted her into this bedchamber, told her it belonged to her, and bid her good-night. That had been the most he’d spoken to her at one time in over a week. In fact, that had been the most she’d seen of him all week. He’d spent most of his time away from the dwelling, while Ronda stayed in her bedchamber, grieving the loss of freedom she’d once taken for granted.
Ronda sighed. Now she was growing bored and lonely. Other than the two servants who cajoled her into eating a few times daily and who had finally got her to enter the dwelling’s bathing pond yesterday so they could scrub her down, keep her mons shaved, and rub mint oil into her skin, she didn’t really have any contact with anyone.
That bath had been more embarrassing than relaxing. Bathing with two naked female servants was something she’d never before done.
Other than maid one and maid two, both of whom spoke no English, there was nobody to talk to. She couldn’t take much more of this sitting in isolation, nor could she endure any more grieving for what would never again be.
Ronda was a realist. Common sense dictated that these underground dwellers had never been discovered in over a thousand years because they guarded their turf with an iron fist. Which didn’t bode well for escape. Not now and not ever.
That left two choices: try to escape at every turn and grow more depressed, if not dead, from lack of success, or try to carve out some sort of meaningful life for herself down here. It had taken her a solid week to arrive at this conclusion, but she’d finally gotten to where she needed to be, mentally speaking.
In that way, she was glad Nikolas had left her alone these past seven days. It had given her time to cry over the freedom she’d lost, come to terms with the situation for what it was, and make a profound choice. Ronda had decided that she wanted to find some kind of happiness, even if that came at the price of living out the rest of her life in Lokitown.
But what about Nikolas? What had he given up to save her? For the first time, Ronda found her thoughts turning to his predicament rather than her own.
Did he have a love he’d wanted to marry, but had wedded Ronda out of some sense of duty to protect her? Had he given up someone special? Why had he claimed her for his own?
She could easily see any number of women falling for Nikolas. He was not only politically powerful in this underground world, but he was also handsome as sin. With the body of a well-honed warrior and the ruggedly masculine face of an avenging god, no woman from Ronda’s world wouldn’t worship at his feet.
So many questions. So few answers.
Ronda forced the heavy animal hides off her body. Taking a deep, cathartic breath, she decided it was time to rejoin the living.
Nikolas studied his logbook, his mind distracted. He needed to concentrate on determining how many bottles of oils were ready for bartering in New Norway, yet his thoughts kept returning to his wife.
He wondered if she’d ever remove herself from the guest bedchamber—now her bedchamber—and at least attempt to have peace between them. Nikolas had left her alone this past week when he’d wanted to do anything but that. Talk with her, eat with her, make love to her. Anything but leave her alone.
Still, he recognized that she needed time to settle into the way of things. He could well imagine the myriad emotions he’d be experiencing were their roles here reversed. ’Twould be difficult at best and mayhap impossible to accept that he’d never again lay eyes on all that was familiar to him.
He sighed, hoping such would not be the case with Ronda. He found himself praying to the gods more oft than usual, focusing on his wife. Prayers of a peace between them. And mayhap, if he was lucky, even an eventual love.
When Otrygg loudly barged into the den, Nikolas glanced up. The older, fuming warrior was accompanied by his thirty-three-year-old, equally irate nephew, Erikk.
“You will not believe this, milord,” Otrygg bit out.
“He’s a perv
erter of the law,” Erikk chimed in.
Nikolas raised an eyebrow. “Toki? One of his regime?” He frowned. “And speak in English. Toki and his idiot imbeciles never learned it.”
Otrygg’s face was beet red with his fury. He was so worked up that it took him a moment to get his words out. He did, however, switch the conversation to the Outsider tongue. “Toki is forcing my sister, Froda, to the auction block.”
Nikolas stilled. “ ’Tis impossible. She—”
“ ’Tis true, milord,” Erikk said bitterly. “Toki’s soldiers came to my mother’s dwelling last eve. They gave her a fortnight to say good-bye to her old life and prepare for her new one.”
“But she’s a widow,” Nikolas said, stunned. “And a widow beyond childbearing years, at that.”
“Nothrum covets her,” Otrygg informed him. “The sadistic little bastard always has. And what Nothrum wants, Toki gives him.”
Nikolas stood up. For as long as the Underground had existed, widows of all clans in all three kingdoms—New Sweden, New Norway, and New Daneland—had enjoyed a protected, sacred status. ’Twas up to them if they wished to remarry or even dally with another warrior once their husbands left this realm to join the gods and goddesses in Valhalla.
“The time to take New Sweden is now,” Nikolas said quietly but forcefully. The agreed-upon date for the coup was still a month off, but the seizing of power couldn’t wait. “Already public opinion sways to our side. When word of this spreads throughout the colony, chaos might very well reign!”
“Agreed. This is about more than my mother, milord. This is about the stability and sanctity of our entire way of life. All families will fear that their matriarch will be taken from them.” Erikk’s nostrils flared. “If you are prepared to lead, then I am prepared to fight.”
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