Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Fiona raised her gaze to Mina’s, wondering if she should say anything. Sharing her concern wouldn’t change things, and it might make the Norsewoman anxious.

  Fiona removed her hands from Mina’s belly. “Tell her that everything seems well, although I can’t tell for certain which way the babe’s head is positioned.”

  Breaca translated. Mina responded in her soft voice.

  “She says to ask you if there is anything she can take for the discomfort the babe causes.”

  Fiona shook her head. Most pain-killing herbs were too strong to give to a woman until she was actually in labor. “If she has any dragonwort, I could make her a draught which would help her carry the babe to term,” she told Breaca. “The babe clearly saps her energy. She must save herself for the last difficult months.” Even as she said the words, Fiona wondered if she shouldn’t make her warning more severe. As fatigued as she seemed already, Mina would scarcely survive a difficult labor.

  Breaca repeated Fiona’s words in Norse. Mina smiled faintly and gestured toward the huge pile of wool. Fiona felt a stab of sympathy.

  Poor Mina. How could she rest when there was obviously so much to do?

  “She should have more help,” Fiona remarked to Breaca.

  “She does. Now,” Breaca answered. “Your main duty as a thrall will be to assist Mina in clothmaking.”

  Fiona looked with dismay at the pile of raw wool. It made her hands ache just to think of spinning it and her eyes hurt to contemplate its weaving. She hadn’t appreciated her easy life in Eire.

  * * *

  “Ja, this one looks as if it would make a fine mast,” Dag agreed. He splayed his hand over the bark of the enormous tree and tried to visualize the grain beneath, as Ranveig seemed able to do. It was no use. Although his strong arms and broad shoulders would be useful when it came time to cut down the huge timber, he had not Ranveig’s skill at imagining a tree become a ship.

  He grinned at the short, bowlegged shipwright. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Ranveig. You build the ship—I will sail it.”

  Ranveig grunted. “I merely wanted your approval. Sigurd wouldn’t come, and he says your knowledge of sailing vessels is as good as his.”

  Dag felt a twinge of surprise at his brother’s praise. Sigurd often dealt with him in a slightly condescending fashion. It pleased him to hear his brother admit his worth.

  “You have my approval, Ranveig. But I would go back to the steading now. I have some unfinished business that needs attending.”

  Ranveig nodded absently, still staring at the tree.

  Dag moved off into the woods, his heartbeat quickening at the thought of his “unfinished business.” It was foolish of him, but he couldn’t wait to see the Irishwoman again. His body still hummed from the pleasure of the night before, yet his greedy shaft was hard and ready for more. What excuse could he use to take the woman from her duties? Was there a tunic he could have her mend? Nei, better yet, he would say that he meant to begin teaching her Norse. He would have to take her someplace quiet for their lesson.

  He smiled, thinking of exactly what words he would teach her first.

  Fiona sighed and brushed a strand of hair away from her face. It was hot in the weaving room, and she had not had a respite since Mina had suggested she and Breaca get some buttermilk from the dairy at midday.

  Nearby, the Norsewomen talked quietly, but Fiona couldn’t understand their words and their conversation did little to lift her boredom. She was alone with her thoughts, and troubling thoughts they were. She kept reviewing in her mind the events of the night before. At last she’d coupled with the Viking, and it had been as splendid as she had imagined. But guilt gnawed at her remembered pleasure. Dag was her enemy. Her mind knew that, even if her body would not accept the truth. How was she to endure living like this, torn between desire for her captor and resentment that he had such control over her life?

  The drone of women’s voices suddenly stopped. Fiona looked up and saw Dag standing in the doorway of the weaving house. He seemed so big, his body blocking the light from outside. Fiona’s throat went dry at the sight of him.

  Dag spoke a few words to Mina. She raised her brows, then nodded, her face expressionless. Fiona’s apprehension intensified.

  Dag turned in her direction, and his blue-eyed gaze seemed to pierce her body with fire. He gestured for her to come with him.

  Fiona breathlessly followed him out the door of the weaving house. They passed byres and storage buildings and finally reached the bathing hut. They entered the building by a different door than she and Breaca had used. Seeing the large washing area, the many wooden tubs and benches, Fiona guessed this side of the shed was reserved for the jarl and his close kin.

  Dag latched the door behind them, and Fiona felt a tremor of anticipation at once more being alone with this enigmatic, unpredictable man. What would he do to her this time?

  Dag put more wood on the fire and pushed several large rocks against the hearth, then quickly undressed. Seeing his prodigious erection, Fiona shivered with sudden desire. So that was what he intended.

  He approached and gestured toward her clothing. Fiona took off her shoes and kirtle while Dag stared at her. He guided her to one of the benches. Cloths for drying off were piled on one end. Dag spread one across the wooden seat and sat down. He motioned for her to seat herself beside him.

  She did so, her heart thrumming in her chest, all her senses acutely aware of the man inches away from her. The newly-stoked fire behind them blazed into life, illuminating the room. Fiona couldn’t help staring at Dag, perusing his bare flesh as he had hers. So dazzling he was, this fiery sun god. The glow of the flames turned his long wavy hair to molten bronze and cast his strong, well-made features into dramatic relief. She watched the light warm his skin and make his blue eyes glow hot and wild as if he were as fevered as when she had first beheld him.

  Her breathing quickened. From the beginning, she had desired this man. It hadn’t mattered that he was a Viking, her enemy. She had felt an intense craving to have him touch her. She was awed by his fair coloring, his height as he towered over her, the strength and power implicit in his long limbs and sleek muscles. She’d known instantly that this was a man among men. Deep down in her woman’s soul, she recognized him as a male to mate with, to seek strength and protection from.

  Dag reached out and touched one of her breasts. He said a word, then touched her other breast and repeated it. Fiona looked down at his hand, surprised and a little disappointed to realize that he meant to teach her his language rather than make love. She spoke the word as well as she could. He nodded and said it again. The second time she refined her pronunciation, earning a warm smile from Dag.

  Very deliberately, Fiona drew his hand to her breast and gave him the Irish word. Dag’s finger massaged her nipple as he repeated it. Satisfaction swept through her, not merely sexual, but pleasure that he was willing to learn her language as she learned his.

  Dag leaned down and touched her foot, giving her the Norse word, then moved his hand upward to demonstrate the terms for “ankle,” “calf,” and “knee.” Fiona repeated them in a breathless voice. Her body felt swollen and hungry, and she could scarcely concentrate. She closed her eyes as he touched her thigh and waited for him to move his hand to a more satisfying position. When he did not, she opened her eyes to see Dag regarding her with a teasing expression. Slowly, deliberately, he put his hand on her wrist, apparently preparing to begin his tantalizing upward route again.

  Impatient, Fiona took his hand and brought his fingers to her mouth. She said the Irish word for “mouth,” then nibbled on his fingers. Dag’s eyes darkened with desire, and Fiona felt a wave of gratification. Her Norse lessons would not last much longer at this rate.

  Abruptly, Dag stood. Taking her hand, he brought it to his erect shaft. Fiona inhaled sharply, barely remembering to repeat the word for that part of him. His hand covered hers, urging her to stroke him. Fiona gave a ragged sigh and complied.r />
  She looked up and watched his eyes darken and his jaw go rigid, then enjoyed the half-gasp, half-growl he made when she rubbed her fingers lightly over the silky tip. She knew a taste of the power he must have felt over her when he’d kissed her intimate parts. He had made her helpless before his inflaming and gratifying loveplay. Now he was near as defenseless.

  Except, she didn’t know how to bring him to completion as he had her. Nor was she certain she wanted to. Her own body felt restless and wanting. Would he think her wanton if she let him know she didn’t want to wait to couple with him?

  She released his shaft and stood to move her hand up to caress his chest and shoulders. Subtly, she moved close to him, so her breast grazed his arm. He moaned, then grabbed her around the waist and kissed her, a deep, demanding kiss that made Fiona’s knees go weak. As her stance faltered, his hands found her hips. He lifted her up and rubbed her aching groin against his. Fiona near exploded with the sensation of his hard flesh so near to her aching center.

  When she was certain she could stand no more, he drew her towards the bench and, sitting down, arranged her legs so she straddled him. With one swift, almost violent, movement, he lifted her hips and brought her body down upon his upthrust shaft.

  Fiona screamed. For a second, she thought she couldn’t bear it. Then she realized that the extreme pressure of his body inside hers felt wonderful. With her legs wrapped around Dag’s strong body, his hard thighs supporting her bottom, she opened her eyes and looked up at her lover. His features were distorted, and she wondered if this position felt as intense for him as for her.

  He took a harsh breath and lifted her hips, then brought them down. Fiona screamed again. The feeling of his shaft thrusting inside her made her almost mindless with pleasure. She clutched at Dag’s shoulders, half-begging for mercy. He spoke harsh, emphatic words in his language, then rapidly repeated the motion.

  Again. Again. Again. Again.

  Fiona’s thoughts shattered; her body burst into swirling flames. When she collected the pieces of her consciousness, she found herself lying on Dag’s chest with both of them sprawled lengthwise on the bench. Beneath her cheek, her lover’s heart thundered; his skin felt slick and hot. He groaned something in Norse, then reached up to smooth his hand down her back. Fiona felt tears creep from beneath her closed eyelids. The place this man took her to, surely it was paradise or heaven, the realm of the hereafter which they had caught a glimpse of.

  “Fiona,” Dag whispered. She opened her eyes and lifted her head. He smiled at her, a brilliant smile of satisfaction and warmth. Fiona felt something stir inside her, something beyond the languorous bliss that enveloped her body. She looked away from Dag’s blinding grin and again lay her head against his chest. She had let this man meld his body with hers, dared to allow him to touch her heart.

  His fairy queen. Dag sighed in satisfaction. He had possessed her, finally. She couldn’t deny her helpless surrender. Her delicate body still trembled from the ecstasy he’d given her. In the name of Freya, what sublime delight he’d known himself!

  He sighed again and caressed her hair, flowing over his chest like liquid silk. He wanted to kiss her, to seal the sweetness between them. She was enchantment and magic and endless beguilement, and he had drunk of it as if his soul were parched. Even if he woke up the next morning to find eons of time had sped by, it wouldn’t matter. At this moment, it seemed a fair trade, his soul for those moments of rapture when he’d burst into flames inside her.

  He moved his hand to stroke her scalp, wishing she would raise her head again so he could gaze upon her exquisite features. He longed to look into the mesmerizing depths of her pale-green eyes and see his contentment reflected back at him.

  When Fiona didn’t stir from his chest, Dag gently grasped her around the waist and helped her sit up. His fingers roamed over her arms, breasts, and belly possessively, reassuring himself that she was his. There was so much he wanted to say to her, but they’d best resume their lessons if he were to learn the words before they both grew old!

  He moved to a sitting position beside her and touched her lips, repeating the Irish word she had taught him. Next, he kissed her and spoke the word for “kiss.” She repeated it, then gave him the Irish term.

  He went on to naming objects in the room—bucket, cloth, bench, water, fire. Finally, when both of them were starting to grow confused, he left her and went to fill a large wooden tub with water. He put rocks from the fire in the bottom and waited for them to heat the water. When the bath was ready, he removed the rocks and helped Fiona into the tub. He helped her wash, then, after she had stepped out and begun to dry off, he climbed into the tub himself.

  As he sluiced water over his chest and shoulders, he saw Fiona staring at him, her eyes appraising. He laughed and told her not to be greedy; there would be time for lovemaking later. Although she couldn’t possibly understand those words, she apparently guessed his meaning for she blushed and looked away.

  Dag laughed again. What a hot-blooded wench she was. Although surely sore and tired, she did not appear inclined to make him wait long to have her again.

  After they had dried off and dressed, he unlatched the door and led the woman from the bathing hut. As they walked together back to the longhouse, Dag’s mind whirled with the wonder of what he had experienced. Never had he known lovemaking so intense and satisfying. A part of him felt awed, another part apprehensive. Life had taught him that happiness and contentment were fragile things; it was dangerous to trust in them too much.

  Chapter 17

  The bakehouse was dimly lit and suffocatingly hot. With each breath, Fiona inhaled the moist, yeasty air and heard the monotonous sound of dough being pounded into loaves by the other women. She’d had a headache since she’d awakened this morning, and she suspected at least part of her ailment was caused by lack of sleep. Dag had made love to her much of the night. It had been explosive, intense, yet, for all the satisfaction that suffused her body, Dag’s lovemaking hadn’t banished her nagging doubts.

  Fiona pushed the dough in front of her aside. She couldn’t help feeling anxious and unsettled. Did Dag truly care for her or was his passion something that would wane as he grew used to her body? She shivered despite the heat. Was she a fool to trust her captor, to let him suborn her will with his magic caresses?

  Someone spoke sharply to her in Norse. Fiona turned and tried to quench the resentment she knew showed on her face. Old Ymir, who supervised the bakehouse, gestured toward the neglected dough before Fiona, indicating she should get busy. Fiona gritted her teeth and poked at the dough. It was not so much the work of a thrall she hated as always being inside. She longed for the scent of rain and growing things, the lulling green of the hills of Eire. There might be beauty in the Norse landscape, too, but she had not had a chance to experience it. She was constantly toiling in some dim, airless workhouse. Mayhap she should ask Dag if she could be a field slave instead. Surely it would be more interesting to milk cows or tend vegetables than this tedious work.

  The sound of the other thralls kneading suddenly ceased. Fiona looked up and realized that Ymir had left the bakehouse. An odd sensation came over her, a wild, reckless feeling like a storm blowing in. She had a desperate need for freedom, to feel at least for a time like herself again. What would it hurt if she went outside for a moment?

  She pushed aside the pile of dough and headed for the door. Outside, the breezeless air of the yard stank of manure and garbage rotting in the heat. Fiona wrinkled her nose and walked a few paces. She needed fresh air.

  She moved beyond the byre, almost to the steading wall. With every step, her yearning grew greater, and with it, the awareness that she might be punished if anyone saw her. Her desire for a moment of brief freedom slowly changed into a desperate need to flee, and all at once she was running. She tore out of the steading yard and raced for the green refuge of the forest. Reaching the trees, she didn’t stop, but kept going.

  The pathway took her to the beac
h. There she stopped and stared out at the shimmering gray waves, and relief finally found her. Her pounding heart slowed. She’d come to this place by the sea, and by the sea she could leave again. She was not trapped here for all eternity.

  She walked out on the rocky shoreline, examining the Viking ship grounded a few hundred paces from the water. It was a beautiful thing, the vessel Sigurd called the Stormjomfru. Exquisitely graceful, yet durable and strong. In this ship, men dared to take on the power and strength of the sea, to risk their lives travelling hundreds of leagues in a small, seemingly fragile vessel. It amazed Fiona to think that men could build such things, and then have the courage to use them.

  The Vikings were brave, of that she had no doubt. As much as she hated their blood lust and rapacity, she couldn’t help but admire their boldness.

  But she was bold, too, and proud. The Norse would not break her. If she had to endure this place for a dozen years, never would she waver in her intent. Someday she would return to Eire; someday she would be free again.

  Fiona left off surveying the ship and took a seat nearby on a flat rock in the sun. Here the warmth didn’t seem smothering, but soothing. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back, feeling the sea breeze on her face like a caress.

  * * *

  The fishing had been good, but Dag was anxious to see Fiona. As soon as the men docked the dinghies in the cove down the coast, he left the others to load the catch in the cart and set out through the narrow band of forest which edged the fjord.

  Everything seemed well when he arrived at the steading. Geese and chickens scratched in the dirt around the byres while the huge homefield sow wallowed in a cool dirt bed under a beechtree. There was no sign of the women or thralls, and Dag surmised that they must be busy in one of the workhouses. Fiona would be with them.