The Viking’s Captive Princess

by Michelle Styles

  As she said the words, she knew them to be true. Despite the pain, despite the knowledge that she would never see him again and he would never know who had shared his bed, she would treasure this night.

  His fingers curled around hers, pulling her close. His strong, warm arms went around her. His heart thumped in her ears.

  ‘Sleep now.’ His breath kissed her temple, but she lay there listening, savouring, prolonging this special world that she had somehow entered.

  Thyre lay awake for a long while, listening to his steady breathing, feeling his strong arm curved around her middle and the way their bodies fit together. She was determined to remember everything. She had to change Ragnfast’s plan for her destiny. She had to believe she could. Instead of quenching her desire, tonight had ignited it. What would happen if she stayed? What would happen if she was discovered in his arms? How would he react when he discovered that it was not the daughter of the house, but the stepdaughter? Would he think they intended to dishonour him?

  She listened to his steady breathing for as long as she dared. A queer happiness filled her and she longed for the night’s great blanket to keep enveloping them. She rested against him for a few heartbeats longer before she eased her body away from his, ignoring the siren call of warmth and protection.

  Silently she fumbled about for her shift, discovering it wrapped in a ball on the floor. Quickly she slipped it over her head.

  Outside in the empty hall, she wrapped her arms about her middle and headed towards the faint light of the kitchen. Her life began again now today, this morning. Nothing that had happened here had any bearing on the future, but she could not resist taking one last backwards glance at the naked shoulder and the tousled hair against the whiteness of the linen. With a sigh, she let the curtain fall.

  The faintest rustle woke Ivar. Instantly his body jerked awake. Seeing the heavily embroidered bed hangings and the piles of furs, he leant back against the pillows, replete, at peace. He found it difficult to remember the last time that such contentment had filled him. He reached out for the woman, ready to reveal her identity and satisfy his curiosity. This time he would watch her face as he kissed her mouth and brought her once again to the brink. He would see the passion in her eyes.

  He encountered cold air and an even colder indentation in the bed. Something within him shrivelled.

  Ivar slammed his fist into the pillow and cursed his sound sleep. She had gone. He would have wagered any money that she would stay for the morning gift. He pressed his hands against his eyes. Had he merely dreamed the episode? Instantly he rejected the notion. Her floral scent clung to the pillows.

  But she had been real, not a figment of his fevered dreams. No phantom, but flesh and blood. And she had been a virgin.

  He had felt her maidenhead give way when he had entered her. If he had known, he would have taken her more gently, but he had also heard her cry of pleasure and had felt her move and open under him.

  Why had Thyre come to him? It had to have been her. And why had she given him that most precious of gifts and not stayed to receive her own gift? Because of her intended betrothal? But why come and not stay?

  He did not want to think how long it had been since he last held a woman in his arms, neither did he wish to think how his arms felt empty without her in them. Silently, he willed her to return. Even now, he wanted to kiss her again. His body quickened at the thought.

  ‘Oh, you are awake.’

  Ivar regarded the blonde who pushed aside the curtain. Her chin had no dimple and there was no mark at the base of her neck where her apron dress gaped open. Ivar knew he had suckled long enough between the two bones in her throat to make a mark. It would appear that his caution had not been misplaced. Last night’s woman had not been Ragnfast’s daughter. He let out a breath, and willed his body to relax. Perhaps there was an innocent explanation for this woman being in his chamber.

  ‘Is there something you require?’

  She walked over to the bed and perched on its edge. She twisted her hands and her eyes flicked over the bed hangings, avoiding his face. ‘Forgive me. Nature called. I did not want to disturb you after our…’

  Her face puckered and she appeared to be having trouble thinking of the correct word as her throat worked up and down. Finally she gave a hopeful smile that did not reach her pale blue eyes.

  ‘Our night of passion,’ Ivar finished smoothly.

  ‘Yes, that is exactly what I wanted to say—our night of passion.’

  ‘And what a night it was.’

  ‘Truly?’ Her eyes grew wide.

  ‘Oh, yes. One of the most passion-filled I have ever spent.’

  He controlled his features as the anger grew within him. This woman had not been in his bed, and now she was attempting to make him think she had been. He knew Ragnfast had expected his daughter to be in his bed. He had made that honour clear, but the half-sister had been there instead.

  What had Thyre hoped to gain? Had she been compelled to do it or had she begged for the honour? He frowned. Her response had appeared real enough. No one could feign that amount of fire. There was a deeper story here.

  He would find out the reason and punish whoever had done this. No one made a fool of him. And his lady of the night would not slip through his fingers, melting away in the dark of the night.

  He could well imagine the laughter in the kitchen early this morning. How they had fooled the hideous Viken. How he had been so grateful for a woman’s touch. How they had deceived him and how easy it had been.

  Inside he seethed. His lady of the night would pay for this. No one mocked him.

  The blonde twisted a strand of hair around her forefinger, dipped her head and gave a flirtatious smile. ‘That’s right—our night of passion. I only hope you enjoyed it as much as I did.’

  ‘I certainly enjoyed the night.’ He waited, raising his eyebrow as his mind raced. He would exact his revenge on Thyre. She would regret her deception.

  ‘One thing remains between us…the gift that lovers share.’ She leant back, sticking her bosom out, but averted her eyes as if the scarring on his face bothered her. She held out her hand expectantly. The morning gift. The one she had no right to.

  Ivar cursed under his breath. He refused to be manipulated in this way. He had no objection to giving a gift, but only to the woman who had shared his bed. To the woman who had responded so passionately to his touch, but who had not stayed ’til morning. No doubt she had thought she had won, but he would prove her wrong. ‘I think we should do this formally.’

  ‘Formally?’ Her eyes widened and her mouth turned down at the corners, making her look like a startled owl. ‘Why? I like things to be…to be intimate. Kept between the man and woman.’

  ‘Your father has done me much honour while my men and I have rested here,’ Ivar said smoothly, clinging on to the remnants of his temper. Revenge would be all the sweeter for prolonging it. He would exact every drop of it from Thyre and she would learn. ‘I wish to thank him. How better than to give you a small trinket of my appreciation.’

  ‘In front of the whole house?’ she squeaked. ‘You want to give me my gift in front of everyone?’

  ‘In front of the household and my men.’

  He watched her through narrowed slits as her hands smoothed and re-smoothed the pleats in her gown.

  ‘It will be much more pleasant this way,’ he said. ‘I can show my true appreciation.’

  ‘And there is no way that you wish to keep this between us two. An intimate exchange between two who shared the passions of the night.’ Her eyes flickered everywhere but on his face.

  ‘No. I wish to make my declaration before everyone. I must insist.’ Ivar waited. Even now, if this woman confessed, he would forgive her.

  ‘Very well, I will do as you request.’ She rose from the bed, and her lips curved into a trembling smile. He almost felt sorry for her, and the humiliation that would come, but the conspirators had brought it on their own heads. Seeing her acti
ons, he doubted if she had the brains to think the scheme up. No, it must have been Thyre, and it would be Thyre who would pay. Last night was not the end, but the beginning. Concubine to a jaarl would suit her far better than wife to some hard-handed farmer. He wondered that he had not thought of it before. He would make the offer in his own time.

  ‘Allow me to inform your father,’ Ivar replied carefully, watching the woman’s face drain of colour. He had to be careful. Thyre must not suspect and have time to plan. He focused on her white throat and renewed anger filled him. ‘You may go and make yourself ready. Your face appears flushed. I would have my bed partner looking her best.’

  ‘Of course, it was a unique experience for me as well, but such things…that is to say, it is not our custom.’

  ‘But it is my wish. Your father will indulge me. Trust me. The gift will make it all worthwhile.’

  He kept a tight lead on his emotions. The woman who had shared his bed would be sharing it again. And this time, it would be for far more than a night.

  Chapter Six

  ‘He knows, Thyre. Your Viken lover knows all about the trick and he is taunting us.’ Dagmar burst into the kitchen, her eyes wild and her face pinched.

  ‘Sit down, Dagmar, and take a deep breath.’ Thyre made her voice to sound natural and easy as she gave the porridge another stir. ‘All this pacing up and down is making my head ache. He has no idea, not unless you told him. And he is not my Viken lover any longer. I hope never to see him again.’

  Everything was a drama with Dagmar. She continually fretted about every word and nuance. This morning was no different. It had to be. The plan was without a flaw. All Dagmar had to do was to perch on the bed, give her sweetest smile and Ivar would never guess.

  He had failed to stir when she had left the bed. He had taken his pleasure, fallen asleep and that was the end of it. She was only a warm body.

  Thyre blinked rapidly. Her heart screamed she was wrong. But if she was, why hadn’t he said something or whispered her name during the time they had spent together?

  Thyre gave the porridge one final vicious stir, regained control of her emotions and turned to face Dagmar.

  ‘Did you do something, Dagmar? Something that we had not discussed?’

  Dagmar caught her tongue between her teeth and slowly shook her head, counting the points off on her fingers. ‘I did everything you said…almost everything, I was not able to slip into his bed…I came up with a good excuse though.’

  ‘Why do you think he is taunting you?’ Thyre hated the way her stomach twisted and all the air rushed out of her lungs. ‘You must have a reason. Simply saying that you have one of your feelings is no good to me. We will have to make plans. Did he kiss you?’

  Dagmar recoiled. ‘Nothing like that. He never even attempted to touch me. He regarded me with his glacier-blue eyes as if he could see through to my heart.’

  The heavy weight on Thyre’s chest vanished and she could breathe again. No kisses. No caresses. Nothing to tell him that they were different women. Just Dagmar’s overactive imagination and her love of drama. Thyre pressed her fingers to her temples and wished she had had more sleep.

  Everything should be over now. Only Thyre knew it would not end for her. Last night was seared on her memory. Every part of her ached with an intense burning. She had not been prepared for this maelstrom of emotions that swamped her senses. She had thought it would not change anything, but instead it had changed everything. Thyre leant forwards and touched Dagmar’s cold hand. ‘Dagmar, keep calm. All will be well.’

  ‘He thanked me for the pleasant night, one of the best he had ever spent…’ Dagmar paused, and her brow wrinkled.

  ‘Is there something wrong with that?’ A small spark of satisfaction grew with Thyre. Last night had been special to Ivar. She hated that she wished it could have continued, and that she could have had the words from his lips herself. Face flaming, she turned back to the hearth and concentrated on the bubbling porridge. ‘What did he give you for your morning gift?’

  ‘He intends to present my morning gift in front of everyone.’ Dagmar twisted the ends of her apron dress, crumpling the ties with her hand. ‘I am afraid, Thyre. It is far from normal. These things are discreet—bed talk between a man and a woman, not out in the open where all might gawk. What if he makes an offer for me?’

  Thyre struggled to keep her temper. Dagmar was doing it again—seeing shadows where there were none. There was a logical explanation for the Viken’s behaviour if only she could find it. ‘Ivar Gunnarson is too great a jaarl. When he marries, it will be because his king has chosen him a bride. Ragnfast married our mother only when the king commanded it.’

  ‘But Mother was a princess.’

  ‘Precisely, and you are the only child of a jaarl and will inherit all of his lands. Your father would never allow you to become a concubine to a Viken, even if he is one of the most powerful jaarls in the kingdom. There is a difference between a concubine and a wife.’

  ‘But then why does the Viken want everyone there? These exchanges are supposed to remain private.’ Dagmar shook her head. ‘I just do not understand Viken warriors.’

  ‘The ways of men are mysterious.’ Thyre picked up Beygul and held her close. She inhaled the familiar catty smell and stroked the soft fur. She had to hang on to what was real. Viken customs were different.

  ‘What is the matter with your throat?’ Dagmar asked, her gaze becoming piercing. ‘Put that cat down and come over here into the light.’

  ‘My throat…nothing is the matter.’ Thyre let Beygul go and put her hand over her neck, trying to feel if anything was different. She had not bothered with Dagmar’s mirror this morning, not daring to see if somehow her face reflected the night she had spent and the change she felt in herself. She had simply tidied herself up, put on a fresh apron dress and her soft leather boots and tied her hair back with a kerchief. She had taken extra care with washing, had made sure none of his scent lingered anywhere except in her memory. Little things that kept her mind from going back to the night and what had happened. ‘Stop giving me that look, Dagmar.’

  ‘What look?’

  ‘As though I am a mouse and you are Beygul. What can you see?’

  Dagmar reached out a slender finger and touched the base of Thyre’s throat. ‘You are bruised. That warrior bruised you. Do you have passion marks anywhere else? Anywhere at all?’

  Thyre explored the area with her fingers.

  Marked. He had marked her. Deliberately. She remembered how in the beginning, his fingers had skimmed her face and had traced the indent of her dimple. ‘Is it that obvious?’

  Dagmar tapped her finger against her mouth. ‘It may have been unintentional. Some men are just like that. They lose control and do not realise their own strength.’

  ‘But you noticed it straight away. You said he was taunting you. Do you think he was looking for this? Was it light enough for him to see you or was the curtain that separates the room from the hall still drawn?’

  Thyre fought against the rising panic in her voice. She was becoming worse than Dagmar. Her mind was playing tricks, making her remember things that had not happened. Had he indeed kissed her there and then caressed her dimple? Or was she just imagining it? She forced air into her lungs, let it go and then forced them to fill again. It was only her overactive imagination.

  ‘He could have been. How would I know? I did not even know you had it!’ Dagmar paced the room, then stopped. ‘No, that’s impossible. I had pulled the curtain back, but it remained dark. His scar was barely visible.’

  ‘But you said that he seemed to know instantly.’

  ‘And you said that it was my nerves. He noticed that I was coming back into the room.’ Dagmar glared back at her. ‘You know what I am like and I accept your opinion.’

  Thyre swallowed hard, trying to think as a small satisfied something twisted in her stomach. He had guessed from almost the first moment. But what was his purpose? How did he intend to use his
knowledge? And had he toyed with her? Why had he not asked before they had joined?

  ‘We shall have to hide the mark,’ Thyre said, pressing her hands against her head. ‘It would look strange if I did not appear with you. We do not want any comment. It would leave Ragnfast open to insult if we did not appear. And if the Viken appear insulted…’

  Dagmar gave a small frightened nod as if she understood. ‘But how shall we hide it?’

  Thyre snapped her fingers. ‘Shawls. We must wear shawls. He cannot ask you to undress. There are limits to hospitality.’

  Dagmar hurried over to the trunk, and flung it open. ‘This one will do.’

  Thyre caught the shawl and pulled it tight about her throat. Thankfully Dagmar had noticed the bruising before it was too late.

  She did not need any awkward questions this morning. Later after the Viken had left, she would shrug and allow Ragnfast to reach his own conclusions. Whatever happened, last night had prevented the betrothal to Otto. Ragnfast might bluster for a few days, but he would see the sense in her remaining here in the end. ‘Does this hide it now?’

  ‘Much better.’ Dagmar looped the russet shawl about her shoulders. ‘You can always say that you are sickening if Far asks why you are wearing a shawl in the summer time.’

  ‘Dagmar! Dagmar!’ Ragnfast’s bellow echoed through the kitchen. ‘The Viken jaarl wishes to make a goodbye present. He commands that all of the household be present. Everyone. I have no wish for trouble after this visit has gone so well. You and Thyre must be there. He insists.’

  ‘Sister…’ Dagmar reached out and Thyre caught her hand, covering the ice cold fingers with her own.

  ‘Shall we go?’

  ‘Hold on tight to me,’ Dagmar pleaded. ‘You must not leave me.’

  ‘Once we are on the beach, you go and stand by your father. I will stay back amongst the other women. Receive the morning gift with dignity, Dagmar.’

  ‘If you say I must…’

  ‘We have to hope, Dagmar. Without hope, we are lost…’ Thyre drew the shawl tighter about her neck, clinging to the thought that men sometimes marked women without realising it. He could not suspect. After all, he was just a warrior and thought with his brawn, instead of with his brain.