Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Sigurd glared at her. “My brother’s protection is all that keeps you alive... and unmolested.”

  His gaze swept over her body meaningfully, and Fiona felt her color deepen. Sigurd spoke the truth. Without Dag, she was terribly vulnerable to the lustful inclinations of the other Vikings. To reach her homeland safely, she must have the means to purchase passage on a merchant ship, where she would be less likely to fall prey to rapacious warriors. Of course, she had no wealth now; the Vikings had stolen it all. She regarded Dag resentfully. Because of him, she was an impoverished slave. But he owed her—without her, he would not be alive.

  She faced Sigurd boldly. “I saved your brother’s life. In turn, he owes me a boon. I ask not only for my freedom, but also enough coin or wealth to secure safe passage to Eire.”

  Fiona allowed herself to glance at Dag, her heart pounding. Even to her own ears, her request sounded laughable, but she would not back down.

  Sigurd’s eyes narrowed, then he translated for his brother. Fiona watched Dag carefully. He spoke harshly to Sigurd, and Sigurd nodded. “My brother says he owes you nothing. If not for him, you would have perished with the rest of your kin. He has already given you your life in exchange for his. Any debt that might have existed has been repaid.”

  Fiona felt her heart sink at the Viking’s arrogant response. What had she expected? She had attempted to bargain with a Viking as if he was a man of honor, but he was only a brutal barbarian who preyed on the weak and helpless. She stiffened her spine, allowing and the anger and hatred to seep through her and fire her courage.

  “Very well,” she said. “You may release me at the first port we arrive at, and I will make my way on my own. If any ill befalls me, it will be on your brother’s conscience.”

  Sigurd translated for his brother in a low, gruff voice. Dag’s eyes widened, apparently in amazement at her audacity, then his expression again became grim and fierce, his voice as frosty as the winter wind.

  Sigurd rendered Dag’s response in Irish. “You misunderstand my brother. He’s given you your life in exchange for your aid of him, but he said nothing about your freedom. Once we arrive in our homeland, your circumstances will remain the same. You will be his slave... and subject to his will in all things.”

  Despite the fact that Dag’s answer was much as she anticipated, panic beat through her. She had dared to hope her circumstances were not as awful as they appeared. Now her hopes were crushed. Defiant words rose to her lips. What did she have to lose by telling the wretched Viking scum exactly what she thought of him?

  Their gazes met and held. Something in Dag’s expression made the curses stall in her throat. There was a look of regret in his blue eyes. Could it be that be pitied her?

  Fiona felt as if the Viking stared into the very depths of her soul. She wondered what he wanted of her. Then, suddenly, she knew. He still lusted for her. She had been stupid to use guilt to attempt to coerce him into freeing her. She possessed a bargaining tool which had a much better chance of swaying the stubborn Northman, if she had the courage to use it.

  She licked her lips in a way she hoped was provocative, then spoke, her eyes on Dag’s face. “If I am a slave, then I must have some sort of value, a price if I were to be sold. Mayhap there is a way I could earn my freedom.”

  She looked to Sigurd, waiting for him to translate. He did not, only pursed his lips speculatively. “What sort of payment were you speaking of?”

  Fiona swallowed and regarded Dag again. “What if I were to lie with your brother—willingly? Would that not be worth something to him?”

  Sigurd snorted, then translated her words. Fiona kept her gaze fixed upon Dag. She saw his look of surprise before it was replaced by a calculating expression. Fiona’s confidence soared.

  Sigurd’s voice was rich with amusement as he translated Dag’s answer, “My brother wishes to see proof of your willingness.”

  Fiona stiffened. Of course, the Viking would expect proof that she would keep her part of the bargain. What should she do—pretend to entice him in front of the other men? The idea outraged her, yet she dare not show reluctance. If she were to have any chance of negotiating her freedom, she must be exceedingly clever.

  Vowing to herself that she would rather kiss a cow’s rear end, Fiona stood on tiptoe and reached up to pull the Viking’s face down to hers. She pressed her lips to his.

  He didn’t not embrace her or otherwise respond, and Fiona released him and sank down again on the balls of her feet. She felt herself tremble. Was that enough? Somehow, glancing at Sigurd, she didn’t think so.

  He raised one of his brows and said something to his brother. Dag answered. Sigurd’s face was lit by a mocking smile as he announced Dag’s decision. “He’s not satisfied. He demands further proof.”

  Fiona gritted her teeth. Once she had stripped naked in an attempt to tantalize the Viking into coupling with her. She could hardly do that now. What other means could she use to indicate her submission? She thought of Scorcha, one of the kitchen servants who was said to lie with any man who asked. Scorcha was extremely proud of her ample breasts; she said no man could resist fondling them.

  Fiona reached for the Viking’s hand, then closing her eyes, brought it to her breast. She arranged his fingers so they enclosed her flesh and held her breath.

  Nothing happened. Fiona opened her eyes to see the Viking watching her. His eyes seemed bluer now, slightly glazed, but his mouth was still drawn into a grim line. Aggravated to the point of desperation, Fiona put her hand over his and guided his fingers to stroke her breast. As he began to rub her nipple, Fiona felt streaks of pleasure race down her body. She froze. It was one thing to feign willingness, another to actually respond to his caresses.

  After a moment, Dag pulled his hand away. Fiona almost sighed with relief. Then she looked at Dag and realized her ordeal wasn’t over yet. The Viking’s expression was as harsh as if carved out of stone. He didn’t intend to make this easy for her.

  She turned to Sigurd and said impatiently, “Ask him if he is satisfied.” Sigurd repeated her question; Dag shook his head.

  “My brother says you are a poor liar,” Sigurd reported. “No matter what you pretend, your body reveals your unwillingness.”

  Fiona’s throat went dry. What more could she do? Finding her voice, she said, “There is no privacy here. If he were to take me into the tent, I promise I wouldn’t fight him.”

  Sigurd gave a hearty laugh, then reached out and grabbed Fiona’s long braid, half-jerking her off her feet. “Silly little minx—why should he barter with you at all? You have naught to offer him that he cannot simply take any time he wishes. Your body is his. Why do you pretend to give it to him as a gift?”

  Fiona snatched her braid from Sigurd, a horrible realization dawning. Dag had never meant to consider her offer. It was all a game, a wretched game to humiliate her. She felt her face grow crimson and her hands curled into fists. Without looking at Dag, she stalked away, grateful she had begun to master the art of moving gracefully on a ship.

  “What did you say?” Dag demanded of his brother. “Why is she walking away?”

  “I told her the truth. Her willingness is irrelevant. She is a slave.”

  Dag suppressed a groan of frustration. The Irishwoman had offered herself to him; she had promised to submit. Then Sigurd had ruined it. He wanted to strike his brother, to pound his stubborn, stupid face. Of course, he did not, although Sigurd guessed at once something was wrong. “By Thor’s hammer!” he muttered. “You wanted to test her. You wanted to see her grovel.”

  “Nei.”

  “Why are you angry? Why do you look as if you could throttle me?”

  Dag didn’t answer. Strangely, while he hadn’t enjoyed seeing the Irishwoman defeated, he wanted nothing in the world so much as for her to yield to him. He shook his head, trying to clear it. “It was wrong to trick her. I shouldn’t have pretended I might free her if she pleased me.”

  “ ‘Tis not wise to offer a sl
ave hope,” Sigurd agreed. “It only makes them more manipulative and treacherous, thinking they can improve their lot.”

  Dag nodded. Unwillingly, he found his eyes drawn to Fiona’s slender form. She stood pressed against the ship’s curving prow, as if retreating as far away from him as she could without jumping overboard. He wondered if she had ever contemplated throwing herself into the sea to escape her fate as a thrall. She was so proud, so wild and lovely. Like a bird, an exquisite, thrilling bird that he held in his hands, feeling its rapid heartbeat, the fear and desperation that made its perfect feathers shudder. How did a man possess something like that and not destroy it?

  He moved toward her, hearing the mutterings of the men as he made his way past their clutter and dice and board games. She didn’t turn at his approach. He stopped inches from her and stared at the strands of hair which had escaped her braid and now danced wildly in the breeze. She was so small and fragile-looking. He could encircle her slim neck with one hand or encompass her waist with two. With a twist of his wrist he could kill her.

  Yet, despite her delicacy, there was a fierceness about her he had never seen in a woman before. She had defied him repeatedly, dared to demand her freedom. Even her attempt to barter with her body was an act of daring rather than a concession to the power he held over her.

  Her courage both tantalized and frightened him. She was a slave and she must yield to him. If she did not, he would have to break her spirit. The thought repelled him.

  She turned suddenly and, seeing him, gasped. For a moment, he observed fear in her eyes, then the shield of anger was drawn once again. She spoke in low, furious voice that left no doubt as to her indignation.

  Without thinking, Dag reached for her. She went rigid. He gripped her arms fiercely, wanting to kiss her, to bury his frustration in the lush warmth of her body.

  She jerked away and spoke, her voice bitter and resentful. He met her green, cat-like stare. Yield, he told her silently. Yield and I will think of a way to spare your wretched pride.

  Tension rose like a mist between them, and he was vaguely aware of the laughter and gibes of the men. He thought of making her submit to his much greater strength then took a deep breath instead. He had tried force, and it had not worked. There must be some other way to gain her compliance.

  He stared at her awhile longer, then turned away and made his way back to the prow where his brother stood.

  “What a stupid wench,” Sigurd proclaimed. “To ask you for her freedom and a share of your booty. Did she really imagine you would return her to Ireland and restore her position as princess?” He snorted derisively. “I’ve never heard of a Norseman freeing a foreign slave. She is lucky you let her live, let alone deal with her so kindly.”

  Dag considered his situation carefully. By the customs of his people, the woman was his property. As long as he owned her, he would be responsible for her behavior, and he could see she would never submit easily, but continually test him. He must rid himself of this intolerable burden, but how? He wouldn’t sell her to Brodir, nor any other man.

  The solution came to him like a bolt of lightning from Thor’s domain. “I’ve decided,” he told Sigurd. “I will not sell her, but will make a gift of her to your wife, Mina.”

  Sigurd gaped at him. “Why would you do that?”

  “I told you, she is not suitable as a bed thrall. What other use is there for her except as a noblewoman’s servant?”

  Sigurd frowned. “Earlier, you argued for her life, saying that you intended to earn gold with her. Now you want to give her away. You make no sense, brother.”

  “You said that she was mine to do with as I wished. This is what I have decided.”

  It was obvious to Dag that his brother wasn’t pleased with his decision. After regarding him with narrowed eyes, Sigurd announced, “I refuse the gift. I want no part of what is between you and the Irishwoman.”

  Dag fought back his frustration and tried to sound reasonable. “She would be a gift to Mina, not you. You wouldn’t have to deal with her at all.”

  “But I will be charged with defending her, won’t I? I don’t want the trouble of protecting her.”

  “It wouldn’t be such a hardship, Sigurd. No man would dare to molest her if they knew she belonged to your wife, and I would be doing you a favor by providing Mina with a skilled seamstress.”

  “Nei, I won’t allow it. You may order her to help Mina around the steading if you wish, but don’t involve me.”

  Dag frowned, dissatisfied with his brother’s answer. If it became known that Sigurd wouldn’t protect the Irishwoman, she would be subject to all sorts of abuse by the other men and he would still be forced to take responsibility for her. His plan to rid himself of her had failed.

  “There is another way, Dag,” Sigurd suggested slyly. “You could always beat her until she learns meekness.”

  Dag gave his brother a hostile look. Sigurd threw back his head and roared with merriment.

  Chapter 10

  “Halvveis Fjord,” Sigurd announced, pointing toward the distant coastline. “The tide’s running fast and the wind’s from the northwest. Another league or so and we’ll take the sail down and row in.”

  Dag nodded. In only a short time they would arrive at Engvakkirsted. He should feel pleased and excited, like the other men. Instead, there was a grinding unease in his belly. He blamed the Irishwoman. Ever since he’d set eyes on her, his life hadn’t been the same.

  He glanced across the deck. Even from a distance, he sensed her turmoil. ‘Twas no wonder, with Brodir slavering after her like a starving dog after a choice carcass. Dag longed to throw the leering bastard over the side of the ship, but, of course, he could not. To warn Brodir away from his prey implied Dag cared for the Irishwoman’s feelings. That was unthinkable. She was merely a slave, after all.

  “Brodir shows a great deal of interest in the Irishwoman.” Sigurd spoke from his station near the rudder. “It might be wise to sell her to him so he won’t cause trouble.”

  “I don’t fear Brodir,” Dag responded.

  “ ‘Tis not only Brodir. This ‘cat and mouse’ game he plays has aroused the other men’s interest in the woman. I fear conflict will arise over her sooner or later.” Sigurd gave Dag a warning look. “I mislike a woman sowing dissension among my warriors, but the jarl will be even less tolerant. He once lived in Jomsviking camp, where they ban women from the settlement altogether. If the woman causes trouble at Engvakkirsted, Knorri will either order her put to death or sold.”

  Dag sighed. Sigurd always seemed eager to remind him of his alternatives, none of which pleased him. If only there were a way to keep the woman safe, and yet somehow be rid of her.

  His earlier scheme returned to him. Giving the Irishwoman to his sister-by-marriage seemed the perfect plan. She would see that the woman was kept busy and out of his way. Mina, with her kind heart, would also seek to protect the woman from abuse. If only Sigurd would relent.

  Dag let his gaze again stray to the Irishwoman. She stood below the ship’s curving prow, gazing off at the misty landmass, her face full of foreboding. Fighting off his feelings of sympathy, Dag vowed that his responsibility for her would soon come to an end.

  Fiona gazed over the bluish-gray waves with trepidation. Since sunrise, a landmass had been visible off the ship’s starboard side, and from the excited atmosphere among the men, she could easily guess they had reached the cold, uncivilized realm of the Northmen.

  She cast a quick glance back to the foredeck, catching a glimpse of the ugly Viking who had grabbed her the first day on the ship. She looked away quickly and drew the ragged cloak more tightly around her body. The man seemed to watch every movement she made. He didn’t speak to her or dare to come very near, but his lustful intentions were clear.

  Always as he stalked her, he kept an eye out for Dag, as if assessing how far he could go before the bronze-haired Viking would interfere. So far, Dag had done nothing. He might shift his position so he could bett
er observe Fiona and her tormentor, but he took no action against the foul-visaged Northman. Sigurd had warned her that his brother was all that stood between her and brutal rape, and Fiona could not help wondering what would happen to her when they arrived at the Viking settlement. Dag would not be able to guard her every moment there.

  Sigurd’s harsh voice startled Fiona from her gloomy musings, and all at once, the deck of the Viking ship became a blur of activity.

  The warriors, who had spent the sea voyage in the quiet pursuits of gaming and repairing weapons, abruptly came to life. They retrieved oars from the underdeck and shoved sea chests into place near the oar slots along the ship’s steep sides. Dag and several other man went to work on the huge mast projecting up from the middle of the ship. Within a short time they had taken down the sail, then let down the collapsible mast altogether. Two dozen men took seats on the sea chests, pushed the oars through the oarholes, and began to row. Fiona watched in amazement; before her eyes, the ship had turned from a sailing vessel into one powered by men’s muscles.

  She was further awed as Dag and the other men continued their strange tasks. She moved past the mast to better watch as they dragged the huge, carved wooden head of a snarling beast out of the forehold and affixed it to the curved prow of the ship. Then they retrieved a large number of decorative shields from the storage compartment and, leaning over the ship’s sides, fastened the shields at regular intervals along the hull.

  Fiona’s heart skipped a beat as she wondered if they were going into battle. She scanned the ocean’s horizon thoroughly but saw nothing except the endless shimmer of waves and the blue-gray shape of land on their starboard side. Gingerly making her way across to the side of the ship, she peered intently at the nearing landmass. She saw no sign of enemy ships approaching from that direction either. Was it really possible the Viking’s rigged their ship with such frightening gear for a peaceful landing in their own harbor?

  She glanced at the Vikings’ leader, Sigurd. He still shouted orders, but he seemed calm, even pleased. Fiona turned her attention back to the other men. While one group rowed, the other men began to strip their upper bodies bare of the ragged, filthy garments they had worn at sea and put on battle attire. Fiona watched as they donned leather corselets, gleaming breastplates, mail that shimmered like fish scales, and conical bronze helmets.