Sighing, she turned back to her task, kneeling down and searching her bag until she found the large iron knife at the bottom. She raised it and again approached the Viking.
She had considered long and hard whether to undo the enemy warrior’s shackles. If his arm were to heal properly, it would have to be cleaned and stitched, and she could not accomplish that if his arm remained shackled. On the other hand, if she only desired the man healed enough to couple with her, simply giving him water and easing his fever would suffice and limiting his recovery might actually be wiser.
Nay, she could not leave him as a cripple, Fiona thought decisively. It would be a crime against the gods to doom such a splendid warrior to live out his life with a useless sword arm. Whether it was wise or no, she must do her best to heal him.
She carefully used the knife to pry open the shackle around his wounded arm. Before the damaged limb could hang slack, Fiona grasped the elbow of his injured arm and braced it against the man’s body. The Viking groaned. Fiona took a deep, steadying breath and reached up to undo the other wrist shackle.
The old metal gave way against the pressure of her knife, and the shackle fell loose. Fiona shrieked as the Viking sagged forward, his dead weight threatening to smash her into the dirt floor. She grunted and pushed against him. Slowly, the unconscious man’s body moved backwards. His back struck the dirt wall behind him, and he slid down.
Fiona took a deep breath, her whole body trembling with strain. She raised a hand to her sweaty forehead. Blessed Saint Bridget! It had been like trying to hold up a pile of rocks! She had yet to begin her real healing work, and already she was exhausted.
She leaned over to inspect her patient. He sprawled against the stone wall of the souterrain as if he had been thrown there. His legs lay at an angle to his body, his injured arm half buried in the filthy straw that covered the dirt floor. Fiona sighed. She needed space to work; she must move him so she would have a clean area in which to tend the wound.
Kneeling, she lifted the man’s head. With her other hand, she thrust the dirty straw aside. She continued cleaning, exposing the floor beneath the man’s upper body. Then she took the blanket, spread it out and tugged it beneath his head and shoulders. Still crouching down, she pulled the cauldron of boiled water near and began to clean the wound in the man’s arm, attempting to keep the water from spilling on the blanket. The wound wasn’t deep, but Fiona knew she must get every trace of poison out if it were to heal properly. She dug and probed, making the Viking groan even in his stupor.
Finally satisfied the wound was clean, she obtained the pack of healing herbs from her bag and sprinkled them over the gash. Then, patiently, tediously, she took a clean needle and some fine silk thread and stitched up the wound.
Afterwards, she leaned back on her heels to inspect her work. Siobhan would have made a better job of it, she knew; but for a first effort, she believed she had done well. If the healing herbs kept the wound from swelling with poison and his fever abated, the man would recover. Whether his sword arm would ever be the same was difficult to say. Ideally, the wound should be cleaned and the dressing changed every few hours; but if the man were strong and healthy enough, his body might fight the poison and heal on its own.
Besides, Fiona thought with a twinge of grief as she bandaged his arm, the Viking could never be allowed to leave his prison.
She glanced down at the rusted shackles still binding his ankles; she dared not remove those and risk his escaping, especially since she had yet to secure what she wanted of him.
She struggled against her feelings of pity and reminded herself that this man was her enemy. If he encountered her when he was healthy and free, he would no doubt fling her on the ground and rape her, then slit her throat and kick her aside as if disposing of the leavings of a meal. She dared not grow too enamored of this dangerous if tantalizing man. She must obtain what she wished of him, then forget his barbarically handsome countenance.
Fiona began gathering up the supplies she’d brought. The blanket and cauldron she would leave behind; if he roused, he might wish to use the cauldron as a chamber pot and the blanket to cover himself. She dumped the bloody water in a corner of the chamber and left the soiled rags there as well. The two empty skins, the healing herbs, and the knife she replaced in the bag on top of the cloth-wrapped meat and cheese. There had been no opportunity to offer the prisoner food, and it seemed likely that when next she saw him, he would still be too weak to do more than sip broth.
The torch sputtered as she went to retrieve it from the wall. But despite her fear of the flame going out and leaving her in darkness, Fiona could not resist kneeling down for one last look at the Viking. Her gaze caressed the graceful planes of his face, the high forehead, prominent cheekbones, and strong jaw. A curl of thick, bronze-colored hair dipping over his forehead softened his fierce visage.
Fiona reached out a trembling hand and brushed back the damp strand. A wave a longing went through her. The Viking was so fair, so compelling in appearance. Never had she seen a man so massively and yet so gracefully built. Observing the Viking’s huge hand lying slack in the dirt, she recalled those long fingers fondling her breast. The memory made her shudder. What would it be like to wed a man like this, one so comely and strong?
Shaking her head, she withdrew her hand. This man was her enemy, her father’s prisoner. She had wasted too much sympathy on him already.
Fiona crossed the shadowy chamber and entered the ancient, damp hallway. A cold finger seemed to trace its way along her spine as she hurried down the corridor and scrambled up the crumbling stairs to the world of light and life beyond.
Chapter 3
“Where have you been?” Duvessa’s whisper came hissing out of the darkness as Fiona crept into the bower they shared. Fiona sighed and began to wearily remove her clothes. From the moonlight shining in the narrow window in the wall, she could see her foster sister’s slender form rising from the bed across the room.
“I couldn’t sleep, so I went for walk and looked at the stars,” Fiona answered.
“Alone?” Duvessa’s voice was full of excitement as much as fear. “There might be Vikings out there.”
“Donall’s sentries guard the palisade. No one could get by without the alert being sounded.”
“What about the spy discovered two days ago? He was a Viking, Dermot said. And where there is one, there are bound to be others. Dermot said your father increased the guard on duty at night. He must expect an attack.”
Fiona resisted the urge to tell Duvessa that Dermot was hardly a reliable source of information. Although Duvessa’s younger brother slept in the same dwelling as the soldiers, at eleven winters, he was not likely to be included in any serious strategy sessions.
“Father Fearghal says all Vikings are savages,” Duvessa continued. “They delight in butchering monks and innocent babes—and ravishing Christian women.” There was a noticeable thrill in her voice, despite the shocking aspect of her words.
Duvessa moved across the room and plopped down on a stool. Duvessa’s thick curly hair, unbound for sleeping, floated around her shoulders, almost overwhelming her slight form. By daylight, it appeared a deep red and was so wavy and unruly it took a dozen plaits to keep it confined.
“Are you still brooding over your betrothal?” Duvessa asked gently.
“Aye.”
Duvessa sighed. “Your father must have good reasons for making this match. Mayhap it has something to do with the Vikings.”
“Nay, it has to do with greed!”
Duvessa sighed again. “I hate to see the two of you like this. Your father loves you. He would not wed you off merely to increase his herds or to gain a hoard of gold. He must have some other plan, some secret goal he cannot speak of yet.”
“At least you admit that my bridegroom leaves something to be desired,” Fiona said hotly. “My father will not even admit how repulsive and crude a man Sivney Longbeard is!”
“But the Mac Cartan chieftain
is powerful. It’s said he can call up two hundred warriors with half a day’s notice. If the Viking raids continue, we may need the forces of another strong chieftain to aid us.”
Doubt weakened Fiona’s anger. What if fear rather than greed motivated her father? Had concern over the Vikings driven Donall to plan this alliance with Sivney? She quickly dismissed the thought. If her father needed Sivney’s men, he would have told her. Instead, he had shouted and raved and thrown her mother’s blessed memory in her face.
Anger and indignation again flowed through Fiona’s veins. She would not change her mind; she would find a way to defy her father’s loathsome wishes.
“I need to sleep,” she told Duvessa curtly. She went to the bed and climbed in. Duvessa remained seated on the stool for a moment, then got up and made her way to the bed.
Fiona lay still, wide awake. The image of the Viking filled her mind. On the morrow, as soon as she could sneak away to the souterrain, she would go to him again. If the herbs healed his wound and his fever eased, he might be able to perform the task she required of him. Fiona’s body grew hot at the thought. It would be better if the man were still weak, perhaps even a bit delirious. There should be some curb to his enormous strength, else he might think to overpower her and escape.
The idea of the savage Viking running loose in her father’s compound made Fiona’s heart pound with fear. She had not tamed the beast, and she dared not forget that. Mayhap tomorrow, if his arm had improved, she would attempt to refasten the shackles binding his wrists. From what she knew of the act, a man could couple with a woman standing up, and it would be safer to keep the Viking fettered.
Duvessa made a small, sleepy noise. Fiona struggled not to squirm on her bedplace and risk waking her foster sister. Her flesh felt as fevered as the Viking’s had, especially her breasts. What madness was this that she desired her enemy’s touch with such longing? Surely it was punishment for her willfulness and lack of obedience to her father.
Guilt tweaked at Fiona, dampening her desire but scarcely bringing restfulness.
* * *
He climbed through a long, dark tunnel, but even as he reached the end, there was no cessation of darkness. Dag woke to the solid blackness of his underground cell. Pain still stabbed down his arm, but it felt different, somehow milder, more an ache than a burning. He shifted abruptly, realizing with a start that his circumstances had changed. No longer was he shackled to the damp wall. His left hand was free and his head rested on something soft.
Slowly, he raised himself to a sitting position. The familiar scent of rot and earth assailed his nostrils, and the pull of the shackles on his ankles assured him that he remained imprisoned.
The moisture in his mouth told him he had been given drink; the stale taste suggested wine. He tested his wounded arm and found it bound near his body. With cautious fingers he explored the bandage. Someone had tried to mend him. The fairy?
Dag searched his mind, trying to recall something beyond the blackness and the pain. If the fairy had come and tended to him, he had no memory of it. But someone or something had undone his shackles and bound up his arm. The realization of his improved conditions did not reassure him. Even magical beings did not do things without motivation; if the fairy aided him, then she wanted something. What was it?
Remembering the sight of her delectable, naked beauty, Dag shuddered. It was obvious what she desired, and he would be cursed if his traitorous body did not want to give it to her. Thank the gods, the fairy had not been insistent. She could have used her fingers to entice him or rubbed up against him until he could not resist the lure of her nakedness. The fairy appeared too shy or inexperienced to pursue the matter beyond her first tentative invitation. She had left him, then apparently come back when he was unconscious and cared for the worst of his hurts.
Dag flinched again as an awful thought came to him. What if he had lain with the fairy during his delirium? He had no memory of her visit; how could he be certain he had not coupled with her while senseless? Nei, he would know. Some feeling of satisfaction would remain. A creature as exquisite as that would leave some impression upon his flesh, even if the memory of joining with her eluded his mind.
Relief flooded him as he began to investigate his new circumstances. The blanket under him was clean and soft but rather worn. His fingers searched the dirt floor further and encountered an empty cauldron. If only it were full, he thought regretfully as his stomach squeezed with hunger. Had she given no thought to feeding him? Mayhap fairies did not consider such mundane things.
He found nothing else. Apparently the creature had poured wine into his mouth, unbound his shackled wrists, treated his wounded arm, then disappeared. It was obvious she meant to keep him alive so she could attempt seduction at a future time.
Unless he escaped. Dag reached down with his good hand and explored the iron bands encircling his ankles. If such a slight being could release his arm shackles, then surely he could pry off his leg irons. His fingers searched the uneven floor. All he needed was a sharp rock, something to work the metal against. It would take time, but he could eventually get free.
Once he escaped the dank hole where he was imprisoned, he would wait until night and find a weapon to use in case he was discovered. For a warrior trained in stealth and spying, it would be easy to sneak out of the palisade. Ah, but that was what he’d thought when he first saw the Irish chieftain’s fortress on the hill above the river and bragged to his companions that he could assess the strength of the place and be back in the longboat before dawn. His cockiness had led to his capture, or mayhap it was simply ill-luck that had resulted in his being trapped between the chieftain’s returning war band and the fortress.
He had fought hard, but no man could outmaneuver ten warriors at once. After one of them hacked his sword arm, leaving it bleeding and useless, they had surrounded him and forced him to the ground. Then the Irish warriors had kicked him, taunted him, spat upon him, and thrown him into this helhole to rot. Except for the fairy’s aid, he would likely be dead already.
Anger rose in him, hot and bitter. He would make the Irish chieftain pay for leaving him to such an ignominious, shameful death. As soon as he could free himself, he would find his companions. They would fire the chieftain’s fortress. Everyone inside would die.
The fairy, he wondered—would she succumb to the flames as a mortal would? It would be a waste for such an exquisite creature to perish.
Dag shook his head sharply, trying to clear it. What was wrong with him? Why was he concerned for the fairy’s fate? The thing she planned for him was worse than death. She meant to steal his spirit, to entrap him in her timeless fairy world.
She was a demon, as dangerous as an undine, the half woman, half fish creatures who lured seafarers to their deaths upon the rocky shores. The fairy represented a more terrifying doom than wasting away in the darkness. If she came back, he must feign unconsciousness and hope to avoid her alluring treachery.
Meanwhile, he would work furiously to free himself.
* * *
Sweat trickled down Fiona’s brow as she made her way down the stone steps into the darkness. It was reckless to enter the souterrain door again during daylight. She should not have returned so soon, but the image of the Viking wouldn’t leave her. She must reassure herself that he still lived.
A slight scratching noise made her halt, and her heart thudded loudly in her ears. What if the Viking had freed himself? Did she have the nerve to face him if he were unbound and alert?
She listened; there were no more sounds.
She crept forward, every muscle tense. As she entered the final chamber, she thrust the torch ahead, prepared to defend herself. The flame wavered with the motion, casting spooky shadows. Slowly, she made out the Viking’s huge body lying motionless against the wall.
Panic made Fiona rush to where he lay. She dropped the supplies she’d brought and hastily stuck the torch in its niche in the wall. Trembling, she knelt beside the man and touche
d his face. She exhaled her pent-up breath. He was warm, slightly fevered, but obviously alive. His breathing seemed slow and steady.
Her still-shaking hand moved to examine his wounded arm. It felt much less swollen. She couldn’t be certain without removing the bandage, but it appeared to be mending. Relief raced through her. It was her first attempt at healing, and so far she had been successful.
She sighed softly. Hope remained for her plan. If only the Viking would rouse a little. Perhaps the drugged wine had affected him so strongly because he was weakened by the fever.
Her eyes perused his still face, and the strange fascination again crept over her—the irresistible urge to touch him. Her fingers hovered over his forehead, aching to smooth his thick hair away from his brow. Then she leaned closer, and her nose wrinkled with disgust. His smell had not improved after two days of lying senseless. If she meant to couple with him, she must do something about his odor. Now appeared to be the ideal time.
She glanced down at his long body. His filthy clothes smelled evilly. She would have to cut them off, then bathe him. But if she allowed him to lie in the soiled straw afterwards, he would only get dirty again. Fiona removed the old cloak she wore, swiftly deciding that it would serve as another blanket.
She stood, took a deep breath, then leaned over, grabbed the Viking’s ankles and, grunting, pulled his lower body away from the wall as far as his shackled ankles would allow. Straightening, she took several deep breaths. Jesu, but the man was heavy!
She did not rest long, but began to kick aside the fouled straw that had lain beneath him. Once the dirt floor was exposed, she picked up her cloak and spread it out next to the wall. Then she grasped his ankles and dragged him back to his former resting place.
Fiona wiped the sweat from her brow and caught her breath. The Viking had not moved a muscle during the ordeal but lain as limp and inert as a sack of grain. It seemed odd he didn’t stir. Again, she leaned over and touched his forehead, searching for fever. His skin seemed only vaguely warm. It must be the wine that kept him senseless. Even so, she must hurry. If he roused and discovered her, she wasn’t certain what he would do.
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