Zora swallowed her pique for the moment, thinking ahead to her escape. She hoped there were not many more Norsemen hiding in the adjoining room. This older man was as dark as her captor was fair, even for the sprinkling of gray in his hair and beard, yet a full head shorter and much wider in girth. His face was round and swarthy, and he had the most peculiar nose she had ever seen. He looked as if someone had punched him good and hard, breaking his nose and squashing it to one side.
"Ah, Lord Rurik, you're awake," the graying warrior said amiably. His gaze flew to the bed and he grinned, which made Zora grip the fur all the more tightly to her breasts. "I trust you and the wench slept soundly."
Lord Rurik? Zora thought, realizing she had neglected to ask her captor his name. Then again, most likely he wouldn't have told her even if she had. She decided Rurik suited him. A hard name for a hard man. But what of the title? That puzzled her. Since when did mercenary rogues of his sort have titles?
"Not as soundly as I might have wished," Rurik said, casting a meaningful look in her direction. "It's not every night that a man's own sword is raised against him."
"Your sword?" The hulking warrior's grin vanished. He glanced incredulously from Zora to Rurik. "The wench?" Rurik nodded.
"By Odin, I slept too well! I heard nothing!"
"Don't trouble yourself, Arne. There was never any real danger. Our captive beauty vastly underestimated her opponent. Now come, we have much to discuss and the wench wishes to bathe."
Not missing his sarcastic tone as he shut the door behind him, Zora felt like flinging the damned bucket across the room. Damn his pagan's soul to hell. She couldn't wait to be free of him!
Rising from the bed, she dropped the fur to the floor and proceeded to scrub herself clean, the cold water proving some balm for her temper. A bit of soap would have been nice, but she would just have to wait until she was back in the women's terem where she could enjoy a proper bath.
As she gave herself a final rinsing, she squeezed the dripping cloth against her shoulder, relishing the opportunity to wash away any remnant of Rurik's loathsome touch. Sucking in her breath as the chilled water trickled down the front of her body, she suddenly froze as an unsettling flash of memory struck her . . . Rurik, standing tall and broad in front of her, his eyes burning into hers, his knuckles grazing her sensitive flesh as he pressed the soaked cloth between her breasts—
No, that couldn't have happened! she told herself fiercely, cursing that her nipples had grown hard and turgid. He hadn't bathed her! That had been another of his lies!
Flinging the cloth into the bucket with a splash, she dressed quickly although her skin was still damp. She wanted to be clothed, her nakedness an unwanted reminder of her disgrace. Outside, the sounds of activity beyond the planked walls—people shouting and laughing, carts rumbling, horses neighing—spurred her on.
She felt as if she were suffocating in this dim, stuffy little bedchamber, no windows to provide fresh air or an escape. She wanted to see the next room, wanted to know how many other Varangians were in Rurik's band and then weigh her chances. With trembling fingers, she rebraided her hair, then she went to the door and thrust it open.
Rurik was leaning against the wall with his heavily muscled arms folded over his chest, obviously waiting for her to emerge. Her breath caught, for in the bright morning sunlight streaming in from a nearby window, she finally got a good look at his face.
He was more strikingly handsome than she had thought, his short beard and mustache only accentuating his hard, sculpted features. His thick blond hair was longer than she recalled, skimming his shoulders, and gleamed with silvery highlights that mirrored the brightness of his sword. When he inclined his head slightly, she spied a glint of gold and noticed for the first time that he wore a small hooped earring in his left ear, although he bore no other ornament.
But what drew her attention was his eyes. They weren't black as she had imagined them to be, but an intense blue like the color of deep water, or the sky after twilight just before it darkens into night. She found herself captivated by them, thinking they were the most arresting hue she had ever seen . . .
"You forgot the sash, Ilka."
"What . . . ?" As if shattered from some spell, Zora felt a hot blush burn her cheeks as he smiled lazily at her, his teeth a brilliant white against his sun-bronzed skin. Clenching her jaw stubbornly, for she didn't want to wear that clammy cloth against her skin, she muttered, "I did not."
"I'm not blind," he countered, his gaze falling to her breasts. "Your beauty juts free and unfettered for all to see."
Zora wanted to slap him for staring at her so, and to her mortification when she followed his eyes, her hardened nipples were well outlined against the linen tunic. That alone made her rush into the bedchamber, and turning her back to him, she lifted the garment and wound the damp sash around her upper body.
"Do you need any help?"
"No!"
But she did. She sighed with frustration as she struggled with her arms behind her to tie a knot, then jumped when she felt his large warm hands cover hers to take over the task. Shivering at his touch, she jerked her hands away as if stung and, made furious by her reaction, wondered what the devil was coming over her. The man had raped her, let her not forget!
"Come, Ilka," he said when he seemed satisfied that the sash was tied tightly enough. Her breasts were all but flattened, which was quite uncomfortable. "There's food in the other room."
Biting her tongue, Zora followed him from the bedchamber. She made quick inventory of her new surroundings—two narrow windows that she could easily squeeze through, another door leading outside, and best of all no other Varangians in sight except the strapping Arne—while Rurik led her to a bench where he gestured that she should sit. Arne was already seated at the table, ale glistening in his beard as he thunked down his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
"Aye, she's got a vixen's gleam in her eye, just like you said, my lord. But I'll watch her well, you can be sure."
Zora shot a glance at Rurik as he set bread, cheese, and a mug of frothy ale in front of her. "You're leaving?"
He nodded. "I've a message to deliver to the kreml, remember?" He quaffed his ale standing up as if soon to depart.
Zora's mind raced. Though her stomach grumbled noisily, she gave no notice to the food beneath her nose. If the Varangian gave her name as Ilka, then Ivan might not know it was her and think the message a ruse!
"Are you going to describe me in this message?" she asked Rurik innocently. "I mean . . . it might be wise. Ivan is a suspicious man. He might require some proof that you really hold me, especially since he believes I am safe with the caravan—"
"I had already thought of that," Rurik interrupted.
Before Zora could blink, he pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt and cut off a two-inch length of her braid. As Arne bellowed with laughter, Rurik's lips curved into a half smile.
"Do you think this proof enough?"
Staring at him in shock, Zora could only nod. Now she knew she was being held by ruthless cutthroats.
"Don't let her out of your sight," Rurik said over her head to Arne, who waved his mug in assent, some of his ale splashing onto the table. "I'll be back soon. If all goes well, we'll have our ransom and the wench will be back in Lord Ivan's arms by sunset. You and I, my friend, are going to leave this city as very rich men."
She'd be gone from here much sooner than that, accursed Varangian! Zora vowed to herself, choking down her bread and cheese as Rurik picked up a bundle of furs and strode from the shack. She tossed back a good swallow of ale, hoping to fortify her courage.
"Aye, drink up, wench." Arne slammed his empty mug upon the table so hard that she jumped. "It'll calm your nerves. You look to be a skittish thing to me." He reached for Rurik's mug, which was still half full, and noisily slurped the contents. "But don't be thinking that I'll be less wary for the ale I've swallowed. Believe me, I'm going to watch you as if I had thre
e eyes in my head instead of two."
"Take that in your eyes!" cried Zora, dashing her ale into Arne's flat-nosed face. As the Varangian sputtered and cursed, she made a dash for the door, wild excitement filling her. Soon she would be free. But her hand barely touched the latch when the door burst open and knocked her backward onto the rush-strewn floor. She landed hard on her backside.
"I had an idea this would happen," Rurik said dryly, ducking his head as he stepped over the threshold.
Forcing back frustrated tears, Zora spouted without thinking, "You loutish pagan! I'll not stop trying to escape until I'm free of you—" Too late, she clamped her mouth shut, but she knew the damage was done when he hauled her roughly to her feet and half dragged her back into the bedchamber.
"Here's some rope, my lord," Arne announced behind them when she was thrown unceremoniously onto the bed. As she lay facedown upon the furs, her arms were forced behind her and her wrists securely tied. Then she was flipped over as if she weighed nothing at all. Tears blinded her eyes as Rurik bound her ankles together.
"I didn't want to have to do this, wench, but you've forced my hand," he said tightly, his expression hard. To complete her humiliation, he tore a length of fabric from the hem of her tunic and used it to gag her. "Nor can I have you shouting for help. Someone outside might hear you."
Then he and Arne were gone, leaving her lying upon the bed like a trussed bird. They had tricked her. As hot tears tumbled down her flushed face, she heard Rurik slam the outer door and she silently heaped every curse she knew upon his head . . . which in truth weren't very many and hardly enough to do his crimes justice.
It was some comfort to imagine the day of his execution. A hanging? No, too kind. An arrow through the heart? No, too swift. A tumble into a pit filled with wild dogs? Yes, now that would suit him! She only hoped her father would allow her to give the signal that would bring about his much-deserved death.
Rurik strode through the crowded market, an odd tenseness dogging him.
He knew he had been too rough on the wench, but she had pushed him. It had been clear from the mutinous expression in those lovely blue eyes that she planned to escape. After all, she'd tried last night. It was necessary to leave Arne there to watch her.
Foolish little spitfire! She had looked almost comical sitting there on her bottom, her mouth agape in surprise until her chin had jutted at him defiantly, yet laughter had been the last thing on his mind. He should have known she wouldn't cooperate.
That Slav merchant Gleb had been right about the wench. She was nothing but trouble! She didn't have a docile bone in her body. Instead she was the most spoiled, disobedient, insolent, and excessively imperious concubine he had ever seen. If one of his women even dared to go so far, he would break her of her bad habits soon enough. Even Semirah, his passionate desert beauty, knew when to silence her tongue.
Lord Ivan was welcome to this woman, Rurik thought irritably. Such impudent wenches served only to ruin a man's existence, and if there was one thing he demanded in his home, it was harmony. To think that he had momentarily believed he wanted to keep her . . .
Cursing his folly, Rurik shifted the bundle of furs upon his shoulder and scanned the variety of colorful stalls for the scribners' section of the market.
He needed to buy paper, pen, and ink to write his message to Lord Ivan. He planned to arrange a secret meeting to discuss his demands, allowing the boyar the knowledge that to thwart him would mean Ilka's death. It was a dangerous scheme, but carefully weighed, and Rurik thrived upon taking such risks. If not, he would never have achieved his esteemed status under Yaroslav, and would still be a lowly member of the grand prince's junior druzhina.
Spying at last a stall displaying a wide array of quills, Rurik made his way through a noisy, bustling throng of merchants and eager buyers. The air was filled with spirited haggling in a dozen languages and when he reached the stall, he found the scribe engaged in a heated debate with a foreign customer over the price of some pens.
Impatiently awaiting his turn, Rurik leaned against the booth. His gaze swept a busy market scene that was no different from a hundred others . . . save for the large number of guards who moved through the crowd. At first he wasn't troubled by their presence. Chernigov was a newly conquered city whose occupants had once been loyal to Yaroslav. But then he spied two different sets of guards, four men in each group, moving from stall to stall obviously questioning each trader. Rurik tensed.
"What's the trouble?" he queried the merchant who had finally waved off his previous stubborn customer in disgust, having failed to settle upon a price. Rurik inclined his head toward the nearest group of guards. "You'd think some valuable prisoners might have escaped from the kreml for the armed men in this market."
The sallow-faced trader, his skin deeply pitted from the pox, warily appraised Rurik. "You traveling through?"
Rurik nodded, lowering his furs to the counter. "Four-day trading pass."
"Well, you can expect to be answering to the bastards soon enough," said the trader, his gruff tone indicating that he didn't look too highly upon the city's newest citizens. "They were just here, slinging their questions so fast as if to confuse a man. I suspect they'll harry us until they find the wench, be she alive or dead."
Rurik held his voice steady. "Wench?"
"Aye, Prince Mstislav's youngest daughter," the trader spat. His gaze narrowed at the distant kreml that loomed on a hill above the city. "Word came just this morning that she was abducted from a caravan bringing her to Chernigov. The guards are ordering everyone to watch for any sign of her. Troops have been sent to search every trading camp along the Desna." Lowering his voice, the merchant leaned toward Rurik. "The prince has offered quite a reward for her safe return . . . one thousand gold grivna! Any chance you've seen a wench with hair the color of a lion's mane, golden skin, and blue-green eyes? At least that's how they described her. Sounds like a real beauty."
Rurik shook his head, hoping he didn't appear stunned. Loki take him. Ilka, his captive concubine, now bound hand and foot with two inches of her braid hacked off . . . Prince Mstislav's daughter?
The trader grunted his disappointment. "Too bad, my friend. Leading Prince Mstislav's men to his daughter Zora could have made you a wealthy man."
Zora?
Rurik's attention was suddenly drawn to a commotion at one end of the market square, the pounding of hooves growing louder. Shoppers, merchants, and guards alike scattered as thirty mounted guards thundered past the stalls, led by a dark-haired warrior whose countenance was as black as the rumbling storm clouds gathering to the west.
"Lord Ivan, the girl's betrothed!" the trader shouted above the din. "It's rumored that he was to marry her shortly after her arrival." The man coughed on the dust billowing around them. "The guards said a search of all ships was to begin at once, Lord Ivan to lead it. I'd hate to be questioned at that one's hands! He's said to be as cruel as he is arrogant, the kreml prison filled with wretches he's marked to die."
Rurik didn't need to hear more; a new plan formed. Yet he took a moment, despite the fierce impatience gnawing at his gut, to buy a quill from the trader so as not to arouse suspicion. Then he left the market by a narrow side street, taking a different route than the mounted warriors. One he prayed would lead him faster to the wharf as he cut between frame houses and down winding alleyways.
He had to get Leif and Kjell off the ship before Ivan reached them. He trusted their loyalty, but torture could drive the truth from the strongest warriors and that would surely be their fate if the enraged boyar found their answers suspect.
Somehow Rurik, his men . . . and his lying little princess had to escape from the city while confusion still reigned.
How swiftly her royal blood had changed their circumstances.
Chapter 8
As thunder crashed overhead, Rurik burst in the door of the shack.
Arne lurched from the bench. "My lord, you're back sooner than I—"
"Leave
everything here, Arne, we've no time to pack!" he shouted, wiping the rain from his face. Soaked to the skin, he left a trail of water as he strode to the bedchamber.
"By Thor, what's happened?"
"I'll explain later. Kjell and Leif are waiting outside with the horses. Now go!"
"Horses? What of the ship?"
Ignoring him, Rurik pushed open the door to the bedchamber to find the room in darkness. Cursing the unlit lamp, he went to the bed and gathered his captive in his arms. Unable to see her face, he felt her slender body tense. She tried to say something to him, but her words were muffled by the gag.
"Easy, wench, it's me," he said to reassure her, although he imagined that she was less than thrilled to find herself in his embrace. Carrying her into the other room, he was glad to see that Arne had already gone outside. He unceremoniously set the woman down, and severed the rope binding her wrists and ankles.
"The arrangements have been made," he lied, sheathing the weapon as she gasped. He swept her again into his arms. "The ransom has been delivered. We're taking you to where your Lord Ivan will find you."
Rurik could feel her staring at him in astonishment, but he did not meet her eyes as he moved to the open doorway. After glancing up and down the deserted alley, he carried her outside into the pouring rain and handed her to Leif, who was waiting beside a restless roan stallion.
"Lift her up," he commanded after mounting, having already instructed his warrior to do so in such a manner that the woman was seated facing him, a leg on each side and her bottom between his thighs. "Wrap your arms and legs around me," he told her gruffly, not surprised when she didn't respond. Meeting her wide confused gaze, he grated, "Do you want to see your Lord Ivan or not?"
Immediately she hugged his torso and her legs wound tightly around his hips, crossing at the ankles. Pushing her head down low against his left shoulder, he signaled to Kjell, who threw him a large sodden blanket with a ragged hole cut from the middle.
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