“What if they could not find me?” Fiona asked stubbornly. I may look pampered, but I have some survival skills. My aunt taught me to make a snare to catch small animals and also of wild plants that can be eaten.”
Breaca regarded her dubiously. “You might survive, for a time. But then winter would come and you would either die of cold or be eaten by wolves. This is not Eire, Fiona. It may be warm now, but the winters here are brutal beyond your imagining.”
Fiona began to pace, feeling desperate. Breaca’s arguments were reasonable, but how could she listen? How could she remain here, helplessly waiting for death? Her Irish blood demanded that she fight to the end. She stopped pacing. “I need a knife, Breaca, or some other weapon. Would you be willing to get me one?”
Breaca exhaled in disgust. “I vow, you deserve to die, you are so stupid. If I were discovered carrying a weapon, I would be executed along side you. I don’t like you that much, Fiona of the Deasunachta, that I will recklessly throw away my own life to aid your honor.” She approached Fiona, her voice intent. “You are not a warrior, Fiona. There is no need for you to go to your death fighting. Better you should use your womanly skills to persuade Dag that you are worth keeping alive.”
Fiona began to pace again. It came down to the same dilemma—should she surrender to her enemy to save her life? Which was the more noble path? To die, having never submitted, or to do what was necessary to live and someday seek vengeance?
She whirled to face Breaca. “What if it doesn’t work? What if I beg Dag for my life and he refuses me? Then I will have compromised my honor and lost my life.”
Breaca rolled her eyes. “It will work. The Viking, Dag, is besotted with you. It is likely he would try to save your life even if you spat in his face.”
Aye, Fiona thought, she had done that, and it had apparently not destroyed the Viking’s concern. Mayhap Breaca was right, and the Viking warrior truly cared for her. She raised her eyes to the Irish girl. “Should I offer myself to him? Is that the way to win his favor?”
Breaca smiled. “Now, Fiona, you show some sense. Take out your hair.” She gestured to Fiona’s thick braid. “Then remove your clothes. When Dag returns and sees you naked, I vow he will do whatever he can to protect you.”
* * *
Dag stumbled over the threshold of the longhouse, his head spinning. Rorig had joined him soon after he went outside, carrying another skin of the potent, sweet drink stolen from the Irish steading. The two of them had stupidly finished it off.
Now Dag’s body felt heavy and awkward, and he would be miserable on the morrow. At least his mind was numb. That was the point of his foolishness. He didn’t want to think, to remember the trouble awaiting him in the longhouse.
He hiccupped loudly and crossed the main area of the dwelling. All around him, men snored and mumbled drunkenly in sleep.
The place was as filthy as the swine yard. Piles of greasy bones lay everywhere, and pools of ale dripped down over the edges of the board tables. Here and there puddles of vomit fouled the straw covering the dirt floor. Dag made a face, thinking of Mina and the other women having to clean up the mess. It was no wonder his countrymen were often accused of being filthy beasts. Certainly many of them acted that way when in their cups.
Nei, that was an insult to the animals, Dag thought groggily. Except for swine, most creatures did not wallow in their filth. Even wolves took care not to foul their dens.
Reaching his bedchamber, he pushed open the door. He was surprised to see the lamp on his sea chest still lit. He pushed into the room. The red-haired slave girl struggled to her feet from her seat on the floor. He had told her to stay and do something. What was it? Oh, ja, she was to get him if anyone came.
A fat bit of good that would have done, Dag thought sleepily. He was too drunk to fight and could hardly have protected the woman if Brodir had come seeking vengeance. Thankfully, he had not.
A quick glance at the bed told Dag that the Irishwoman remained safe. She was tucked into the bedfurs with only the pale oval of her face visible.
He sighed and sat heavily on the box bed. The Irishwoman stirred. Her eyes opened. Dag looked away. He would ignore her tonight. He had not the strength for fighting. On the morrow, somehow, he would deal with her.
He bent down and began to unwind the strips fastening up his boots.
“Would you like me to do that?”
He looked up. The red-haired thrall—he had forgotten her again.
“Ja,” he said wearily. He lay back while the slave undid his boots, then helped him off with his tunic. His head felt as if it were stuffed with wool. He jerked alert, suddenly aware that the girl had spoken again. “What?”
“I said, ‘Do you want me to remove your trews?’ ”
“Oh, Ja.” Dag lay back again, scarcely aware of the girl’s small fingers pulling off the garment. Finally naked, he rolled into the bed. Encountering the Irishwoman’s form beneath the fur covers, Dag pulled her close. In seconds he had begun to snore.
Fiona wriggled from the Viking’s fierce embrace and glanced toward Breaca, standing by the bed. “Jesu, what do I do now?”
Breaca laughed. “Nothing. His shaft is as soft as a wet reed. He won’t be any use to you tonight.”
“But how do I get him to ravish me?”
“‘Twill have to wait until the morrow.”
Fiona sighed in frustration. By then her resolve might well have weakened.
Breaca moved toward the door.
“Wait!” Fiona called. “Can you not stay with me?”
“Why? There’s only room in the bed for two, in several ways. I can’t be here in the morning to tell you what to do. Some things a woman must manage on her own.”
Fiona swallowed, feeling panicky. She had tried once to seduce the Viking, and failed. What if she should fail again? “Please,” she whispered to Breaca. “At least stay the night. I’ll give you one of the bedfurs. The floor here can scarcely be harder than the pallets in the slave shelter.” She wrinkled her nose at the memory. “Certainly it is cleaner.”
Breaca sighed and took the fur. “Sometimes you are the most helpless of creatures, Fiona,” she said as she made a bed for herself on the straw-covered floor. “If you were a pup, my da would have drowned you at birth for your puniness.”
Chapter 14
His stomach was afire.
Dag rolled over on his side and groaned. Curse the Irish for their damned mead! Drinking ale or wine never made him feel so vile. If only he could go back to sleep. But something had wakened him.
He eased himself to a sitting position at the side of the bed. His head responded with a furious throb that made his ailing stomach seem almost bearable. Loki’s balls! What had he done to himself?
A sound behind him made him stiffen. Someone was in the room with him. His muscles tensed for battle, but the answering thunder in his brain made it impossible to turn quickly around. He slowly shifted his torso, keeping his head as immobile as possible. The other side of the room came into view.
The Irishwoman! She had slept the night in his bed, and he hadn’t known it. He gazed at her, feeling more irritable than ever. What did she want now? Had she not already caused him enough grief?
She sat up. The bedrobe fell away, exposing her breasts. Despite himself, Dag stared. Sweet Freya, she was beautiful. But why was she naked? Why had she slept in his bed naked?
He watched her green eyes narrow enticingly, like a cat’s. He sucked in his breath. Did she mean to seduce him? What miserable timing she had! At this moment, he was as like to puke on her as to pleasure her.
Besides, he knew why she was acting like this. She was obviously grateful he’d saved her spoiled little hide. Her yielding out of gratitude appealed to him as much as her yielding out of fear. He wanted to see desire in her eyes, genuine desire, not the false passion he observed now. Even as he watched, the sultry, provocative look faded and wariness surfaced.
He sighed. He had no desire to see her grove
l, not his haughty fairy queen. Turning away, he went about the excruciating task of finding his clothes. He discovered them folded neatly on the chest and remembered the red-haired slave undressing him. At least she had left, like a decent slave should.
Grabbing his clothes, he slowly bent over and pulled his trews up to his thighs. His stomach lurched dangerously, and he wondered if eating would help. He pulled his trews on the rest of the way. Now for his boots. He bent down again and groaned as his head responded with a violent throb of pain.
He heard a rustling noise as the Irishwoman got out of the bed, then the soft sound of her footfalls on the rush-covered floor. When he raised his gaze, she stood in front of him. The sight of her naked belly met his eyes. His glance moved up, then down, inspecting the creamy suppleness of her form. He wondered what she wanted, then decided he didn’t care. His eyes feasted. It had been nearly a sennight since he’d enjoyed her thus.
Abruptly, she knelt and began to put on his boots. Her hair streamed over her slender shoulders like a cascade of dark water. Dag watched, entranced. After a while, she glanced up, an aggravated look on her face. Obviously, his feet were not cooperating, and she was unskilled at this. He wondered if she had ever dressed a man. He knew at least one that she had undressed.
The memory aroused him—painfully. It was difficult enough to endure the pounding of his head and the unsteadiness of his belly; now his shaft was hard and throbbing, too. He gritted his teeth until she finished. When she stood up and leaned forward with his tunic, he snatched it away from her. He tugged it over his head, not wanting to feel her soft hands on him.
Their eyes met. She appeared uneasy, frightened. He glowered at her. Troublesome wench. The grief she caused him—the embarrassing conversation with Knorri, the stupidity of getting drunk on mead, the multitude of difficulties awaiting him in the longhouse—she was the reason for all of it. And now she apparently wished to repay him with her wondrous body.
He was simply not up to it. Shoving her aside, he marched out of the bedchamber.
Fiona watched him, her heart sinking. She closed her eyes as tears of frustration crept from beneath her eyelids. Dag didn’t want her. He hated her. Why did she feel so miserable that he had not responded to her enticements?
She sniffed back a sob of self-pity as Breaca entered the doorway. The girl glanced at her in surprise, then made one of her frequent sounds of disgust. “Fiona, you coward! You hide here simpering, as if tears could do you a bit of good. Get dressed. If you aren’t out in the longhouse soon and ready and eager to tend to Brodir’s wounds, it truly will go hard with you!”
Fiona’s eyes widened. “Brodir? What do you mean?”
“Knorri has decreed that you will treat his wound. Dag told him that you were a wise woman.”
“A what?”
“A wise woman, a healer.”
Fiona blanched. “They can’t mean for me to touch that pig- faced fiend. I won’t do it!”
“You must and you will.” Breaca’s voice was hard. “Dag has convinced the jarl to spare your life, but one of the conditions is that you will use your skill to aid Brodir.”
“I’ll aid him,” Fiona ground out. “I’ll slit his throat and put him out of his misery.”
Breaca rolled her eyes. “Blessed Bridget, why do I try? There’s no help for such a witless creature.” She turned to leave.
“Wait,” Fiona called.
Breaca hesitated. Her shoulders heaved with a sigh. “What now?”
“I’ll ... I’ll do it... if you think I must. It’s only... I have no herbs, none of my aunt’s healing potions. I’m not certain I know what to do.”
Breaca shifted to face Fiona. “Pretend. Brodir’s not like to die anyway. Thick-skulled oafs like him are hard to kill, more’s the pity. All you need do is give the pretense of healing him.”
Fiona nodded. She wouldn’t let her stubborn pride get in the way this time. She would do what was necessary to survive, even if it meant aiding that miserable wretch.
“Good.” Breaca grinned in satisfaction. “Your obedience might save you. You owe your life to Dag. He argued with the jarl against putting you to death. I don’t know what he said, but somehow he swayed Knorri.” Her eyes flashed warningly. “I’m sure Dag promised you would be as meek and docile as a field mouse from now on. You might consider his honor before you let your temper get the best of you again.”
“About Dag...” Fiona began uncertainly. “Do you still think I should seduce him?”
Breaca shrugged. “ ‘Twould not hurt. He is the only ally you have.”
Fiona bit her lip. “He turned away from me this morning when I tried... tried to offer myself to him. Mayhap he does not want me after all.”
Breaca laughed. “Even with men, some times are better than others. I imagine Dag is outside right now puking up his guts. I found out the fool shared a whole skin of mead with Rorig last night.”
“He was drunk?”
“Aye. I imagine when he came to bed he was seeing two Irish princesses and unsure which one to fondle. And this morning—even stallions won’t rut when their bellies ail. If you have any healing skill, you might mix a potion which will soothe Dag’s stomach and cure his aching head. I’m certain he would be grateful.”
Fiona frowned, trying to recall if she had ever heard of such a thing. Siobhan had never been keen on helping men, especially the sort that drank to excess. But there was always chamomile, effective for settling sick stomachs, and thyme, a common remedy for aching heads. “Does Mina have any healing herbs?” she asked.
Breaca shrugged. “Come, get dressed, and we’ll ask her. I’m certain she knows you will require some medicines to dress Brodir’s wound.”
Fiona made a face. Here she was, abetting her enemies. Would the spirits of her slaughtered kinsmen ever forgive her? She could not fret on it. They were dead and she was alive—and she meant to stay that way.
* * *
Fiona carefully rubbed the healing paste over the wound she had inflicted on Brodir’s neck, ignoring the almost tangible malice radiating from the man. The cut was actually quite shallow, disappointingly so. Breaca was right. He would likely heal without treatment of any kind. Even so, she must put on a good display, thoroughly smearing the greenish paste over the wound. The stuff smelled horrid, and she knew a sort of satisfaction in thinking that the other Vikings would avoid Brodir for a while.
She glanced up from her work, instinctively looking to the entry way. So far, Dag had been conspicuously absent from the longhouse. It was a shame he was not here to regard the sacrifice she made to save his honor, and her own skin. When she saw him again, she meant to cry peace and offer him a brew of the chamomile and thyme leaves Mina had given her.
Brodir grunted; Fiona returned her gaze to his neck. Aye, that should finish it. Too bad Mina didn’t have any fluxweed. It made a disgusting concoction which she could have made Brodir drink, and it truly was good for helping wounds heal.
She stepped back, relieved to be finished with her hateful task. Brodir glared at her, a look filled with such loathing, Fiona felt a tremor of foreboding run down her body. She had made a dangerous enemy. But what else could she have done? She wasn’t going to let rape her in the middle of a crowded feasting hall. It was possible Dag might have eventually come to her rescue, but she hadn’t been certain he cared enough to spare her. At the time, she’d had no choice but to defend herself.
She went to the firepit and washed in a pot of water warming there, eager to remove the stench of Brodir from her hands. How strange it was. Brodir and Dag were countrymen and, judging from what she’d learned of the Vikings, kin as well. Like the Irish, Northmen allied themselves by the means of blood ties, and it was unlikely that any two men at Engvakkirsted were not related in some fashion.
But two men could hardly be so different. Dag was clean and neat; Brodir filthy. Brodir acted like a gluttonous boor while Dag apparently had some notion of honorable behavior. Breaca had said he was kind t
o animals. If that were true, even Siobhan might approve of him. She always said that a man’s character could be judged by his attitude toward the beasts.
Fiona sighed. If she could, she would like to begin again with Dag. To forget what his people had done to her kinsmen and go back to that extraordinary time they had spent together in the souterrain. He had moved her then, inspired her tender thoughts and lustful ones as well. Now, she wasn’t certain what she felt for him. He was her protector; she needed him to survive. Was that why she felt so drawn to him or was there something more? Could it be she had begun to forgive him for his part in her people’s slaughter? Forgiveness—the Christian priests preached of it incessantly, but with little impact on the ancient Irish values of revenge and retribution.
She turned at a sound behind her and saw Dag take a seat on the bench Brodir had vacated. He looked sick, his normally ruddy complexion a shade too pale, his blue eyes laced with red. Sympathy filled her. She went to him and tried to gesture that she would bring him something to drink. He watched her suspiciously. She touched her stomach and head, indicating that she knew he was hurting. His face remained wary.
Fiona sighed and went to get the brew she had made for him. She must learn the Norse language. It was so frustrating that they could not understand one another.
* * *
Dag took the steaming beaker from Fiona and sniffed it. It smelled of earthy, dark things, but not unpleasant. He glanced at her face. Could she mean to poison him? Nei, if there were anyone she meant to murder, it would be Brodir, and he seemed well enough after her treatment, except for his foul temper. By now, the woman knew that he had saved her life, and she likely did this out of gratitude. Miserable as he felt, he would not turn away anything which might reduce his distress.
He gulped down the contents of the beaker. It tasted strong, but rather savory. He looked up. The Irishwoman was smiling, an enchanting smile, a smile to steal a man’s soul. For a moment he resisted, then he smiled weakly back. Their eyes locked; the first rays of understanding passed between them. He decided he must really learn some of her language; there were things he would say to her, things he would ask.
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