A Heart Enslaved

by A. M. Westerling

  Did he truly not remember the knife belonged to her, that he had taken it from her that day he found her in the forest surrounding Falkenstead? If so, then his giving it to her meant nothing. For that she should feel relief, for it lessened her obligation to him. Yet, instead she felt disappointment. She shook her head. This place, Sun Meadow, played with her senses, churning her wits into a muddled stew.

  Enough brooding. Thorvald waited for her to clean the fish.

  She pulled the tunic over her head. It fit snugly over her other clothing and tight across her breasts. She tugged at it in a vain attempt to lessen the constriction.

  He noticed her movements because his nostrils flared and his breath hissed as he sucked in a sudden lungful of air. His eyes were locked on her chest, on the fabric straining across her bosom.

  She did not mistake his manner. He desired her.

  He took a step towards her, and a delicious frisson of anticipation warmed Gisela’s insides at the thought of his arms around her.

  Nay, she must resist. He wanted her, and she must use that to her advantage as best she could, for as long as she could. For if she gave herself freely to him, perhaps that would slake his want for her much like a spoiled child who begged for a toy, then as soon as they got it, dropped it to begin begging for the next.

  She held up her knife in both hands, holding it in front of her like a beacon. She knew she looked foolish, but she had to fight the attraction he held for her. “Are you not afraid I’ll slice the flesh from your bones?”

  “You may think you have a knife,” he drawled, mirth crinkling the corners of his eyes and lifting the corners of his lips. “But even if you pull it across my skin, that puny blade is not likely to slice very deep.”

  He pulled out his own, much larger knife. Its blade curved to a sharp, hooked point. Not a fleck of rust marred its surface.

  Gisela shivered at the menace it held—menace which stilled her tongue and kept her silent.

  “I might think twice if you held this blade.” He ran his fingers down the honed edge then tucked it back into his waistband. “But yours? Nay,” he shook his head. “’Tis a child’s toy.”

  “It’s served me well.” Now she felt silly holding up her knife, and she lowered it. This man had a habit of destroying her equilibrium, and she had no idea how to fight that sensation.

  Thorvald pried the fish from the circular net, tossing them one by one on the ground. “A child’s toy is more than ample for a dead fish,” he said. “There’s not much fight left in them.”

  He chuckled and she joined in at the absurd idea of fighting a dead fish.

  “Aye,” she agreed when she stopped laughing. “My knife is more than ample for the task.”

  “You may as well start. I still have more nets to fetch.” He folded the empty net he now held, placing it on the stack on the beach before wading out into the water again.

  Gisela settled herself on the ground and began her chore, slitting the fish, pulling out the entrails and tossing them into a basket, scraping the scales into another basket, dipping the fish in a bucket of sea water to rinse it, throwing the filets into yet another basket.

  Soon he returned with the next net of wriggling fish. He jerked them loose and tossed them to the ground in front of her.

  “Where’s Magnus?” She leaned over and picked up a still wiggling fish, giving it a good wallop against a rock to kill it before cleaning it.

  “Gone down the fjord with the stag he killed yesterday. He hopes to trade it for salt.”

  “Isn’t that something you’d rather do?”

  “Trade? Why? There’s no shame in fishing.”

  “No shame in fishing, but that’s not fighting. I thought that’s the only thing Norsemen took pride in.” She raised her head to look at him and gauge his reaction.

  He shrugged, apparently not bothered by her accusatory tone. “We fight, for if we die on the battlefield, we enter Valhalla.”

  “Valhalla? Where is that?”

  “It’s the great hall in the afterlife where Viking warriors feast with the god Odin.”

  “I see.” He spoke of fighting his way into the afterlife. She shook her head, reminding herself that despite his mild air, violence ruled his beliefs.

  He folded the net and tossed it onto the pile. “That’s not the only reason we fight. We fight to defend our homes and keep what we have, and we fight to claim more lands to farm and prosper.”

  “Oh.” She sat silent for a moment. It seemed ruthless to acquire more lands by bloodshed when the same could be done by trade or commerce. She understood defense of property, for even her father, a peaceful man, had picked up his sword and rallied his men in the doomed endeavor to save Falkenstead.

  She picked up another fish. “There’s something I wish to ask.”

  “Aye?”

  “Why didn’t you try to sell me again when it meant you could clear your name?”

  He flinched at her question and cut off the tail of the fish he cleaned with a savage swipe of the blade before answering. “I have my reasons, and they do not concern you.” He tossed the filets into the basket.

  “I see.” She peered sideways at him.

  He ignored her, jamming his knife into another fish to rip the blade through its pale belly. The jumbled mass of its guts spilled out, gleaming red against the stones on the beach. The blood looked human, and she swallowed hard before shifting her gaze to look once more at his face.

  “Why do you scowl so?” she asked.

  “Summer draws to a close. Karl will return here.”

  “Are you sure?” She caught herself at her regretful tone. No need for him to think she actually wanted to stay here with him in Agdir.

  “He will come.” The grim lines of his face told her far more than she wanted to know. Danger threatened. Thorvald’s half-brother would not be pleased to find them in the farmstead he claimed as his own.

  Fear made her bladder contract. The sudden urge to relieve herself overcame her and she tossed the fish and her knife to the ground then jumped to her feet.

  Thorvald watched Gisela dart away to disappear behind the longhouse. It would only frighten her if she knew the real reason why he’d sent Magnus down the fjord. She was finally happy and relaxed and—dare he hope?—beginning to trust him, and he wished to keep it that way as long as he could.

  For in truth he’d not sent Magnus only to trade for salt. He’d sent Magnus to also find news of Karl Wormtongue in order to better prepare themselves.

  Sooner rather than later their idyllic time would draw to a close, and nothing he could do would change that.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Thorvald waited for Magnus on the beach. He paced back and forth impatiently, once even going so far as climbing the small promontory guarding the bay to scan farther down the fjord.

  It wasn’t until the sun dipped behind the mountains that a small boat rowed by one man rounded the point and headed into the bay. Magnus. Thorvald exhaled, not even realizing he’d been holding his breath.

  As the boat approached, Thorvald waded into the water and helped guide it onto shore. Magnus nodded his appreciation and pulled the oars in.

  “Any news?” Thorvald couldn’t keep anxiety from his voice.

  “None.” Magnus heaved his bulk over the side, and the two of them tugged the little rowboat up onto the beach. “Although many warned me he would come before the frost.”

  “Which we already knew.” Thorvald pounded the side of the boat in frustration. “How much easier it would be if we only knew when to expect him.”

  “Why should that make a difference? We know he comes, and we know he won’t be happy to see you at Sun Meadow.”

  “I’d like to know how many men he has with him so I know how many extra men I need. The neighboring jarls will help, but I haven’t the food or ale to keep them satisfied for very long. So I must know more exactly when to expect him.”

  “You’re sure he’ll fight you?”

&nb
sp; Thorvald slanted a glance at the other man. “Of course it will come to battle. Wormtongue talks with his weapons.”

  “What of Arni?”

  “He’ll come when I ask but I don’t want to call on him until necessary. During the day he works his farmstead, and during the night he works Bertrada.” He winked. “I don’t want to take him from his fun.”

  Magnus guffawed, then reached over the strakes and pulled out two small leather sacks. “I found a man in the marketplace willing to trade for salt.”

  “Is that all?” Dismayed, Thorvald could only stare at the sacks. “The meat alone from the stag should have brought more than this, never mind the antlers.”

  “Aye.” Magnus shrugged. “Seemingly salt is not easy to come by this far north. Also, antlers are plentiful this season. Many stalls in the market sold them so they’re not as valuable as we hoped.” He leaned over again and pulled out a large flask of wine. He held it out. “I did get this.”

  “The wine is welcome and a pleasant change from ale. Thank you.” Thorvald took the flask. “But I had hoped for enough salt so I could salt meat.

  “There’s enough for a small barrel.” Magnus gave him a quizzical look. “You’re that certain you’ll be here for the winter?”

  “I am. Sun Meadow belongs to me, and I shall get it back.”

  “Then it will be so.” Magnus lifted his nose and sniffed. “Is that fish stew I smell?” At Thorvald’s nod, he clapped his stomach. “Then let’s be on our way. I’ve not eaten a decent meal all day.”

  Magnus hurried, inasmuch as the big man could, up the path towards the longhouse. Disappointment made Thorvald’s feet heavy and he followed more slowly, scarce able to pick his way through the rocks.

  He hated the uncertainty of waiting for Wormtongue. Hated, too, the helpless feeling of knowing that when the fight came, all odds would be stacked against him.

  He’d coaxed Magnus to join him with the prospect of battle to regain Sun Meadow. Now with Magnus here, Thorvald spoke brashly about getting help from the neighboring jarls. However, this area of the fjord, narrow and rock strewn as it was with a lack of decent land for fields, was not well populated. Other than Arni and one or two others even farther up, he doubted he could round up more than six or eight.

  By the gods, he didn’t even have a sword to hold in his hand. What had he thought, returning to Agdir? Gisela had given him hope that Wormtongue would recant his story but realistically, it would not come to pass.

  So he faced a battle one way or another. Either here at Sun Meadow, or trial by combat in Kaupang.

  In the meantime, he waited, feeling useless.

  * * *

  Gisela realized right away Magnus’s day at the market had not been as successful as hoped, for the man, usually gregarious, barely nodded when he came in.

  “Stew?” she asked as he settled himself on one of the benches. At his nod, Gisela served him, and he tackled the food with gusto, head lowered to shuttle it efficiently from bowl to mouth.

  Her suspicions were further confirmed when Thorvald avoided her gaze when he came in a few minutes later. He slapped a flask of wine on the table, then sat and leaned against the table to prop his head on his fists. Eyes closed, an air of defeat swaddled him.

  Sympathy for him crept through her. The man suffered blow after blow, when even a trip to market did not work out in his favor.

  “Meat and fish can be dried,” she murmured. “Salt is not necessary.”

  He opened his eyes to look at her. “You think I fret over salt?”

  “What else can it be? Or do you have word of Wormtongue?” She opened the flask and poured him a goblet of wine. “Here.” She pressed it into his hand. “Something plagues you, perhaps it is thirst.”

  He quaffed the goblet in one swallow and held it up to her to refill. “Aye, but perhaps it’s not wine I thirst for.” His green eyes swept her up and down, his meaning clear.

  Skin prickling with sudden heat, she poured wine for him then filled two more goblets, one for herself and one for Magnus.

  She sat down across from Thorvald and held hers up in a toast. “To Sun Meadow.” She drained half of it with one gulp then held it out for another toast. “To truth.”

  Magnus tossed his back then slammed down his goblet before pushing himself to his feet. “It’s hot in here. I need to clear my head lest I fall asleep at the table. I doubt even the two of you could move me if that happened.”

  They all chuckled, and a spirit of camaraderie stole over Gisela. Tonight she was happy, truly happy for the first time since that dreadful day in Frisia. She glanced at Thorvald and saw a strong, capable man. One who would look after and provide for a wife and family with every fiber of his being.

  Cool evening air gusted into the room when Magnus opened the door, brushing Gisela’s cheeks before stirring the embers of the fire. A few ashes eddied and swirled in the draft, settling finally on the table. She reached over to brush them off, feeling self-conscious for Thorvald’s gaze followed her every move.

  “More wine?” she blurted and, without waiting for his answer, poured more into her own goblet.

  “Not yet. ’Tis fine and deserves to be savored.” Thorvald sipped his wine, regarding her all the while over the rim of the goblet. “Your cheeks are red.”

  “It’s the heat from the fire.” She tipped her head to take another lusty swallow; her hand shook as she placed her cup on the table. She meant to fold her hands in her lap but he stopped her, reaching across the table to grab one of her hands and hold it firm in one of his own.

  She jerked at his touch and he smiled at her, a lazy wisp that told her he knew exactly how flustered he made her feel. “Is it? Or is it the heat of something else?”

  “Why do you hold yourself back? I belong to you, you can have me any time.” She uttered the words then immediately wished she hadn’t. Saying it implied she finally accepted the notion she was his chattel. Would it really be so terrible to be with him? she thought. He’d shown consideration for her and her feelings many times, didn’t that mean he held her in high regard?

  He spoke before she could ponder upon it further.

  “Sometimes things taken by force mean less.”

  He wouldn’t force himself on her, meaning that thrall or no, he respected her as a human being. At last. He respected her as a person and not a possession. Her skin tingled at the thought.

  The power of womanhood surged through Gisela and the admiring look in his eyes made her reckless. “Then I’ll kiss you.” She clapped a hand over her mouth, appalled at her impetuous words. An imp must have taken control of her tongue for she would never say that of her own volition.

  He tipped his head to one side, a bemused expression on his face. “Do you kiss a monster, then, or a man?”

  “A man,” she whispered.

  He tugged her hand away from her mouth, pulling her gently to her feet. He tugged again with steady pressure, and she leaned across the table towards him, planting her free hand on the planks to steady herself while her face drew ever closer to his until she could feel his breath tickle her cheeks, could smell him. The spicy mix of patchouli and smoke uniquely his made her breathless.

  “Do you kiss a man for pity?”

  The question surprised her, as did the sudden bleak tone in his voice. “Pity? Why do you say that?”

  He released her hand abruptly and she sagged against the table’s edge.

  “I see it in your eyes. I don’t want your pity.”

  “Nay, it’s not pity you see. What you see is empathy for a man wronged and who waits to clear his name.”

  His eyes darkened; a slow smile crept across his face.

  “Then I’ll take your kiss, and take it gladly.” The bench scraped as he pushed it away to stand. “A proper kiss between a man and a woman and no barriers to stand in the way.”

  He suddenly looked so tall and big as if he might crush her if he held her in his arms. She shrank back a little as he made his way around t
he table towards her.

  He noticed the movement. “Do you change your mind?”

  “Nay, I’ll not renege on my challenge. I’ve offered a kiss, and a kiss you shall have.”

  Her heart thumped and her head swam as Thorvald approached. He held out his hand and she looked down at it before placing her hand in his.

  Their clasped hands implied trust. She raised her gaze and caught his, intense and filled with wonder at her capitulation. His breath hissed as she stood on tiptoes and raised her lips to his.

  “A kiss,” she whispered. “Just one.”

  Gentle as a rose petal, his mouth drifted toward hers until they touched. Trembling, she closed her eyes to better savor the sensation. His lips were as soft as she remembered.

  She ran her tongue across them. This man enticed her, intrigued her, and she wanted to know more about him, wanted to taste him and smell him, and feel every inch of him. She clasped her arms around his neck and pulled herself closer.

  “Gisela.” He held himself taut for an instant; a moan rumbled through his chest. Then his arms came around her, his lips searching, tasting, nibbling, bringing forward a deluge of emotions within her.

  Eagerness and curiosity mixed with apprehension, an unfamiliar sensation coiling her stomach in knots. Not unpleasant but certainly unfamiliar.

  But mostly?

  Anticipation.

  The kind of anticipation that kept her heart pounding at a frantic cadence.

  She threw caution aside, and of their own volition her hands raked his back. He pulled away to look at her with a gentle smile. “Do you mean to mark me?” He pulled her fingers away and held them aloft. “I must defend myself.”

  “From what?” she asked boldly. “Do you fear a woman?”

  “A woman? Nay, you are no woman. You are a sprite sent by Loki to torment me.”

  “Nay.” She shook her head and placed her hands on his chest. “I am no sprite.” Then she slid her hands down his arms to grasp his hands and place them on her breasts. The heat of his flesh melted through the fabric of her clothing, and her nipples tightened. “See? I am flesh and blood.”