Lord of the Seas

by Sabrina Jarema

  When she grew tired, she went to bed. She lay awake, waiting for him to retire for the night. When his door opened and closed, she sat up, listening.

  A muffled yell from his room started her laughing. To keep quiet, she shoved her face into her pillow, her body shaking with mirth. At the sound of his footsteps, she rose and cracked her door open. He was walking toward the front doorway, muttering to himself, holding the small snake in his hand. She eased the door shut and went back to bed, smiling.

  The war had begun.

  Chapter Twelve

  How long was he going to stand in the doorway and watch her weave?

  Elfwynn ignored Rorik. She had more important things to do than rise to whatever bait he was trying to toss her way. When she’d served him his breakfast that morning, he’d acted quite normal, but an understanding had passed between them as he’d thanked her. The game was on. Her only concern was that he was so much better armed than she was.

  He sauntered over to her loom and leaned on the next one over, his arms crossed. No one else was in the room yet and it made her uneasy.

  “I thought I should warn you that the snakes in the area are very active during this warm time of year.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “I found one in my bed last night.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. It was small and harmless. Still, one wonders how it could have climbed up there and under the tucked-in covers. Often where there’s one, there’s more. I’ve heard that sound will drive them away.”

  “So it does.” Where was he going with this?

  “To be certain I don’t have any others in the room, I’d like you to come in and play your harp for me when I retire. As a precaution.”

  She did look at him, then. “I don’t think so, Northman. It’s not what we agreed on.”

  “It is, however, what you promised.”

  “What are you talking about?” She stopped weaving and faced him.

  “In front of the Arab’s house, you spoke to me to calm me. I remember you said you’d play for me every night.”

  He would remember that. “I said anything I could think of to try to reach you. That’s all.”

  “So you go back on a promise?”

  “It wasn’t a promise.”

  “And yet, you said it, didn’t you?”

  “I can’t do that. Don’t you know what that will do to my reputation when I’m seen going in there with you?”

  “First, it’s well known you don’t think much of me. No one who has heard you speak to me can doubt that. Second, it’s also known I don’t touch a woman unless she’s willing. Third, everyone knows you’re not willing. Therefore, your reputation will be safe. Fourth, anyone would be able to hear the music through the door. As long as you continue playing, what you’re doing will be obvious.”

  What he was doing was obvious. Taking revenge. When they were alone, her hands were occupied, and she couldn’t stop playing, what would he do to her?

  Warmth crept over her, unfurling like a flower opening within her. She’d be at his mercy and, as a Northman, he wouldn’t have any. Still, he’d never force a woman, so she should be safe. If she stopped him, he wouldn’t take her. If she stopped him. With his history, he must be a master of seduction. There was a great difference between force and enticement.

  God forgive her, but he was enticing. Even with how much she resented him, she couldn’t deny it. She would just have to trust in his code and her determination to stop anything from happening.

  “Very well. I’ll play the harp for you. But if you come near me, it’s over. Agreed?”

  He smiled down at her in his heart-stopping way, the very devil in his eyes. “Agreed. I’ll see you this evening, little Christian.”

  Biting her lip, she turned back to the loom. What had she done? This was a battle and she had just stepped into his territory where he would have the advantage. He might stay away from her, but not all fighting was done toe to toe. There were spears and arrows, ways to engage from a distance without ever touching the enemy.

  She ran her hand down the thick woolen cloth. It was said he could catch a spear in flight and hurl it back at the thrower. Against weapon-skills like that, there was no defense. This plan was foolish. She stood no chance against him. Perhaps it would be better to back out now, before this went too far.

  But the teasing look he’d given her had raised her hackles. He was too high-handed, too arrogant. It would bring him down a few notches if he tried anything with her and failed. He needed to experience defeat once in his life.

  If she remained strong, she would be the one to hand it to him.

  * * *

  At least he’d waited until it was so late, most of the people had left the hall for the night before he sought his chamber. There were fewer people to see her pick up the harp and follow him.

  When she entered, he had already pulled off his tunic. He stood with his back to her, clad only in his shirt and trousers. She stopped at the door.

  “You’re not going to undress, are you? If so, I’m leaving.”

  He smiled over his shoulder. “You don’t expect me to sleep fully clothed, do you? I’ll remain decent so as not to offend your delicate sensibilities.”

  “The day you’re decent is the day I’ll see your gods come down and walk among us.”

  “Take care what you say. Sometimes they do. Ask my sister Ellisif.” He drew off his shirt. The muscles in his back rippled as he moved. His ebony hair flowed to his waist, gleaming in the lamplight.

  She busied herself drawing a chair to the wall near the door, and as far from the bed as possible. It appeared he wanted her to play until he fell asleep. Strange, but perhaps without his women with him, he needed something else to relax him. That, she could do. Then she’d leave immediately.

  He walked to the bed and pulled back the furs, checking underneath them. She took the chance to peek at him. His chest was broad and his stomach flat, each ridge defined under his skin. Cords of muscle ran along his shoulders. Scars crossed his upper body, just as she expected of a warrior and a raider. None of those marks were severe. They showed his prowess in war, proving that the tales of his battle-skills were true.

  She raised her eyes. He straightened, smiling at her, and shook his hair back, giving her a better view. “Like what you see, little Christian?”

  “You’re a man, like any other. I’ve seen many of my father’s warriors in various stages of undress as they trained. It is of no matter to me.” Setting her fingers to the strings, she tested the tuning. Her body awoke, warming deep within. She’d suspected he could wield his body like a weapon and he’d just cast the first volley.

  He chuckled and slid onto the bed. Instead of pulling up the covers, he lay on top of them, his arms folded behind his head. The light bathed his long body in a golden glow. Biting her lip, she concentrated on the harp, making certain all the strings were in tune.

  She played a soft melody, one she often used to help her mother go to sleep. It might work on him as well, and then she could leave. As she played the first notes, it was so easy to forget he was there, to forget where she was. Closing her eyes, she let the music take her.

  Free. Free of the memories of her father’s betrayal, her mother’s pain, her own loneliness. Free from this foreign land and its lord who made her feel both anger and longing as no other ever had. She was the music, soaring and beautiful. The vibrations from the harp entered her, then left her again in the song, wafting into the air, leaving everything behind.

  She continued, song after song, until her fingers ached and the skin on their tips was tender. The discomfort brought her back and she rested her hand on the strings to mute them. She glanced at Rorik.

  He was on his side, facing her, his eyes closed, his breathing deep. He looked almost innocent, without the teasing sparkle in his eyes, or the arrogant curl at the sides of his sensuous mouth. His body was like a sculpture she had seen once in an ancient building that a
great army had built long ago in her land. The statue was of one of their gods, carved in white marble, perfect and glorious.

  His hair spread like spilled ink across the pillow, contrasting with his pale skin. What would it be like to join him there? To lie beside him and let his sensual power wash over her? To give up and give in—to him?

  Troubled, she rose and went to the door to escape him. And her own thoughts.

  “Sleep well, little Christian.”

  She jumped and looked back at him. He hadn’t opened his eyes, but his lips curved up in a slight smile. “Be careful of your own bed, though. As I said, there was a snake in here last night and where there’s one, there’s often more.”

  She didn’t answer, but hurried out. Not bothering to put the harp back in its corner in the hall, she went into her own room and sighed in relief. She lit a lamp, then eyed the bed. Why had he warned her about more snakes? It would be like him to retaliate in kind. Had he kept the snake from last night? Did he put something even worse beneath her blankets?

  She set the harp aside and approached the bed. Staying back as far as she could, she hit the cover in several places. Nothing moved. There was no choice but to face whatever he had done. Holding her breath, she threw back the cover.

  A gold necklace lay on the sheets. It was about the same thickness and length as the snake. She picked it up and sat down as a shudder ran through her. It was very heavy and worth a fortune, enough to pay for passage to Northumbria and then to Strathclyde. And let her mother and her live in comfort for a very long time.

  Why had he done this? Did he think giving her baubles would soften her toward him? This was far more than a bauble, but to a man of his wealth, it would be negligible. He’d probably stolen it, anyhow. After all, that was what he did.

  She turned it in the thin light of the oil lamp. He likely thought to buy her respect with this. Or buy her. A slow anger built in her. She wasn’t one of his glittering women who thought only of ways to please him, attract him, and entice him. Who could be bought with pretty things. They were all gone now, so he must be looking for others to take their places.

  She wouldn’t be among them.

  It would be foolish to throw it back at him, for she might need it one day. She hid the necklace under the mattress then undressed, leaving her shift on, and climbed into bed. The Northman might be trying to declare a truce between them, but she doubted that. Far be it from him to parley. He raided, conquered, and then took what he wanted. He’d do the same to her. He could have punished her, enslaved her for disrespecting him the way she did. And yet, he hadn’t.

  Could it be he had a heart after all? She turned onto her side and pounded the pillow. He was accomplishing just what he wanted—softening her toward him. It wouldn’t work. He might have a heart, but it was only an organ, like any other. It felt nothing, loved nothing, the same as he. If she made his life miserable, he’d either leave her alone altogether, or let her leave Vargfjell. Then she’d never have to see him again.

  She stared into the night. If the heart was just an organ, why did it feel like hers was breaking?

  * * *

  He’d done it again. Was there no way to win against him?

  Elfwynn fingered the beautiful dress. It was a golden tan color with white insets and beading on the long double sleeves and intricate neckline. Its skirt was split in the front, revealing a white underskirt. The workmanship was unlike any she’d ever seen and he’d no doubt stolen it from somewhere.

  The day after she’d found the necklace, she’d put something very foul that she’d found in the pigsty into one of his shoes. That afternoon, when she went into her room, she’d found a new pair of finely crafted shoes there. A bottle of rare perfume was resting in one of them. Then, yesterday, she’d put Spurge Olive dust into one of his shirts and laid it out for him to change into when he was finished training. It would make his skin itch and redden. When she served him his evening meal, he’d scratched his chest while he’d leveled a stare at her, but never said a word about it.

  Now, she’d found this exquisite dress in her chest. It almost made her feel bad that she’d cut the girth on his saddle that morning. Almost.

  She put the dress back into her chest. It wasn’t as though she’d have any occasion to wear it. It was a dress fit for a jarl’s wife, not her. She was little more than a bondservant here, paying off a debt. Servants didn’t wear gold necklaces, fine shoes, or dresses covered in beading while they did laundry and cleaned rooms. It didn’t make sense.

  But the laundry wouldn’t get done if she was sitting here, no matter what she wore. She grabbed the basket filled with his clothes and walked out of the longhouse. It was a beautiful day and a walk to the fjord would clear her mind.

  The Northman and his men had gathered to ride to the south, to look for signs of encroachment. Turold was walking in as she came out.

  He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Elfwynn, is Finna in the weaving room?”

  “I didn’t see her.”

  “I think her father is making her stay home rather than helping with the weaving so she doesn’t speak to me. I’m worried he’s becoming frustrated that Rorik isn’t showing any interest in her. I’d hoped to speak with her, but I suppose I won’t be able to today.”

  “If I see her, I’ll let her know you’re trying to find her. Maybe we can plan for you to be with her later.”

  “My thanks. If you ask her to help you, he’ll let her go then.”

  She nodded and walked toward the group of men. As she approached, Rorik swung up on his horse. The saddle slid to the side and both it and he landed on the ground in a heap. The well-trained horse stood still, staring back at him with a curious look.

  She walked past. “Trouble mounting?”

  He sat up, rested his elbows on his knees, and glared at her. “Not until now. Though I’d be glad to demonstrate to you just how good I am at it.” The horse nibbled the top of Rorik’s hair.

  “At least your horse knows how skilled you are.” The laughter of the men followed her down the path to the water.

  When she reached the shore, she tucked her skirt in her belt and took one of the shirts out of the basket. If she didn’t have to do these chores, and play music for him every night, she’d have much more of the sail woven than she did. It was as though he was trying to stall her, keep her from working on it. She gritted her teeth as she rinsed out the shirt. Perhaps cutting the girth was unwise. There would be hell to pay this time. But it was worth every coin.

  “Elfwynn.”

  And he’d come to collect. She didn’t look up, but continued working.

  “You went too far this time, Elfwynn. I could have gotten hurt.”

  “I think not, Northman. You’ve spent your life in battle and raiding, cutting and slashing your way through the world. And you managed to stay alive while balancing all those women at the same time. That is truly a feat for the sagas. I don’t believe a fall from a horse would hurt you. Nothing does.”

  He was silent for a time. “You know, we have washing women to do that.”

  “Really? They would treat this embroidered shirt like they do the wool blankets. They’d destroy it. I don’t want to see that.” She swirled it in the water.

  “Don’t tell me you’re worried that I might miss one of my good shirts.”

  “Of course not. I do care about the shirt. About the weaver who made the cloth, the woman who sewed it, and the embroiderer who did the stitching. I care about all the work that went into it since I’m like them. Not like you. Them. Like Oslafa, Finna, Kolla, and Turold. They live to toil for you so you can have the best of everything. The best clothes, the best houses, the best food.”

  “And I protect them with my life.” He crossed his arms. “Speaking of Turold, once again you’ve gone against my word. I saw him touch you. I forbade it. I’ll speak to him about it and it won’t be pleasant.”

  Speaking to you never is. She squeezed the material to remove the water. “You�
��ll do as you want anyhow. Your word is the law here and everyone has to jump to appease your every whim.”

  He strode into the water to where she stood. She straightened and met his glare. “That’s right, little Christian. Everyone does what I say. Except you. Always you tax me, always you defy me. Always you keep meeting with your lover.”

  “He’s not my lover.” She threw the wet shirt at him. It hit him in the chest with a splat then fell into the water.

  “And now you attack me?”

  She almost laughed. “First it’s a fall from a horse, now it’s a wet shirt that will bring about your untimely demise? I always thought you were harder than that, Northman.”

  “I’ll show you how hard I am.” He pulled her to him, his hands on her shoulders. She twisted to get free, but he put his arms around her and there was no escape. “No woman has ever spoken to me as you do. Ever since the day I met you, I’ve had nothing but havoc in my life. Perhaps my gods have cursed me for taking you.”

  “No, perhaps my God cursed you for taking me.”

  He stared at her for a moment. “Whichever it is, nothing is the same. I should just gag you and keep you quiet and subdued. Maybe I’d have peace again. But I can think of a better way to keep you silent.”

  He kissed her. It was the heat of fire and the hardness of steel. It was power and arrogance and total command over her. She couldn’t escape. She didn’t even try.

  This had been coming between them, in the same way Ragnarok was inevitable for their gods. The death of everything that came before. Complete devastation. Her traitorous body leaned into him and he gathered her closer, making her open to him in ways she’d never dreamed of. He tasted of wine and fruit, his scent was of the wind and the sea. His arms were warm and strong around her. She ran her hands along his back, feeling the muscles she’d seen a few nights before.

  He breathed into her mouth and filled her with him. Then he lifted his head and looked down at her. Victory sparkled in his silver-green eyes as he loosened his hold on her.