Sigurd’s eyes widened in outrage. “I fear Brodir is right. The woman has bewitched you. You forget who you are, Dag Thorsson.”
“And what am I?” Dag demanded. “A landless second son who will live his life always in his brother’s shadow!”
The anger in Sigurd’s eyes turned to hurt. “Always, I have treated you as my equal, Dag.” He shook his head. “I would not have us fight. I would have things between us as they were.”
Dag shook his head sadly. How could he tell his brother that such a thing could never be?
* * *
It was well past twilight when they arrived at the steading. Sigurd went to Knorri to make his report. Dag excused himself and went to see to the care of the horses. He took them to an old cattle byre that was half-falling down but still a decent shelter and unharnessed them himself. Then he fetched them fresh water and plenty of hay and even added several handfuls of grain to their feed. After spending a few moments talking to them and stroking their necks as they ate, he left and headed for the slave quarters.
Sorli was nowhere in sight, and Dag guessed he was probably eating in the small, bare dwelling were he lived. Pushing aside the hide door covering, Dag entered the slave hut. The field thralls were gathered around the cooking hearth, and Fiona was using a bone ladle to dish the stew into wooden bowls. It smelled as delicious as the potful she’d been stirring the last time Dag had seen her.
With their senses concentrated on the food, none of the slaves noticed Dag’s presence. He cleared his throat. A dozen pairs of startled eyes met his. Dag restrained himself from seeking out Fiona’s gaze and focused instead on a dark-haired youngster. “Boy,” he said, “what is your name?”
The youth gaped at him, his eyes wide and frightened, then answered, “My name is Aeddan... my lord. How may I serve you... master?”
Dag felt the tension in the slave house. Obviously, few warriors ever came here, preferring instead to deal through Sorli. Dag’s presence had clearly aroused the thralls’ dread, and the realization angered him. Did these people live in fear of every Norseman they saw? Was that what Brodir and his ilk had brought about with their cruelty?
Dag spoke abruptly. “The jarl has purchased a pair of horses. I need a boy to tend them. Aeddan, are you willing?”
The boy’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water. “I... I... I am willing,” he finally managed.
“It will mean sleeping with the animals, cleaning out their byre, brushing them down every day,” Dag warned, his voice stern. “I want these beasts to have constant attention.”
Aeddan nodded, a mingled look of disbelief and pleasure crossing his face. “They will want for nothing, I swear it, master.”
Dag let himself half-smile, then said, “I will take you to them shortly. Go and gather your things.”
The boy hurried toward the back of the dwelling. Dag finally let his gaze rest upon Fiona. He gestured toward the doorway. “Come and speak with me.”
She met him outside in the twilight. “That was kind of you, Dag. Aeddan does love animals.”
“Not kind, merely sensible. A man or boy who enjoys his task does it more willingly. I would have the jarl’s horses well cared for.”
Fiona’s voice was warm with admiration. “You would make a good jarl, Dag. You understand men’s ambitions and dreams.”
Dag grimaced, remembering his angry words with Sigurd. He hadn’t meant for things to come to this, that he must break with his brother and live without his goodwill.
“Dag!” Sorli came to join them. “Are you back from Ottar’s?”
“Ja. Sigurd and I purchased some horses for the jarl. I have asked the boy called Aeddan to look after them.
Sorli snorted audibly. “You’re a clever man, Dag Thorsson. I have tried for months to come up with a task that the boy won’t shirk. Then you decide he will tend horses. I don’t suppose you had any inkling that the boy dotes on animals, did you? Of course not. ‘Twas merely a lucky guess, wasn’t it?”
“I noted some time ago the young thrall’s penchant for animals. He could not pass by my hound Ulvi without giving the beast a pat. Here the boy is now,” Dag added as a shaft of light peeked out around the hide doorway. “Aeddan, are you ready?”
A small figure scrambled through the doorway. “Ja, master.”
Dag turned back to Fiona. “I will come tomorrow and help you prepare for the journey.” He moved away, the boy following after him. As they disappeared into the darkness, Fiona heard Aeddan’s childish voice, “What are the horses’ names, master.”
Dag answered, low and thoughtful. “I have not had time to consider it. Mayhap you would do me the favor of naming them. We can’t merely call out, ‘Hey, horse,’ when we want them to go, can we?”
Aeddan’s answering peal of laughter made Fiona’s insides wrench. Dag sought to better the life of even a lowly slave.
Sorli moved beside her and cleared his throat. “Have you eaten yet, wench? If not, you’d best return to the dwelling and grab a bite before all is gone. I’ll not have you out here catching cold. Nei, not when you are of such obvious value to the jarl’s nephew.”
“Of course, master,” Fiona answered glumly.
The next day, Dag took Fiona with him to the longhouse. Although he’d argued that she should not come when he went to get the clothes, she had begged for a chance to appraise Mina’s well-being with her own eyes. Finally he had relented.
Mina rose from her stool by the loom as soon as she saw them.
“Mina, I would have you provide warm clothes for my thrall,” Dag said. “She is to accompany Sigurd and me on our journey to Skogkrasse.”
Mina gave Fiona a brief, warm smile, then led her and Dag to the main storage closet. While Mina fumbled with the ring of keys on the cord around her neck, Fiona assessed the Norsewoman’s health. She had regained a little weight in her face and her complexion was not as pallid. She appeared to be recovering well.
When the door to the closet was opened, Mina gestured for Dag to drag out one of the large storage chests. She searched among the piles of cloth and finished garments, finally locating a plain woolen cloak and tunic. She handed the clothes to Dag, then her gaze met Fiona’s.
Fiona’s throat ached to exchange some words with the other woman, but Dag had warned her that it would not be wise. Although the longhouse was empty of warriors, he wanted no one to interpret Fiona’s presence there as an act of disobedience.
Dag took the garments from Mina and they turned to leave. Before they reached the doorway of the longhouse, Mina called out, “Wait!” The Norse woman hurried back toward the storage area then quickly reappeared. She held out a pair of tall, sealskin boots to Fiona. “Take them,” she said. “They were my sister’s. She was small like you. They will keep you warm if the weather turns bad.”
Fiona nodded, fighting tears. “Thank you,” she told Mina gravely.
After they left the longhouse, Dag took Fiona’s arm and gave her a puzzled look. “What’s wrong?” he asked. “You seem so unhappy.”
Fiona shook her head. She would not burden Dag with her turmoil. She had made her decision, and she must keep to it. “I will miss Mina,” she told him softly. “I feel as if I said goodbye to her, and I sorrow at our parting.”
Dag nodded and led Fiona to the cart by the horse shed. As he stored her new boots among the other supplies, he told her, “We’re taking tents, as well as stored food and cooking supplies. When so many men gather, it is impossible to feed everyone by hunting. You will cook the meals.”
Fiona met his glance blankly. Her mind was hardly on preparing food.
“You promised you would behave as an obedient thrall,” Dag reminded her. “And cooking is a reasonable task for a woman.”
He paused, his eyes searching her face. Fiona looked away, unwilling for him to see her unhappiness.
She heard him sigh softly. “We will leave very early on the morrow, Fiona, so I advise you to seek your bed as soon as the evening meal
is finished.”
She nodded, and Dag walked her back to the thrallhouse. After she had eaten and cleaned up the remainders of the meal, she lay down on her pallet. Once again, her torment began as the desires of her heart fought with the sense of duty she had been born to. The battle raged far into the night until Fiona fell into an exhausted sleep.
They left before dawn. Fiona found herself yawning every few steps. Although she refused to give in to Dag’s suggestion that she ride in the cart, she knew she would later be grateful to rest from struggling to keep up with the men’s long strides.
She was surprised by how many warriors accompanied them. She’d thought it would merely be her, Sigurd, and Dag and perhaps Kalf or Balder. Instead, she found a dozen others would be making the journey. If every jarl brought so many warriors, the Thing would be a huge gathering.
The day was cloudy and breezy, but not cold. After the sun rose, Fiona grew so warm that she flung back the hood of her cloak.
They stopped for a meal when the sun was high in the sky, and Fiona dutifully served dried fish and dark bread to all. The men ignored her, treating her as if she were simply one of the serving thralls in the longhouse. Fiona ate her own meal quickly, then washed her hands with a little of the stored water they had brought. When she returned to the wagon to put the food away, she discovered Dag by the horses, stroking one of the animals’ heads. As she neared, she heard him speak in a low voice. She looked around, wondering whom he was talking to, then realized his words were meant for the horses. She paused to watch him.
When he looked up, she could not help smiling at him. “Do they ever answer you?” she asked.
A slight flush spread up his neck. “Sometimes,” he answered.
Fiona watched him, her throat tight. Dag looked like the most fierce and deadly of warriors, but his heart could be as tender and sensitive as a woman’s. A deep pang of longing and regret went through her. What might there have been between them if she and Dag had not met as enemies?
She turned away. Her hands shook as she replaced the leftover fish in a wooden cask in the cart. Tonight, she was to lie with him, to join her body with his. What sweet agony it would be, to experience once again that consuming bliss, knowing that they might have only a few more nights together.
Tears stung her eyes. How could it hurt so much? Mayhap it would be best if she refused him instead. He might be angry, but at least it would spare her suffering in the end.
Dag came up beside her. “Are you tired, Fiona? Would you like to ride for a while?”
“Nei,” she answered. “I will not avoid hardship. I need to prepare for the deprivations of the long journey home.”
He nodded and moved away. Fiona sighed. She both welcomed and dreaded the distance growing between them. Let him reject her now, before the bond between them deepened, and left her with even more gaping wounds when they parted.
The rest of the day seemed endless. They walked and walked until Fiona’s legs and back ached. She embraced the discomfort, hoping it would distract her from the pain in her heart. She also forced herself to make plans for when she returned to her homeland.
Her future in Eire was very uncertain. Even if Duvessa and the other women had survived, they couldn’t rebuild Dun- sheauna by themselves. They would need men to help them. Fiona realized she might find herself forced into marriage with a neighboring chieftain in order to protect her people. At the thought that she might even have to wed Sivney Longbeard, she shuddered. Had all she had endured been for naught—her father’s death, the burning of her home, these discouraging months of enslavement among the Vikings? Was she fated to marry Sivney in the end?
She wanted to cry, to rage at the gods for cursing her so cruelly. But she dared not give vent to her anger and frustration. Dag would see, and he would be hurt, thinking that she wasn’t happy with his plans. She forced her face to impassivity and kept walking.
At last, they stopped for the night. While Dag unharnessed the horses and Sigurd set up the tents where he and his brother would sleep, Fiona took out the food stores. One of the men built a fire, and she made a stew using dried meat, vegetables, and grain. The warriors each carried a horn cup in their packs, and once the gruel was hot, they used this to scoop out a portion and gulp it down. Then, as Fiona was cleaning up, Rorig and Utgard returned from hunting with two plump ptarmigans.
“Ah, fresh meat,” Sigurd exclaimed with obvious delight. He gave Fiona a questioning look. “You do know how to cook game, don’t you, wench?”
Fiona opened her mouth to tell him that she did not, then remembered her promise to Dag. She nodded dutifully.
“Tomorrow,” Dag said, taking her hand. “Tomorrow, she will cook for you. Tonight I have other things in mind.”
Fiona followed Dag into the tent they would share. Once inside, she hesitated. Now was the time to tell Dag her decision. Surely, he would understand that lovemaking would only worsen the pain of parting.
“Dag,” she began. “I don’t think this is wise.”
The tent was dark, but she could hear him fumbling with his clothes. “Why?” he responded, still undressing.
She searched for the right words. “I fear the pleasure we share will only lead to more pain in the end.”
“You must trust me, macushla,” Dag said huskily.
Desperation choked her throat. Dared she tell him how she felt about him? Mayhap he did not care for her as she did for him. She would truly feel a fool if she discovered he sought only a few quick nights of pleasure before he was rid of her.
“I... I don’t know if I can...” He silenced her protest by pulling her into a fierce embrace. Fiona shuddered at the touch of his lips. Her resolve wavered. She pulled away and gasped for breath, then lifted her face to his again. It was part of the bargain, she told herself as his tongue filled her mouth. She had agreed to be his obedient thrall, and a princess of Eire never reneged on a bargain.
Between passionate kisses, he removed her clothing. Fiona trembled at his touch, feeling lost and helpless. Nothing mattered but the hunger that burned between them, this soul-deep craving that blotted out thought and reason.
When they were both naked, Fiona leaned against him, feeling as if she had fallen into an abyss. His fingers stroked her from her neck down to her hips then swept upwards again. He cradled her neck in his hands and kissed her until she moaned. Her body arched up to his, eager and yielding.
Gently, he lay her down on the bed furs. His shaft was hard against her thigh, but his fingers felt light and caressing. He touched her all over, then let his lips follow where his fingers had gone. Fiona cried out as he knelt over to nuzzle the inside of her knees, then moved his mouth higher. Wantonly, she spread her thighs, urging him to taste her, to use his mouth to ease the tormenting ache inside her.
The harsh skin of his unshaven jaw met her tender flesh, and his tongue fluttered against her wet opening. Her hips moved upward, seeking fulfillment. Fire whirled inside her, but it was not enough. She wanted him to fill her.
Reaching down, she tangled her fingers in his thick wavy hair and lifted his head. “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”
He raised his body to cover hers, but did not enter her. Instead, he strewed kisses over her breasts, then licked her neck and along her jaw. Fiona whimpered.
At last his lips melded to hers, and with a shuddering groan, he entered her. Fiona cried out, overcome by the wonder of their bodies joining together. Rays and ripples of delight swept through her as he thrust with slow, deep strokes. She hovered at the brink of ecstasy, then fell into the chasm beyond. As the waves of her peak died away, he continued to move inside her. Unbelievably, she climbed the heights again, exploded with rapture, and still felt his relentless rhythm rocking her throbbing flesh.
She heard her own voice rise in rasping, wordless cries. Her nails dug into the skin of his shoulders. Hot, white light filled her, then all was still.
They lay together, their bodies slick with sweat, their hearts b
eating a frantic tattoo. In moments, Dag fell asleep beside her. Fiona sighed, the tension inside her returning. She reached out to caress his face, feeling his heat and life. He was so precious to her. How could she bear to lose him?
She began to cry, silently at first, then with muffled sobs.
Dag woke. “Macushla, beloved—what is wrong?”
Fiona shook her head. How could she tell him what she felt? Even after she returned to Eire and fulfilled her vow, a part of her would always be missing.
“ ‘Tis nothing,” she said, stroking his face again. “Only that you please me so much.”
Dag frowned into the darkness. Fiona seemed so unhappy. What was it that troubled her? Did she fear the sea voyage or what they would find when they returned to her homeland? And why had she been hesitant to make love? It worried him, this tension he felt in her. Mayhap he should explain all of his plan, that he meant to claim her father’s lands and rebuild Dunsheauna.
But what if she argued against it? He had neither the time nor energy for conflict with her. He must keep his goal clear in his mind and be confident of success or he would never convince other men to take the risk with him. It was as he had said—she would have to trust him.
Chapter 25
The golden light of sunset gilded the surrounding hills and cast long, eerie shadows across the broad valley where the Thing would be held. Fiona’s breath caught as she surveyed the multitude of men and tents gathered beside the gleaming lake. ‘Twas like the fair at Cashel, she thought, only mayhap even bigger.
“How long will the meeting take?” she asked as she walked beside Dag. Sigurd and the other men had taken off down the pathway, obviously anxious to join their countrymen, while Dag remained behind to guide the horses.
“I cannot say. We might reach a decision in a few hours... or a few days.”
Fiona tensed. Her time with Dag grew shorter and shorter.
Seeing her ill-ease, Dag reached out with his free hand and touched her shoulder. “There’s nothing to fear. I won’t let anyone hurt you, I promise.”
Storm Maiden Page 26