Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  The huge man turned to his cohort and spoke abruptly, then walked past Fiona. As his bulky form moved out of the way, Fiona caught a glimpse of a third man, the one who had grabbed her. He sprawled on the deck of the ship, rubbing the side of his head and looking dazed. Fiona felt a grim satisfaction. She knew exactly how the monster Viking’s blows felt, and she did not sympathize with the man’s misery one whit.

  * * *

  Dag glowered at the woman lying at his feet. “Take her,” Sigurd had ordered him. “Sink your shaft between the little witch’s white thighs before the other men start snarling at each other like hounds fighting over a bitch in heat. If you think you owe her privacy, seek your pleasure in my tent. But make certain she screams a little. Leave no doubt in any warrior’s mind that I have given her to you and she is yours to do with is you will.”

  Take her. Ja, Dag wanted to do exactly that. He would make certain she knew who her master was, inspire enough fear in her weak woman’s heart that she would not dream of defying hm. It would be sweet indeed to enjoy her exquisite body. He could not blame Brodir for wanting her. With that thin, filthy ‘own outlining her breasts and hips, ‘twas a wonder the other men had kept off of her this long.

  She stared up at him with those strange, pale- green eyes. He had not known what an unusual color they were until he’d seen them by daylight. An otherworldly hue—the color of a murky, moss-bottomed pool. If he had seen them clearly when he lay in his delirium, he would have been even more certain that she was not a mortal woman. But mortal she was. He could see the terror in her eyes, the desperation. He meant to use that fear to bend her to his will.

  He reached down to grab her hand and jerk her to her feet. She swayed and fell against him. The feel of her body along he length of his made fire burn his flesh. Slowly, he stroked his hand down her back, then eased it lower to cup a round, firm buttock. She stiffened against him and tried to draw away. He pressed her closer and brushed the fabric of her shift smooth so he might feel her more intimately.

  He felt her heart pounding beneath her fragile ribs. He moved his hand lower, between her thighs. Let her know his absolute power over her, let her try to fight him.

  She tried to wrench away, but he held her tight against his hips and brought his mouth down to hers. For a moment, her body quieted and Dag forgot everything except the taste and feel of her. He closed his eyes, lost in the sensation of her mouth beneath his.

  Suddenly, she fought him again, her body twisting frantically in his arms. Dag pulled his mouth away and tightened his grasp. The woman continued to struggle. He gazed down at her, at her wet, rosy lips and flushed cheeks. Her furious eyes burned a vivid jewel-like green.

  He took a deep breath and tried to clear his mind. A cacophony of whistles and crude taunts made their way to his ears, reminding of his purpose. He meant to conquer this woman, to convince her that he was her master. With his good arm, he lifted her up and slung her over his shoulder, then pushed past his leering comrades.

  It was impossible to maintain his grip on the woman as he bent over to enter his brother’s tent. He released her, then once inside, leaned out and got a grip on her shift. The garment began to rip. He grabbed another handful and jerked her into the tent.

  She sprawled half-naked next to him, looking dazed. One breast and both slim legs were bared to his view. The aching heat rose in his body, and his mind seemed to go blurry. Dag reached out and ripped off the ruined remains of her clothes. The sight of the silky, black triangle at the juncture of her thighs inflamed him. His breathing grew heavy and labored as he moved toward her.

  Fiona watched the Viking advance, all fiery blue eyes and bare golden skin. This was the vision of her erotic dreams, but gone horribly awry. The Viking and his kind were responsible for her father’s death. She could almost imagine blood dripping from his hands and smell the awful odor of smoke filling her nostrils. Her home, burned. Her people, slaughtered. And al because of this dread Viking.

  She drew away. He was her enemy. Once, foolishly, she had gone to the souterrain, defying her father to seduce this man. She had been a child then, naught but a stupid child. Now she was a woman, hardened by grief and despair. This time she would not submit meekly to this destroyer of her life, her home.

  Fiona faced the Viking with grim determination. He might be twice her size, but she knew where his weaknesses lay. She would aim her blows for his injured right arm, his broken rib.

  He was upon her so quickly she had no time to strike at all. In seconds, his thighs straddled her hips and his left hand grasped a handful of her hair. She writhed beneath him, helpless.

  But he had miscalculated as well. With his good hand occupied in keeping her upper body still, he had no way to undo the drawstring that held up his trews. Realizing his dilemma, he cursed, then gingerly lowered his wounded arm to his groin. As he fumbled with the drawstring, Fiona watched in satisfaction. The use of the stiff, sore muscles in his injured arm caused him significant pain. With luck, he might tear the stitches out and bleed to death, she thought spitefully.

  The garment finally fell away, revealing the man’s engorged phallus. This time, Fiona felt no fascination or desire. She gave his member a look of revulsion, then gazed straight up at the Viking and spat in his face.

  His eyes darkened with rage, and Fiona felt a belated tremor of fear. She was completely vulnerable to this man; to taunt him was madness.

  Their eyes locked, her contempt meeting his fury. His grip tightened in her hair, and for a moment, Fiona thought he meant to twist her head around until her neck snapped. Then his fingers relaxed. He released her hair and slid his big body off of hers. He paused a moment, still kneeling, then grasped his swollen shaft in his left hand and began to rub it with short, rapid strokes.

  He leaned back and closed his eyes. In what seemed like seconds, his features contorted and he exhaled in a gasp. A glistening white liquid spurted over his fingers.

  He opened his eyes, caught his breath then reached over to wipe his hand on Fiona’s torn and filthy shift lying nearby. He moved awkwardly to the entrance of the tent and paused there. His trews still gaped open, exposing his male organ. But it was not that which drew Fiona’s eyes, but the murderous expression on his face.

  She edged backwards, sure he meant to come back and kill her. He did nothing, merely turned and pushed his way out of the tent.

  Harsh laughter echoed through the tent’s leather walls at his reappearance on the ship’s deck, and Fiona felt a sickening wave of shame. The Viking obviously intended for the rest of the men to think he had raped her.

  A delayed reaction to the fear and shock she had endured set in, and Fiona began to tremble violently. Clutching her nakedness, she tried to calm herself. She was whole, safe. She had survived the Viking’s attempted ravishment. There was hope that the worst horrors were behind her.

  Another stab of terror went through her. What if the Viking changed his mind and came back? Or what if he decided to give her to the other men? They might be lined up outside, ready to take a turn with her. How would she survive if she were raped repeatedly?

  You must, a voice inside her said. You must survive or your father will have died in vain. The thought gave her courage. Someday, if she managed to stay alive, she would return to Dunsheauna. If Duvessa and the other women lived, there might be some hope of rebuilding the settlement. The dynasty of Deasunachta need not perish altogether. But to ensure that, she must keep her wits about her.

  Fiona got to her knees. It was self-defeating to dwell on the tortures the Vikings might inflict upon her. She could not afford to be immobilized by fear; she must see about surviving as a captive, and her most pressing need was for a means to relieve her bursting bladder.

  She crawled toward the rear of the tent, planning to search for a vessel which could serve as a chamber pot. A slight sound at the entrance of the tent made her whirl around. Her heart leaped into her throat at the sight of the dark-haired Viking’s head thrust through the t
ent opening.

  Fiona grabbed for her shift and held the tattered remnants over her nakedness. She feared the giant meant to be the next to attack her, and she had no wish to further incite his lust. The man crawled through the opening, surprising Fiona that he actually fit into the small space. He crouched down and regarded her.

  “I see you are whole and unhurt. I did not think my brother would use you harshly. He is not known for hurting creatures weaker than he.”

  Fiona gaped at the man, too stunned at hearing him speak in the Irish tongue to comprehend what he said.

  “How...” she whispered. “How do you come to speak Irish?

  “I wintered a few years ago at the Norse garrison at Dublin,” the man answered. “ ‘Tis a skill I have, to learn the speech of foreign lands, a useful aptitude for a trader... or a warrior.”

  The man’s earlier words suddenly sparked Fiona’s awareness. Brother—he had called the blue-eyed Viking ‘brother.’ She observed the man’s features carefully. The giant was dark, the other Viking, ruddy fair. This man wore a full, curly beard of black with reddish tones, while his brother’s jaw had been clean shaven, his mustache of coppery gold. The giant’s features were heavier, as befitting his massive size, but both Vikings had straight, finely-molded noses, high cheekbones, and deep-set eyes.

  “What do you mean to do with me?” she asked, then held her breath. Would it be easier to endure if she knew what was planned for her? Or more difficult?

  The huge Viking’s eyes narrowed. “Your fate is up to my brother.”

  “Does he recall that I saved his life?” Fiona asked boldly. “That he would have died if not for my care?”

  “If your kinsmen had not cruelly left him to perish in a hole in the ground, there would have been no need for you to aid him. Among my people, it is considered a grave insult to refuse a dying warrior the chance for an honorable death.”

  Sensing the contempt in the Viking’s gaze, Fiona recalled stories she had heard regarding the Northmen’s warrior code. They believed death in battle conferred immortality to their souls. By not allowing the Viking warrior to fight to the death, her father had shamed him. “Is that why you killed my father and burned the fortress?” she asked. “You sought revenge for your brother?”

  There was a flicker of surprise in the Viking’s eyes. “The chieftain—he was your father?”

  Fiona nodded.

  “Your father was brave,” the Viking answered harshly. “He didn’t wait for death, but went out into the darkness with his men. Of course,” the Viking continued, “bravery counts for naught against men such as us. My warriors were filled with blood-lust when I told them of the treasure they would find within the walls of your people’s fort. They could scarcely wait to torch the palisade and begin ransacking the buildings.”

  Fiona’s grief turned to fury as she imagined the Viking savages pawing through the wealth her family had accumulated over generations. “And were they satisfied with what they found?” she asked bitingly.

  The Viking smiled. “My men were disappointed to find no women to enjoy, but they discovered booty aplenty. The exquisite silver casket of jewels I found in the large sleeping chamber off the main hall was in itself enough to justify our trouble.”

  Hatred filled Fiona. The Vikings had stolen her mother’s beautiful things. They had no right! She wanted to lunge at the dark Viking and scratch out his eyes! She thought better of it. He could break her in half with one hand. She would be a fool to attack him.

  The man’s eyes swept over her face. “The wealth of your father’s fortress belongs to my men now, and you belong to my brother. I have given you your life in exchange for your aid of him. If you are wise, you will seek to please him, and your life as a slave will be much easier.”

  He reached into his tunic and drew out a gaudy garment. Fiona’s eyes rounded as she recognized the blue kirtle as Duvessa’s.

  The Viking thrust it toward her. “Put this on. My brother is still weak from his wounds, and I would not have him hurt protecting you. Also, bind your hair back and keep your eyes to yourself.” As she took the kirtle, he continued to regard her thoughtfully. “When he first saw you, my brother thought you were an enchanted being. He feared you meant to steal his soul.”

  The Viking’s jaw clenched. “Myself, I am not superstitious. I think you are nothing more than a conniving, spoiled wench who is accustomed to using her beauty to get her way. Beware, little Irish wench—do not think to use your ‘fairy’ wiles upon my brother. I might forget that I have agreed to spare your life.”

  With that chilling threat, he crouched over and started to leave the tent.

  “Wait,” Fiona cried. “If he is to be my master, at least tell me your brother’s name.”

  The Viking’s expression was cool, but there was pride in his voice as he spoke. “His name is Dag Thorsson, and I am Sigurd. We serve a jarl in the Norselands. We sail there now.”

  Sigurd left, and Fiona clutched the kirtle to her chest. What a terrifying man! Yet, oddly, she felt she could deal with him. Mayhap it was because he used her language and spoke so bluntly. With the Viking Sigurd, at least, she knew where she stood.

  But his brother... Fiona shivered. Her fate depended upon a man she had sorely provoked only moments before. What would Dag Thorsson decide to do with her?

  Chapter 7

  Dag stood at the tiller and guided the ship as his brother saw to the woman. His wounded arm throbbed, contributing to the foulness of his mood. The other men busied themselves polishing their weapons and examining their booty. Across the deck, the flash of armbands and brooches, of rich fabrics, of polished blades and metal-ringed body armor testified to the wealth of the Irish.

  Dag watched the scene resentfully. The other men would return home with treasure. He had naught to show for the trip except a scornful wench who defied him and spat in his face. His kindness had cost him dearly.

  He stiffened as he saw Brodir stand and approach the stern, a gold object dangling from his scarred, filthy hand. Although Brodir was a kinsman of sorts by the jarl’s second wife, Dag had no liking for the warrior.

  “The woman...” Brodir’s mouth curled lasciviously. “Did she please you?”

  Dag’s muscles tensed further. Did Brodir guess the woman had fought him? Had he come to gloat? Dag answered coolly, “I’ve had much better. She’s a foul-tempered bitch.”

  Brodir laughed. “Mayhap you prefer your women willing, and the Irish wench obviously was not.” His leer broadened. “Myself, I like a woman who fights. It deepens my pleasure to feel them thrash beneath me, to hear them scream.” His thin mouth twitched. “I admit, sword brother, that I forgot myself when I touched your property. I’m here to make amends.” He held out the gold object. Dag recognized it as the enameled belt the woman had worn the first time she’d come to him in the underground prison. “I would like to trade. This girdle for the woman.”

  Dag stared at the elegant object thoughtfully. Brodir offered to pay him to take the Irishwoman off his hands. Why should he not accept?

  He glanced up at Brodir’s harsh face, observing the malicious glint in his eyes, the cruel slant to his mouth. A wave of revulsion passed through Dag. He didn’t want to see the Irishwoman tortured and used. Her helplessness aroused his urge to protect, to preserve something lovely and fine from the brutality of life.

  “Not enough?” Brodir’s eyes narrowed. “I have plenty other booty. What will you take for her? Name your price.”

  Dag shook his head. “The woman is not for sale.” He raised his eyes meaningfully to Brodir’s. “At least not to you.” A sense of uneasiness assailed Dag as he saw Brodir’s face darken with anger, but he couldn’t help himself. He resented the other man’s use of the term “brother,” his false camaraderie.

  Brodir tightened his grip on the girdle until the soft metal bent and the fragile artistry of the enamelwork distorted. In seconds, he reduced the beautiful object to a shapeless lump of metal suitable only for melting
down and selling by weight. Dag’s jaw tightened as he watched Brodir stalk off. The man did not deserve the Irishwoman. He had no more appreciation of her beauty than he had of the priceless artifact he had so casually destroyed. If Dag sold the woman, it would at least be to someone who knew her worth.

  He looked up and saw his brother maneuver his bulk across the crowded ship deck. Dag glanced suspiciously toward the tent. What had transpired between Sigurd and the woman? His gaze met his brother’s, and some of the tension left his body.

  Sigurd was the most honorable of men. He would not bed a woman after ordering that no other man should touch her.

  Sigurd nodded in greeting and assessed Dag. “Your arm pains you?”

  “Aye, I twisted the muscles while grappling with the woman.”

  Sigurd’s brows raised. “She struggled?”

  “Ja. Some.”

  “I doubt she fights you again. I have made it clear that she serves you and she has no choice but to accept her lot. Only your protection saves her from being ill-used by the rest of the men.”

  Dag nodded, but remained unconvinced of his captive’s compliance. Sigurd’s sensible words might sway a man, but woman were more difficult to predict, especially this one. Even naked and vulnerable, she had dared to spit in his face. What an impulsive, hot-tempered creature she was.

  “If she were mine, I think I would throw her overboard,” Sigurd added. Dag’s gaze jerked to his brother’s face. “I suspected the woman of treachery, but her deceit is worse than I imagined. She informed me that the Irish chieftain was her father.” Sigurd’s jaw tightened. “Betraying her sire—what a shameful thing. If she were a man, I would make certain she suffered an unpleasant death for her lack of loyalty.”

  Dag felt his belly clench. The woman was every bit as cold- hearted and calculating as he had feared. And he had pitied her! Anger swept through him.

  “I’ll do it, if you don’t want to,” Sigurd offered. “I’d be happy to cast her to the fishes. It would make one less mouth to feed on the journey home.”