Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Storm Maiden

  by

  Mary Gillgannon

  Copyright 1997 and 2011 by Mary Gillgannon

  Published by Mary Gillgannon at Smashwords, 2011

  Cover design by Rae Monet, Inc. Designs, www.raemonetinc.com

  E-book format by A Thirsty Mind

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the Author.

  Table of Contents

  My Viking

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  About the Author

  My Viking

  He says he’s Irish

  But I look into those eyes

  Blue as the North Sea

  And know he’s an immigrant

  Like all the rest.

  I see him

  A few centuries ago

  Riding his bird boat

  Seaspray halo

  Gold-red hair glinting with the sunset

  His bones are as white and strong

  As the seafoam

  His smile a bright fierce

  Sea monster of passion.

  He’s come

  To plunder my heart

  Ravage my soul

  Take me away to sleep

  In the Northlands

  Where the gods still thunder

  And we can dream in endless twilight

  ~Mary Gillgannon

  Chapter 1

  Ireland, A.D. 805

  At last they came to kill him.

  Relief filled Dag Thorsson as he saw a gleam of light in the tunnel beyond the small underground chamber where he was imprisoned. If he went down fighting, he would know a hero’s death and join his companions in the gleaming halls of Valhalla. He had no weapon, and his sword arm was useless, but he would do damage with his left arm, shackled though it was.

  He blinked and tried to move. Fire seared through his arm, and he gasped as pain robbed him of breath. Gritting his teeth, he watched the light. His suffering was almost over.

  That had been his chief fear, that he would rot here, slowly wasting away without food or water in this dank, dark hole. His injuries made him lapse in and out of consciousness. He was no longer able to separate the agonies of being awake from those of his dreams. The idea of dying alone and helpless terrified him, for what would happen to his spirit then? Would it be trapped on this eerie green island? Would his soul remain entombed forever under these ancient, musty stones?

  He shuddered and focused his eyes on the light, willing what strength he could into his stiff aching limbs. He tried to lick his lips, but his tongue had swollen in his dry mouth. Struggling to keep his aching head upright, he raised his good arm as far as his chest. For all his resolve to fight, every movement made him dizzy.

  The light came closer. He could see the shadow of the torch- bearer wavering and flickering on the far wall of the chamber. He blinked. The shape of the silhouette reminded him of a woman, and a horrible fear assailed him. What if the thing nearing him were not human at all, but one of the fairy creatures said to inhabit the misty isle? Dread clutched at his chest. He could not fight a spirit; it would carry away his soul. Never would he reach Valhalla. Never would he see his companions again.

  The thing approached, slowly, stealthily. Dag’s breath caught in his throat. It was a woman! A small, delicately-built woman with flowing dark hair. Fear squeezed his chest even more tightly. A fairy! He had heard the isle was overrun with them. Tiny creatures, surpassingly fair. They bewitched a man, carried him off to live in their underground kingdom. Time passed differently there, so if a man escaped, he would return home to find he had been gone for years, that his children’s children’s children now walked the earth.

  Dag dropped his arm in defeat and closed his eyes. His muscles had no power against this thing. He would use his mind instead. He would try to will it away, to make it disappear. He concentrated, but his head ached and his thoughts were anxious and fragmented. It was no use. He was not strong enough. His spirit was too battered, too close to death to fight this enchantment. He gave up and opened his eyes to face his destiny.

  She was remarkably beautiful. She’d fastened the torch onto a holder on the wall, and the light illuminated her form quite clearly. He could make out the lissome curve of her mouth, the fine, graceful bones of her cheeks and brow; her strange, light-colored eyes. She was almost as small as he’d imagined—her head reached no higher than his chest. She wore a tightly fitted green kirtle, the shade of spring foliage. The color would allow her to disappear like a shadow into the verdant Irish woods. Her black hair was fine and silky and reached nearly to her hips.

  He was convinced now that she was a fairy. No mortal woman would deign to descend into this damp, stinking hole, certainly not one so exquisite. If his captors meant to keep him alive, they would send a slave with food and water, not this elegant creature. She looked like royalty, a fairy queen.

  She stared at him, her face uncertain, somehow tense. Slowly, she approached, warily reaching out her hand, as if attempting to gentle a wild animal. He stared back at her, utterly confounded by this spirit which did not act like a spirit, this woman who could not really be here, here in this hellhole.

  She touched his chest, and he shuddered. He had no idea how to stop her bewitchment, if that were what she intended. He looked down at her hand and held his breath. She had long, tapering fingers with carefully-shaped nails. Not the hand of a mortal woman, unless an extremely pampered one.

  He stiffened as her fingers stroked him. Why did she caress him? Was it part of the spell she wove? A man could surely lose himself in the beguiling loveliness of her face, the feel of her smooth fingers. But, having lost himself, what fate would he would endure afterwards?

  Dag resolved to fight the soothing pleasure her touch aroused, concentrating on the burning pain in his arm, the agony of his battered body. The delicate fingers went away. When he glanced up, the woman’s face wore a look of consternation .

  She took a step back, then began to undo the clasp of the ornate gold girdle at her waist. Dag watched her uneasily, determined to thwart her if she approached again.

  The girdle fell to the filthy floor. His eyes widened as she slipped off her kirtle and stood before him in a short shift of white linen. His breath caught as she grasped the shift at the bottom and pulled upwards.

  In the name of Freya—now she was naked! What sort of enchantment wa
s this? He gaped at her, at her full, rounded breasts, curving hips, the silky black hair covering her woman’s mound. The beauty of her form made terror beat through him.

  She meant to seduce him, and a mortal who coupled with a fairy was doomed!

  His shaft rose. Despite his weakness, the pain, even his fear, his body desired hers. She moved closer. Surprisingly, she looked anxious, almost frightened. He focused on her face, trying to forget the enticing vision of her naked body.

  She was close enough to rub against him, but she did not—thank the gods. Dag swallowed and closed his eyes. He could fight her better if he could not see her. Time passed. He could almost hear the beating of his heart. Still, she did not move. Then he felt the sensation of her lips brushing against the bare skin of his chest. He shuddered. His whole body went rigid; his shaft throbbed. He squeezed his eyes more tightly shut.

  Her fingers grasped the wrist of his wounded arm. He winced. If he held it bent and close to his body, his arm did not pain him so badly. But if he had to move it...

  She pulled on his hand, drawing it toward her. Agonizing pain shot down his arm; blackness swirled in his brain. His legs turned to water under him. He swooned, twisting his weight to his good side, trying to protect his wounded right arm.

  The blackness lasted only a moment. When he came to himself again, the woman no longer held his wrist, but he still felt her presence. He decided to feign unconsciousness. It was cowardly to avoid fighting something you feared, but this creature was unlike any danger he had ever faced. Mayhap she could not work her magic if he appeared insensible.

  She touched him again, carefully examining his wounded arm. Dag remained still, praying to all the gods he knew. As her fingers probed the mangled flesh, he could not suppress his groan. At the sound, the woman’s hand left him, and he heard her sharp intake of breath. He slumped lower, hoping the fairy would mistake his outcry for delirium. From the smell of the wound, it had already begun to putrefy. The fever would take him soon, if lack of water did not. If the creature knew anything of fleshly ailments, she would guess him near to death.

  She touched his forehead with her cool fingers. Dag ceased to breathe. Then she spoke a few words, almost a curse. There were rustling sounds. He maintained his slack pose until he heard footsteps receding in the distance.

  He opened his eyes to darkness, and shifted his weight on his trembling legs. She was gone; he was safe. He breathed a deep sigh of relief. Then an awful thought came to him. What if he had not been visited by a fairy, but a mortal woman who had come to aid him? If he had coupled with her as she’d intended, she might have helped him escape, or at least brought him food and water. Now, he would die for certain.

  Dag stared out into the blackness of his prison, wondering if he’d lost his last chance for life.

  * * *

  Christ help her—even the pagan gods were against her! Fiona sighed in exasperation as she replaced the torch in the hallway of her father’s feasthall. Her plan had seemed so brilliant, so certain to succeed. Now, remembering the Viking’s swollen, ruined arm, her hopes crumbled to ashes.

  The huge warrior had swooned at her touch; it was obvious he was dying. What a waste! she thought grimly. Such a splendid specimen of manhood, destined to rot in her father’s souterrain. Her breath still caught at the memory of her first glimpse of the wounded warrior. So tall he was, so finely muscled. His long, wavy hair gleamed reddish-gold in the torchlight. His features—even distorted by suffering—seemed as fine and beautiful as if cast in bronze by a master artisan.

  Pity filled her. The Viking was obviously burning with fever. She shuddered, thinking of the damp, cold walls of the underground tunnels of the souterrain, the rats and crawling things that inhabited the place. Without water, his end would come soon enough.

  She sighed. If only she could help him. But that was foolish. He was her enemy. If he and the rest of his bloodthirsty kind had attacked her father’s settlement, they would have shown no mercy. Rape, murder, robbing monasteries—atrocity came easily to the Viking race. She could feel no sympathy for such barbarians.

  Indeed, that was the beauty of her plan. She’d meant to lose her maidenhead to the captured Viking and confront her father with the deed. Let him try to marry her off to the proud Sivney Longbeard then. No royal man would want her, not after she’d been soiled by the hated Viking. Her father’s plans to use her to form an alliance with the house of Mac Carten would be thwarted. A defiant smile rose to Fiona’s lips then faded as the gruesome scene in the souterrain returned to haunt her.

  The man was obviously too weak and ill to be aroused. If she could not entice him, she would have to give up her plan to avoid the marriage her father had arranged to enhance his prestige and swell his ranks of warriors. She thought of her prospective bridegroom, and the gorge rose in her throat. What a contrast Sivney was to the Viking. One so tall and fair, the other stout and bowlegged, with rotting teeth and pitted skin.

  Even worse than the dark-haired Sivney’s looks were his lechery and crudeness. When his eyes rested upon her, Fiona could see the greedy hunger there. It repelled her, much more than the Viking’s fetid wound and filthy appearance. The enemy prisoner’s stink could be washed away, his wound cleaned and treated. But Sivney’s foul nature was irredeemable. He prided himself on his crude habits, his contemptible appearance. He would not change for any woman, certainly not Donall Mac Frachnan’s only daughter.

  Fiona paused suddenly in the doorway of the bower where she slept with the other unmarried women. Perhaps the situation with the Viking was not hopeless. If she were to clean his wound and stitch it, then provide him with food and water, he might well recover enough to accomplish what she wished of him.

  Swiftly, she calculated the time until the wedding. Only a fortnight now, but that might be sufficient. The Viking was obviously strong, or he would have perished already. With a little aid, he might survive.

  Fiona went to the wickerwork bed she shared with her foster sister, Duvessa. Sitting down, she began to plait her hair in preparation for her journey. If there were one person who could advise her on how to heal the Viking, it was her aunt, Siobhan. She lived in a hut in the woods a short distance from Dunsheauna, as Fiona’s father’s fortress was called. People sought out Siobhan to heal everything from toothaches to fevers. Although the holy men of her father’s household called Siobhan a witch and considered her use of spells and potions blasphemous, Fiona could not believe there was anything evil in using herbs and simples to help people.

  Her hair arranged, Fiona slipped off her kirtle and changed into a stained brown one. She’d hoped the clinging green garment would help her entice the Viking, but obviously he had been too far gone to respond. Jesu, even when she stripped naked, he had still done nothing!

  Fiona’s cheeks flamed at the memory. The man had been aware of her nakedness, of that she had no doubt. She recalled his deep-set eyes perusing her, full of astonishment and some emotion akin to fear. But it couldn’t be fright that had made him regard her so warily. She’d carried no weapon, made no move to harm him. Besides, even wounded and shackled, the Viking easily had enough strength in his magnificent body to overpower her.

  Fiona fastened a simple bronze girdle at her waist and went to put her elegant green gown and the hammered-gold girdle in a chest in the corner. When next she saw the Viking, she would not need lavish attire, but some of her aunt’s magical herbs—and a goodly amount of courage. The thought of what she meant to do made her heart pound. It was like ministering to a wild beast. Once the remedy took, what was to keep the animal from attacking?

  Fiona’s heart raced faster at the thought of the Viking’s long, powerful arms closing around her, his well-shaped lips pressed against hers. If he raped her, she would have the means to her heart’s desire, an end to the betrothal to Sivney. But how could she be sure the Viking would release her afterwards? He might strangle her after he had his pleasure or use her to affect his escape.

  Fiona shiver
ed. Her plan was fraught with problems. Not only must she induce the Viking to ravish her, she must also flee safely afterwards. Then what would happen to him? Once her father knew how his plans had been ruined, Donall would express his frustration violently. It was sure to mean a beating for her, although her father was unlikely to hurt her badly. Even sullied and no longer desirable as a royal bride, she would still have place in his plans. The Viking, though, would be killed, mayhap tortured as well.

  It was foolish, irrational, but Fiona could not stop the stab of pain that went through her at the thought of the Viking suffering more. If she tended his wounds and saved his life, he would no longer be the faceless ravisher she intended him to be. Indeed, she had begun to see him as more than a despised savage she could use as she wished. Having observed the recognition and pain in his eyes, she knew he was a man, a wounded creature to be pitied and aided.

  “Too soft,” Fiona muttered to herself. “Exactly like your mother. You’ll never get anywhere in this life if you’re so careful of others’ feelings.”

  Her words drifted away on the breeze as Fiona left the women’s house and hurried through the busy settlement. As she passed the feasthall, Tully, her favorite of Donall’s hunting dogs, left his sleeping place in the shade and followed her. Fiona reached out to scratch the rough, curly fur between his ears.

  They moved unnoticed through the gate. Once outside the palisade, Fiona glanced around quickly then chose a half- hidden pathway that led into the tangle of gleaming green hazel and oak trees. Tully bounded after her.

  She found her aunt at her hearth in the small stone hut, stirring a rich vegetable stew and humming. “Fiona!” her aunt cried. “How good to see you!”

  Fiona returned her aunt’s warm embrace, then sat down on one of the large, flat rocks that served as seating places in the crowded dwelling. As she gazed into the fire, she sighed in satisfaction. “I always feel so at peace here.” Her eyes met Siobhan’s. “What magic do you practice that my cares seem to drop away as soon as I cross your threshold?”

  Siobhan laughed softly, a sound like the wind through the reeds. In many ways, her aunt reminded Fiona of an older, faded version of her mother. Siobhan was small and fine-boned, with dusky skin and large gray eyes. Her black hair was streaked with silver and fine lines creased her narrow face.