But empathy couldn’t be all of the Irishwoman’s motivation. She’d not only tended his wound, but attempted seduction. What drew a highborn woman to a foul underground prison, there to strip naked and try to entice her father’s enemy?
It didn’t make sense. First, she betrayed her father by trying to seduce one of the enemy. Then, after he saved her from rape and murder, she violently rejected him. If the woman were truly selfish and unprincipled, she should be eager to please the man who rescued her. Instead, she had spat in his face.
Another thought came to him, taunting him with its implications. By now, the woman knew that this was Sigurd’s ship, that all the men served him. Did she imagine herself as Sigurd’s concubine? Her slender neck draped with jewels, her soft, swan-white hands free from all work except soothing her master’s sore muscles and fondling his manhood?
The image infuriated Dag. How like a woman to seek out for her master the man of highest status. Had not Kira done the same?
He thought bitterly of the woman who had shared his bedcloset the previous sunseason. Kira, with her wheat-colored hair, her dark eyes, her full breasts. The image still aroused a pang inside him, but whether it was a pang of longing or hatred, he no longer knew. He couldn’t forgive her for choosing another man to wed, especially an old man with a thick belly and crooked teeth.
Dag wondered how a woman could prefer such a man to him. As a tall, well-made warrior, he’d always had his pick of bed partners, and he knew that women followed him with their eyes when he passed by. Ah, but that was for bedding, not wedding. Kira had told him frankly that she must think of her future, of her sons’ future. Snorri ruled a fine steading, owned rich lands, and had a reputation as a shrewd trader. A woman must marry for security, Kira had said. Her father, of course, had agreed.
Sigurd always assured Dag that he was better off without Kira. What man wanted a woman who cared nothing for him, only for his wealth and status? Still, it had hurt his pride, and his heart. He had cared for Kira, and she had spurned him. He would not make hat mistake again.
Dag started slightly, realizing that the Irishwoman still wept. Her sobs were louder now, harsh and wrenching. The sound reached inside him, twisting his guts. No matter that she might be treacherous, he couldn’t forget that she had succored him once, gently tended his wounds, bathed him, brought him food and water. Because of her, he was alive, yet, how had he repaid her? He had led Sigurd and the other men to her father’s fortress, where they had killed and burned and looted, destroying everything the woman must have held dear.
The unwelcome guilt returned. He had saved the woman’s life, but for what? Now she was a slave, destined for a life of travail and servitude. Better that he should have left her among the smoking ruins of her father’s palisade. Some man would have come to her aid then; someone would see that she didn’t starve. He need not have brought her on the ship and made her his captive. Now, it was too late.
Dag sighed. If only she had welcomed him into her body. He had half thought she might. The one kiss they had shared had been full of promise. If only she had offered him a little of the fire that burned between them in the darkness of the underground cavern. If only...
Abruptly, he turned over. He couldn’t afford to feel pity for this foreign woman. What she had suffered was no worse than what many women endured. Life was harsh. The Irish chieftain had been a weak leader and so he had died. His daughter had lost her protector and been enslaved. The strong prevailed. The weak died or were subjugated. No one could alter that truth.
Why, then, did it not feel right this time? He’d half cringed as he’d watched Sigurd and the other warriors cut down the Irish chieftain and his men. They’d deserved to die for what they’d done to him, but even so, he had felt no satisfaction at their deaths.
Dag’s nagging uneasiness increased. He must not be so foolish as to doubt the warrior’s code he’d honored all his life. It was the woman’s fault. Because of her, he could no longer see the Irish as faceless enemies to be casually slaughtered.
Throwing off the bedsack, he rose abruptly and went to where Rorig manned the rudder. “I’ll take my turn now,” he told the younger man. Rorig went off to sleep. Dag inhaled the night air deeply. His arm pained him and he was tired beyond reason, but it was wiser to keep busy than to lie on the deck struggling for sleep. He looked up and scanned the night sky, orienting himself to navigate the ship. He sighed with relief as the familiar energy and expectation renewed him. The sparkle of stars above him, the rush of the waves beneath the keel, the thrumming sound of the sail in the wind, the sensation of power and freedom he felt in guiding the ship—this was what it meant to go aviking. Not for him, the safe, settled life. This was his destiny, to sail the wild, restless sea until She took him in.
The wind shifted, and he used his left hand to steer the ship back on course. The Storm Maiden felt supple and graceful, responding at his touch, thrillingly acquiescent and eager—as a woman should be. Dag frowned as thoughts of the Irishwoman relentlessly returned. Would she ever yield to him? And if she did, what would it be like?
* * *
Fiona woke with her stomach burning and her limbs stiff and aching. She raised her head and blinked against the sea glare. It hadn’t been a dream. The Vikings had not vanished in the night. This was her life now—the rocking ship, her grim, unfriendly captors, a dozen physical discomforts to occupy her mind.
She rose and looked around. Dag sat on his sea chest a few feet away, his back turned. His brother stood in the rear of the boat, guiding the tiller. The rest of the Vikings sprawled over the ship, dicing, polishing weapons, and engaged in other idle pursuits. Some of them, Fiona noticed, were eating. Her stomach growled enviously.
She sighed. Although she was very hungry, she could do nothing for that. Better to think of the things she could remedy. Slowly, she made her way to the tent. She heard a few low words as she passed and decided it was advantageous that she spoke no Norse. As it was, she felt like a mouse prowling past a sleeping cat. At any moment, she expected one of the Vikings to pounce on her.
In the tent, she began her personal tasks. She felt much better this morrow, less panicked. Giving vent to her grief had helped; from now on, she would not waste time on tears, but focus on her goal of vengeance.
“Make me brave,” she whispered as she redid her braid. Eyes closed, she reached out for her father’s spirit. “Help me survive this,” she entreated.
As soon as her hair was finished, she glanced toward the tent opening. She could delay no longer, else Sigurd might come and throw her out of his tent.
Cautiously, she went out. Her heart jumped in her chest as she saw one of the Vikings blocking her pathway. He was young and not nearly as ferocious-looking as the rest. With his reddish hair and light eyes, he could almost pass for Irish. He wasn’t leering either, although his expression was bright and avid.
She squared her shoulders and made as if to push past him. He surprised her by holding out a piece of salt fish, then said something coaxing in Norse. Fiona glanced nervously at his face. Dare she take the food? What might he expect in return? She was so hungry. If she didn’t eat soon, she would be too weak to fight any of them.
Impulsively, she reached for the fish. The Viking’s eyes gleamed with enthusiasm. She took a bite, then another. Her stomach gurgled with relief.
A low, angry voice startled her, and Fiona glanced past the red-haired Viking to see Dag moving toward her. His jaw was tight. His blue eyes flashed with fury. He said a few harsh words to the young Viking, then grabbed Fiona by the arm and jerked her away. Too shocked to do otherwise, she scrambled after him, trying to keep her feet under her as he pulled her along the deck. When they reached the stern, he flung her down and straddled her, muttering harshly in Norse.
Fiona could only gape at him. She watched as he left her to search the nearby supply stores. When he returned with a barrel, some instinct told her to beware; she rolled away just as the Viking emptied a barrel of sa
lt fish on the deck and narrowly missed showering her with reeking brine.
Something inside Fiona snapped, and she began to shriek. “Wretched cur! Bastard! Filthy Viking scum!” The curses poured from her mouth. None of them seemed vile enough for the scowling madman who loomed over her. He deserved to feel pain! To bleed!
Fiona struggled to her feet, avoiding the slimy puddle spreading across the deck. Her eyes examined the cluttered area, seeking something she could use as a weapon. She grabbed a piece of wood that looked like the broken handle of an axe and brandished it at the Viking. He watched her, his eyes narrowed and hard. Fiona remembered the battle axioms Dermot used to quote: Don’t look before you strike. Your opponent will guess from your eyes where you mean to land the blow. She tried to think how to follow the advice.
Her concentration was disrupted by a smothered, snorting sound nearby, and she looked to see that Sigurd had dropped the tiller and doubled over, apparently so convulsed with laughter that he didn’t trust himself to steer the ship, His huge face was crimson with mirth, and it took him some time to collect himself enough to speak.
“Thor’s hammer! I’ve never seen the like!” he choked out as she stared at him. “My brother attacks you with fish, and you—a mere gnat of a woman—you think to wound him with a splinter of wood!”
Sigurd sputtered with laughter once more, and Fiona could hear the rest of the Viking crew guffawing. She felt her face turn crimson and fought back tears of rage and helplessness. But never would she weep. Sigurd and the rest of them would only find that more amusing. Frustrated, she threw the piece of wood at Dag, aiming for his face. He ducked as it went sailing over the edge of the boat then moved toward her.
Fiona’s anger and humiliation dissolved into stark fear as he took hold of her wrists. He motioned with his head toward the mess of fish on the deck. He growled some phrase in Norse, then repeated it. Although Fiona knew not one word of his language, she clearly understood his fierce, eloquent eyes. They said, Eat or I will grind your face in it.
Pulling away, Fiona leaned over and picked up one of the pieces of fish, then thrust it into her mouth. Grimly, she began to chew. She swallowed. The threat of tears subsided.
Standing a few inches away, Dag appeared to relax. His icy- blue eyes thawed. There was faint laughter among the other men. Fiona looked their way, suddenly remembering the young Viking. Harsh fingers closed around her chin and yanked her head around. Dag’s forbidding gaze met hers. She found she could read his expressions easily by now. This one said, Look upon the young Viking again, and I will cut out his heart.
Trembling, Fiona took another bite of the fish. She did not understand this man called Dag. What did he want?
As if reading her thoughts, Sigurd spoke. “Look upon your master, wench. Dag Thorsson is the only man allowed to feed you, to touch you, to look at you. Disregard that fact, and you will know the stinging reminder of my hand as well as my brother’s. I warned you I wouldn’t have any of my men wounded in a squabble over a slave.”
Fiona took a shaky breath and closed her eyes. She had entered a realm of madmen. If she didn’t keep her wits about her, she would never survive.
When she opened her eyes, Dag still stared at her in that wary, ferocious way of his, as if he wanted to spit at her and swallow her whole at the same time. He gestured again to the pile of fish on the deck.
Dutifully, Fiona knelt and picked up another piece. Although she felt less like eating than she ever had in her life, she stuffed her mouth and began to chew. She would not starve herself merely to spite this Viking madman. She would endure. It was the only hope for revenge.
When she was finished eating, the Viking held out a skin. She took it and drank the stale water greedily, seeking to wash away the strong taste of the fish. As she lowered the skin, the Viking made a satisfied sound. Then he fetched the barrel and motioned to the deck, indicating that she was to clean up the mess. With a glare at her sullen master, she bent and did so.
Dag watched the woman pick up the fish. It had pleased him to see her eat and drink. It did not please him to see her soil her hands in fish oil. He wanted her hands clean and soft-scented, to touch him, to stroke his flesh as she once had. The memory sent a thrill down his body, and he struggled to keep his face impassive, his demeanor commanding and cold.
He shot a quick glance at his brother, who still appeared amused. “At last you treat her like slave.” Sigurd nodded approvingly. “The wench has a rebellious nature. If you mean to keep her, you must not let her forget you are her master.”
Dag nodded. His brother spoke the truth. The only way to deal with such a scheming creature was to subjugate her completely, to make her so fearful she would never dare to defy him.
“If I were you, I would take her to the tent and finish things,” Sigurd said. “ ‘Tis obvious you burn for her, so why not slake your fever between her thighs? Sate yourself this time. Do not bring her out until you are completely satisfied with her compliance.”
Dag took a deep breath. Mayhap his brother was right. He should have raped the woman when first she’d challenged him. Instead, he had given in to his weakness. He must make her realize the power he held over her. He owned her; he could do anything he wished with her.
The thought made his shaft harden. He turned to stare at the woman. She paused in her task and watched him with wary eyes. Dag allowed his glance to explore her exquisite features, to peruse every supple curve of her body. She reacted quickly, her cheeks flushing, her eyes flashing with resentment. He felt her defiance, but it didn’t anger him this time. Instead, it inflamed his desire all the more.
Then, abruptly, he remembered what he wanted from the woman, and it wasn’t for her to be broken and weeping. He wanted her as she had been when she’d come to him in his prison—exotic, seductive, eager. He remembered how she’d stripped naked and offered herself. The promise in her enigmatic green eyes had had nothing to do with rape, or fear.
Dag shook his head. Nothing else would satisfy him but that she would look at him that way once again. Nothing.
He turned away from the woman, focusing his eyes on the distant horizon. “Find some tasks for her,” he told his brother. “She is too foul-tempered to suit as a bed thrall. I would have her trained for something else.”
“As you wish, brother. I have a spare sail that needs mending. Perhaps a few days of plying a needle on rough, heavy wadmal will dampen her fiery temperament.”
Dag gazed again at the Irishwoman, meeting her defiant look with a penetrating one of his own. “Ask her name, Sigurd. Now I know her only as Mac Frachnan’s daughter.”
Sigurd spoke. The woman answered in clear ringing tones. Sigurd translated: “She said she is Fiona, daughter of Donall Mac Frachnan, chieftain of the Deasunachta.”
Dag took in her haughty expression, the regal set of her slender shoulders. Fiona. Fairy queen. Irish princess. Untouchable, enthralling, and utterly maddening.
Chapter 9
Fiona paused in pulling the iron needle through the tough fabric of the sail and looked toward the prow, where Dag and his brother stood talking near the tent. Since her fight with Dag in the forenoon, he had ignored her completely. She was on fire with curiosity and half-dread as to what he meant to do next.
She returned her attention to her sewing, chewing her lower lip uneasily. It hardly seemed possible she was to be spared ravishment. She’d always heard Viking men were beasts, used to venting their lust wherever they willed. Yet the man called Dag hadn’t raped her. What was the reason for his forbearance?
She glanced up again, regretting she had no knowledge of the Norse language. If only she could get an inkling of what the two Vikings talked about. Dag’s gaze briefly met hers, and a shiver of foreboding swept down her spine. Did they discuss her future? Although she had no idea how far they had travelled, she knew the ship sailed north—away from Eire and presumably toward the Vikings’ home. Would she be sold to another master there?
The thought ma
de Fiona’s stomach tighten. If she had to be at the mercy of some barbaric Northman, the one called Dag was her first choice. For all his hostility, he hadn’t beaten her nor let his foul companions ill-use her. It was obvious he protected her from the other men, even Sigurd.
Again, she met the Viking’s gaze. His blue eyes bored into her, probing and wary. When he turned away, a thought came to Fiona, filling her with excitement. What if the man felt guilty for capturing her? Despite his bestial Viking background, he might be unable to deny his obligation to her for keeping him alive and healing his arm. There was a chance he could be persuaded to release her once they reached his homeland. Fiona’s heart raced at the thought.
She stood quickly, before her resolve could fail, and made her way toward the prow. At her approach, the two men stopped talking and stared at her. Fiona looked at Sigurd and said, “I wish to know your brother’s plans for me.”
Sigurd cocked a dark brow, then turned to Dag and translated. Fiona focused her gaze on Sigurd. There was silence for a time then Dag spoke. Sigurd repeated his answer in Irish. “He says he does not know yet.”
Fiona dared to glance at Dag’s face. It was controlled and impassive, except for a strange glint in his eyes. Fiona took a deep breath. “When we reach land, I would be happy to go on my way and not trouble you further,” she told Sigurd with dignity.
Sigurd laughed. “And how long would you last, a lone woman, leagues and leagues from your homeland? Inside of an hour, you would be begging my brother to take you back under his protection.”
Fiona flushed. There was sense in Sigurd’s words, but she would not admit defeat. “I do not need your brother’s protection.” She spat out the word.
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