Storm Maiden

by Mary Gillgannon

  Dag and Eliisil’s conversation turned again to provisioning the ship, and Fiona allowed her mind to wander. She thought of Siobhan and wondered if she still lived. Now that her father was dead, her aunt was her closest kin. She longed to speak with her of Dag and his intent, to gain Siobhan’s aid and goodwill for their plan.

  She sighed. There was much to be done ere they even set sail for Eire. Dag meant go back to Engvakkirsted to gather men and say farewell to Sigurd, and she worried that Brodir would harm him. Her fear was no longer for herself, but for Dag. She loved him so.

  * * *

  “Macushla, are you still awake?”

  Fiona struggled to stir from the comfort of the bedfurs. She had fallen asleep almost as soon as she lay down upon the soft bed in the chamber Skirnir’s wife had bid her to when they arrived at Ferjeshold. Now her fatigue ebbed at the thought of being alone with Dag.

  “Ja, “ she whispered. “And how is it with you? Are all the arrangements made with Skirnir?”

  “I’d not speak of that now.” Dag slid in beside her, then pulled her towards him. She gasped at the feel of his warm skin, and immediately her body tingled with desire. She lifted herself to her elbow and leaned over to touch his face, tracing the graceful lines of his brow and cheeks, then caressing his mustache and the harsh skin of his unshaven jaw below.

  “Uhhh,” Dag groaned. “I vow I am so fatigued I could sleep for a sennight.”

  Fiona felt a faint disappointment. Dag needed his rest. It was selfish of her to seek to couple with him ere he slept. She withdrew her fingers from his face.

  “Rub the back of my legs, please,” Dag murmured as he turned over to lie on his chest. “I am unused to riding a horse, and my legs ache fiercely.”

  Fiona pulled back the bedfurs and began to massage Dag’s thighs. Beneath her fingers, his skin felt warm, his muscles tight and hard. He groaned again, then sighed. “I do so like it when you touch me, Fiona. It reminds me of when I was a prisoner and you tended my wounds. You have such a pleasing touch. When you bathed me, it was near torture to endure your caresses and pretend to be unconscious.”

  “You told me once that you pretended to be in a swoon that day because you feared me. Why?”

  “If I tell you, Fiona, will you promise not to laugh?”

  “I promise.”

  “I thought you were a fairy.”

  “A what?”

  Dag sat up. “A fairy—a supernatural being. I feared you meant to steal my soul.”

  “The fever,” she suggested. “It made you imagine things.”

  “Ja, it was partly the fever, but it was you as well. You were so unearthly beautiful. When you first came, I thought you meant to kill me, but then you began to undress.” Dag’s hand moved to cup one of her breasts. “What a vision you were. Your hair loose and wild, your strange green eyes, a shade I had never seen before. Your perfect body… His voice trailed off, and Fiona sighed as his fingers found her nipple and gently teased. “I wanted you desperately,” he whispered. “But I was too sick and frightened to take you. I feared to couple with you, lest you steal my soul and trap me in fairyland forever.”

  Fiona closed her eyes and let herself melt at Dag’s touch. “You must have thought me a wanton, that I fondled you while you lay helpless and in pain.”

  Dag laughed huskily. “If you would know the truth, I scarce noticed my injuries then. I was on fire for you, but something kept me from taking you.”

  “Your fear.”

  “Nei, not only my fear. I also recognized your innocence, that you had not known a man before. I was beholden to you for tending my wounds and aiding me. I didn’t think it right to take you like that. I would have frightened you, and likely hurt you as well.”

  “But I wanted it,” she protested. “ ‘Twas my purpose in aiding you, that you might couple with me and save me from my father’s marriage plans.”

  “Nei, you thought you wanted that, but you did not. You were but a silly maiden then.”

  “Silly?”

  “Ja,” Dag answered, his grin visible in the brazier’s glow. “Not a fairy, but a silly maid.”

  “You said you were afraid of me,” Fiona reminded him.

  Dag’s smile vanished. “Sometimes I fear that you have stolen my soul, Fiona.”

  She felt her chest tighten with emotion. “ ‘Tis not enchantment, Dag, but love. If the truth be known—” She leaned forward so her face was close to his. “I feel the same for you.”

  Dag brushed her hair back and kissed her deeply.

  “You are tired,” she whispered, pulling away. “You must rest.”

  “Not so tired,” he murmured, his hand coming up to fondle her breast again. “And I will rest better when I am inside you.”

  Fiona gasped and smothered a moan as Dag’s hand moved between her thighs. “Sweet Bridget, but the things you make me feel!”

  Dag swiftly reversed positions, pushing her down on the bed. “I have only begun.”

  She groaned as his mouth found her neck and moved lower. Her body felt afire. She wanted this man, wanted to feel his hardness inside her. Arching her hips, she reached for him.

  “Such a greedy wench,” he murmured as he fitted himself within her. “Always you have rushed me.”

  Fiona hardly heard him. Her thoughts dissolved as he found a slow, steady rhythm. The intense pleasure built and built until she felt she would burst from the pressure welling up inside her. Her lips formed wordless, desperate sounds as Dag coaxed her body over the edge. At her climax, she screamed, the sound echoing in the tiny bedchamber. Dag followed her seconds after, his groan of completion a husky counterpoint to her wild cry.

  They lay in a sweaty tangle for a few moments, then Fiona lifted herself from beneath Dag’s still-heaving chest. “By the Saints!” she exclaimed. “Skirnir and the others will think you’re murdering me!”

  “ ‘Twould be fitting punishment for such an ill-tempered wench.”

  Fiona gasped and struggled to sit up. “Ill-tempered! Me? If I am ill-tempered, it is because I was provoked by a wretched lout of a warrior!”

  Dag grinned at her. “I like your fire, storm maiden.’Tis part of what beguiles me.”

  Fiona’s anger faded, and she smiled back. “We are well- matched, Viking,” she said as she smoothed a lock of his wavy hair away from his sweat-glistened face. “Together, we shall be invincible. No warlord dare stand against us, not even Sivney.”

  Dag’s face sobered. “Sivney Longbeard I do not fear, but Brodir haunts my thoughts. Although I tell myself that you will be surely safe here at Fetjeshold, I am still reluctant to leave you to say farewell to Sigurd.”

  “Take me with you.”

  “To Engvakkirsted? Nei, I’ll not agree to such foolishness. Sigurd nearly had you put to death already, and Brodir is like to cut your throat the first chance he gets!”

  “ ‘Twill be easier or you to keep me safe if I am at your side than if you leave me here among strangers who might be bribed by Brodir. Besides, I would say goodbye to Mina and the others.”

  Dag shook his head in negation, but even as he did so, he could not help considering Fiona’s suggestion. He would feel better with Fiona at his side, and for all that he trusted Ellisil, he was not as certain of the other men of Ferjeshold. He had seen some of them cast lustful eyes in her direction.

  “If you came with me, you would have to remain in my sight at all times,” Dag began cautiously. “We could not be parted for even a moment.”

  “I would guard your back, and you would guard mine,” Fiona enthused. “We could protect each other like sword brothers.”

  “You fear for me?” Dag asked in surprise.

  “Ja, Brodir hates you almost as much as me.”

  Dag nodded. There was sense in what she said. Brodir might well see Dag’s bond with Fiona as a betrayal of their clan. “There is another advantage,” he mused. “If we sailed to Engvakkirsted rather than riding, it would save us a day or more of travelling tim
e.”

  “ ‘Tis settled then,” Fiona said, cuddling next to him. “As soon as the ship is ready, we’ll leave on our journey.”

  Dag pulled her close and inhaled the clean scent of her freshly washed hair. Tenderness filled him as he felt the caress of her silken skin against his body. Fiona feared for him; she would fight for him as he would for her. The thought touched him deeply. Other women had desired him for what he could give them, status or wealth or pleasure. But with Fiona it was different. He felt that she cared for his spirit, his self.

  Sighing deeply, he stretched out and slept.

  Chapter 33

  “Freya help me, but my stomach tosses and pitches with every wave.” Standing beside Fiona at the edge of the ship, Breaca clutched the gunwale and groaned.

  Fiona patted her companion’s shoulder then turned to watch Dag and the other men adjust the sealskin ropes which controlled the huge red-and-white sail. “You will grow used to it,” Fiona said. “This ship is smaller than Sigurd’s and seems to ride the waves more roughly. The sea also seems choppier this journey.”

  “Things went well at Engvakkirsted, at least,” Breaca answered. “There was no sign of Brodir, and even if Sigurd and the other warriors ignored you, the women wished us well.”

  Fiona paused, remembering her tearful goodbyes to Mina and the other women. “Parting was easier because I knew you were coming with me,” she told Breaca. “And it helped that Dag stayed at my side, never wavering in his loyalty, even when Sigurd acted as if I didn’t exist.”

  Breaca suddenly wiped at her sweat-beaded brow. “Fiona, forgive me, but I must lie down.”

  Fiona helped the younger woman to the tarpaulin-covered portion of the deck so she could crawl into a warm bedsack.

  After settling Breaca in, Fiona resumed her watch at the side of the ship. A cold wind blew through her heavy fur tunic, making her shiver, and a vague, nagging sense of unease accompanied the chill. She struggled to shake off the mood, reminding herself that they were on their way to Eire and she should be brimming with happiness.

  Turning from the prow, she watched the Norsemen try to control the whipping sail. Only thirty-two men, counting thralls, manned the ship, and Fiona knew that Dag worried if it were enough. Not only had he voiced concern that such a slim crew could keep the vessel afloat if a storm struck, he also had doubts about what would happen if they encountered a strong defensive force when they reached Ireland. Ellisil had suggested that Irish defenses were so inferior to Norsemen as to be unworthy of consideration, but Fiona knew Dag thought otherwise. Last time, the Irish had been unprepared for a raid, he said, but those who survived would not make the mistake again. They must be ready to fight as soon as they beached the ship.

  Tugging an errant wisp of hair into her braid, Fiona shivered again and turned to duck the wind. Nay, it was not fear of shipwreck nor an attack of her countrymen which gnawed at her thoughts. It was a deeper, less reasonable sense of foreboding. Her thoughts turned to Brodir—she could not get over the fact that he had made no attempt to attack her or to prevent this voyage. His hatred for her was so strong, so violent; it didn’t seem possible he had given up all thoughts of revenge.

  But he could not hurt her now, she reminded herself as she looked out at the foaming, gray waves. In a matter of days, she would be back in Eire among her countrymen.

  Dag moved past her as he made his way to take over the tiller, and she noted his harassed expression. “Damned landsmen,” he muttered. “I could teach a herd of sheep to sail better than these fools.”

  Fiona could not help feeling amused by his grumbling. “Not every man has your multitude of skills, Dag,” she chided him. “Warrior, sailor, horseman, lover—is there anything you do not excel at?”

  “I have no skill at tasks that require patience, as well you know,” he answered. “My father’s uncle was a smithy who tried to teach me his trade. He gave up when I ruined everything I set my hand to. If you want a man who can fashion a fancy brooch, forge a weapon, or carve a bowl, do not look to me.”

  “I think you are quite good with your hands.” Fiona gazed at him suggestively. “I have no complaints of being unsatisfied.”

  Dag stared at her, then leaned over to nuzzle her neck. “Thor’s hammer, but you are a distracting wench. What if we all drown because you keep me from taking the tiller?” he whispered in her ear. “Do you even care?”

  “Nei.” Fiona lifted her face to return his kiss. “Sigurd always said I was an undine, luring Norse sailors to their doom.”

  Dag kissed her back for a while, then gently pushed her away. “Well, I have no desire to end up on the bottom of the sea quite yet. I mean to get you back to your enchanted isle first, fairy queen.”

  Fiona smiled as she watched Dag gracefully make his way among the jumble of sea chests and supplies cluttering the deck. She loved him so much, sometimes it scared her. He was brave and strong, but then, so had her father once been. The thought made her smile fade as she made her way to the cargo hold to see about food for the exhausted, hungry crew.

  The rest of the day passed uneventfully, and by night, the sea calmed. Dag was able to leave Rorig at the tiller and seek his rest. Fiona lay beside him, not sleeping but listening to the reassuring sound of his rhythmic breathing. She dozed for a time, then woke with a start and reached out for him. He mumbled slightly at her touch, but did not wake. Fiona sat up and looked around. By starlight, she could make out Rorig’s tall form near the tiller. She lay down again and tried to sleep, but she could not rest. Her chest felt tight, her muscles tense. Mayhap it was the discomfort of sleeping on a hard deck that bothered her.

  She turned over restlessly, then her heart caught in her throat as a shadow moved a few feet away. Straining her eyes in the dim light, she tried to ascertain who it was. Could it be Breaca, too seasick to sleep? Nay, the shape appeared too large for Breaca.

  The hair on the back of her neck stood up, and without puzzling further, Fiona reached out and felt for the dagger Dag wore at his belt. Usually he took it off to sleep, but tonight he had been too tired to bother. Fiona grasped the hilt of the weapon and gently disengaged it from Dag’s belt. She thought of waking him and decided against it. If she was wrong about the danger, she would feel terrible for interrupting Dag’s badly needed rest.

  Gripping the dagger in sweaty fingers, she waited for the dark shape to move again. As moments passed and nothing happened, Fiona began to feel foolish. Why would someone on the ship try to creep up on her and Dag? All the warriors had been handpicked by Dag and Ellisil, and they had sworn as oathmen to one man or the other. She was being ridiculous.

  She closed her eyes again and relaxed her grip on the weapon. Breathing in the sea air, she sought to calm herself. An acrid, unpleasant scent permeated the tangy odor of the ocean, reawakening memory. Fiona opened her eyes and saw a dark silhouette looming above her. She had only a second to grasp the dagger and thrust it upwards with both hands.

  There was a harsh cry as the dagger tore through flesh, and the dark figure staggered backwards. Fiona froze in fear, but Dag jerked out of a dead sleep and, shielding her with his body, rolled them both beneath the hide covering which sheltered this part of the deck. “My knife,” he breathed, groping at his belt.

  “I used it,” she answered.

  “On who? What’s out there?”

  “Brodir.”

  “What?”

  “It’s him,” Fiona gasped. “I recognized his smell.”

  “Thor’s thunder!” Dag threw off the tarpaulin and stood up, bellowing, “Brodir, you cowardly bastard, I’ll tie you to the prow and let the sea creatures eat you! I’ll deny you water, make you beg for my mercy!”

  “Nei! I’ll die like a warrior,” Brodir challenged. “You’ll have to take me in honest battle. If you can still fight—you coward, you man who hides behind a witch woman for protection!”

  Fiona scrambled from beneath the tarpaulin. It was so dark, she could scarcely make out either Dag or
Brodir. Frantically, she realized that Dag was without a weapon. If Brodir attacked, Dag might be wounded before anyone could come to his aid. She groped across the deck, making her way to the nearest sea chest. There would be weapons inside, wrapped in cloth to protect them from the corrosive sea air.

  “ ‘Tis you who will die a coward’s death,” she heard Dag say to Brodir as the two men faced off near the prow. “Never will you reach Odin’s hall. Never will you see your battle companions again.”

  “I’ll die a hero for trying to save my people from the witch woman.” Brodir’s voice sounded strained, and Fiona realized that the wound she had inflicted must pain him. “If only you hadn’t interfered in my plan.”

  “What plan?” Dag demanded.

  “I set the fire,” Brodir taunted. “I thought she would be blamed for it. If only Sigurd had believed me.”

  “You burned the longhouse!”

  “Better that a few women and children should perish than the whole clan succumb to the woman’s evil.”

  “What about Knorri?” Dag asked. “How dare you kill the man you were sworn to! For that alone, you deserve to die a gruesome death.”

  “The fire killed Knorri, not I,” Brodir answered stubbornly. “He was old anyway. He should have stepped aside years ago and let Sigurd become jarl.”

  “Do not argue with him!” Fiona called to Dag. “I fear he uses this time to scheme.”

  As if in answer, Brodir laughed, a chilling, murderous sound. Fiona recalled Brodir’s battle prowess. He had a weapon and Dag did not. Desperate, she searched the sea chest until her fingers closed around the long, slim shape of a sword. She yanked it from its cloth covering and rushed to Dag. She thrust the sword hilt toward him.

  “Nei, I will not use it.” Dag pushed the weapon away. “I will not ease Brodir’s passage into the otherworld by giving him a warrior’s death.”

  “Please, Dag,” she begged. “I would not have you hurt.”