Wildly Romantic: A Multi-Genre Collection

by Lana Williams

  She touched her hand to the dog’s head. “Be quiet, Thor.”

  Why did she call on Thor, God of Thunder? At least her sultry voice had calmed the dog.

  She snarled at him. “Where is my dagger?”

  He shook his head and stepped away.

  She scowled at him, evidently angry he did not understand. She clenched her fist and made a thrusting movement. “Where is my dagger?”

  He pointed to the dagger at his waist.

  Her eyes blazed as she held out her hand. “Give me my dagger.”

  He shook his head, thinking he had never seen eyes the color of a summer sky before.

  She stamped her foot, took a deep breath and pointed to the fur clutched to her breast. “Where are my clothes?”

  This he understood. He arched his brows and raised a finger, hoping she comprehended he wanted her to wait. He left the alcove to retrieve her tunic and leggings drying by the hearth, with his own clothes. He grabbed his tunic and shoved it over his head.

  A glimmer of relief showed in her eyes when he returned. She pointed to the pallet. “Put it there.”

  He tossed it down and stepped back.

  “My furs?” she demanded.

  This word he understood from his trading days. He pointed beyond the alcove.

  She glared at him, then waved a dismissive hand. “Go! I cannot dress in front of you.”

  He went to stand outside the curtain, arms folded, wondering why he allowed this woman to give him orders as if he were a thrall.

  Thirty curious faces glanced in his direction.

  “You have to tell them,” Kjartan said loudly.

  His friend was right. He nodded his permission.

  Kjartan informed the men. “The lad we saved is a woman.”

  The chewing stopped while they considered this new information. Judging by the loud laughter that followed, Reider’s plight was of great amusement.

  No doubt they think I bedded her. Perhaps she thinks the same.

  He hurried over to the trestle table, tore off a chunk of bread and loaded it with salmon. Maybe food would improve matters. His prinsessen must be hungry. He noticed the handful of other shipwreck survivors huddled together, blankets around their shoulders, fear and uncertainty written on their faces.

  Several of his crew elbowed each other knowingly, watching him hasten back to his alcove with his peace offering.

  VII

  Having donned her rumpled tunic and leggings with some difficulty, Ragna threw a blanket around her shoulders and sat cross legged on the pallet. She pressed her arms into her ribs to stop the trembling that shook her, and put her hands on Thor’s head. The dog whined, nuzzling into her.

  The last thing she remembered was her leap into the sea. It seemed like a nightmare. She did not know why she had jumped, other than that the longboat was obviously the only hope for the people aboard the doomed vessel.

  She vaguely remembered the tall Viking at the prow, beckoning. Was he the man in whose bed she had awakened? Had they slept together? Had he—? She didn’t feel violated or sore and there seemed to be no blood in evidence. But the sight of his broad naked chest when she woke had sent tremors spiralling through her. She had seen male torsos while treating the wounded during Maknab’s siege of her home years ago, but this man was—massive.

  She must control her fear. He must not think her weak. He did not have the look of a cruel man. His eyes were gentle, a soft brown.

  Godemite! He must have undressed her, seen her naked! No wonder he looked at her that way. She would have to be on her guard. If only she had her dagger. It was imperative she retrieve it. The weapon held too much significance for her family for it to be lost to a Viking barbarian. It had once saved her mother’s life. It was her duty to deliver the heirloom to Blythe, the eldest daughter.

  She heard a polite cough and assumed it was her Viking. At least he had manners enough to warn of his presence. “Enter,” she said, as confidently as she could, hoping he would not detect the tremor in her voice.

  He came into the alcove, grinning broadly, his big hands full of bread. Her belly turned over, but she put the upset down to a lack of food. The corners of her mouth edged up.

  He held out bread, then looked at the pallet, pointing to himself with his thumb, his brows arched. She edged back to the wall, pulling Thor closer. The Dane sat down cross legged facing her. For a big man he moved gracefully. But why did he not speak? She noticed a pink scar across his throat.

  He again offered bread with what looked like fish spread on top. She accepted. Their fingertips touched for an instant and a spark passed between them, causing her to glance up at him sharply.

  He laughed and his face reddened. He had noticed it too, but seemed more surprised by the sound of his own laughter! It sent a flush of heat flooding across her chest.

  He bit into his own portion and chewed heartily, gesturing for her to do the same.

  She broke off part of the bread and fed it to Thor. The dog carried it to the corner, then gobbled it down. Ragna nibbled the food. It was delicious. Smoked fish of some sort. How curious to eat fish to break one’s fast.

  “Good,” she murmured, taking another bite.

  Thor came back for more. The man held out bread. Thor sniffed it warily, then took it from his hand. The Viking smiled broadly.

  What was the strange sensation his smile caused in her belly?

  ~*~

  As the woman ate, her hair kept falling over her face and she became impatient, pushing it back. Reider pointed to the braided leather headband he wore around his forehead, then to the chest where he kept a spare one, then at her. Warily, she watched him come to his feet. He leaned over to retrieve the headband, then moved to put it around her head. She shrank back and put up her hands in defence, dropping her food.

  He backed away, disappointed she had not allowed him to touch her beautiful hair. She was not as brave as she wanted him to believe, but he admired her courage. She was in essence a captive and captives were of necessity enslaved. That would be the fate of the other survivors, especially here where they had no thralls to serve them. Why not command her to do his bidding, to be his slave? She would have died but for him. She should be grateful.

  Instead he held out the headband. She pointed again to the pallet and he placed it there, between them. Never taking her blue eyes off him, she leaned forward to retrieve it, smoothed back her hair and fastened it around her forehead. “Thank you,” she murmured.

  An uncomfortable silence followed. She probably wondered why he did not speak. Eyeing the dagger, she pointed. “My dagger?”

  Once more he shook his head, pointing to himself.

  That made her angry. She fisted her hand and thumped her chest, her fascinating eyes unexpectedly welling tears. “No, dagger mine! My family’s.”

  The hound growled menacingly.

  Evidently this weapon was of great importance to her family. She must know he could not return a blade she might use against him. She pushed away the remaining food and turned away from him, burying her nose in the dog’s coat.

  His prinsessen had dismissed him!

  VIII

  Sooner or later Reider would have to allow the woman out of the alcove. What would he do when he went out fishing or working on the boats, or in the forge—tie her up?

  The crew would wonder why he hid her away. He wondered too. For some reason he was reluctant to share this maiden. His pik hardened, for he suspected this intriguing woman was a virgin.

  He brought Kjartan into the alcove with him, clearing his throat as he entered. She turned cold eyes to look at him, like a queen would look at a commoner. He coughed again, glad of the long tunic he wore, and indicated his friend.

  She frowned when Kjartan held out his hand. “My name is Kjartan Eldarsen.”

  Visible relief swept over her face as she grasped his hand. “Charrtan? You speak English!”

  He chuckled, a glint in his eye. “Not well, but a few words. May I intr
oduce my friend, Reider Torfinnsen. Reider apologizes that he has lost his voice—a wound.” He drew his finger across his throat. “Also, we thought you were a boy.”

  Confusion showed on her face when Reider took her hand and kissed it, astonishing himself. “Rider Torvinson,” she whispered.

  Kjartan shifted his weight. “We do not know your name, my lady.”

  She looked into Reider’s eyes, her gaze sending blood rushing to his already aching loins. “My name is Ragna.”

  She bent down to pat the dog. “And this is Thor.”

  Thor?

  His mouth fell open. She bore a Danish name! His name on her sensuous lips sounded heroic, noble. He wanted her throaty voice to repeat his name over and over. It reminded him that he was still a prince, despite Gorm’s treachery. He had allowed his step-brother’s betrayal to intimidate him. Some of his hopelessness left him.

  “Ragna,” he whispered hoarsely, a lump in his dry throat making his voice sound like someone else’s.

  Kjartan let out a whoop of elation. “Ja! my friend. I told you your voice would return.”

  Ragna looked nervously from one to the other, but hesitantly smiled her approval of his pronunciation. “Yes, Ragna FitzRam.”

  Reider recognized her name as a Norman patronymic. The doomed boat was probably Norman. He stared at her, afraid that if he spoke again a squeak would emerge. Finally he managed, “You bear a Danish name, Prinsessen Ragna.”

  She scowled at him and pursed her lips. “My grandmother was Danish. I was named for her.”

  Uncertain as to the reason for her sudden change of humor, he signaled Kjartan. He wanted his friend to explain that they were about to introduce her to the crew.

  She took a deep breath. “I am ready.”

  He held out his hand and was surprised at the firmness of her grip. Her heat travelled up his arm. Annoyance surged in his gut when Kjartan took her other hand, but he smiled to reassure her and opened the curtain.

  ~*~

  Ragna had not wanted to take Reider’s hand, but she felt alone in this strange place, despite Thor’s presence. The tall, blond Viking seemed friendly. His smile melted her fears. Was he trustworthy? She had awakened in his bed, but was confident he had put her there for warmth, rather than to ravish her.

  What manner of man was he? His chamber was a cubicle in a crude shed that was a far cry from the opulent English manors she had grown up in. He was a sailor, probably a fisherman, a man beneath her rank. Yet she was drawn to him. Her name had apparently been the first word he had spoken for who knows how long.

  Most men engendered a feeling of exasperation in her, they were so malleable. This Rider wouldn’t be as easy to cajole as most men were. Strangely, the thought excited her. Perhaps she had swallowed too much seawater.

  She stepped through the curtain, Thor on her heels. The first thing that struck her as her eyes darted cautiously around the chamber was the lack of decoration. No trophies of war hung on the bare boards; no tapestries adorned the walls; no rugs warmed the floors; no banners wafted in the warm air that rose from the crude hearth.

  The ill-shaven, well-muscled men who stared at her evidently shared the sleeping spaces along the outer wall. They had no privacy curtain. These were the brave souls who had risked their lives to save hers. Did they live here—together? The air was heavy with the smell of wet clothing and male bodies.

  Reider cleared his throat. “Men of Strand—”

  The men gawked, then cheered loudly. Thor barked. Ragna bent to calm him.

  Reider smiled broadly, nodding his acceptance of the good wishes. These men obviously held him in high regard. Then he turned to her. “Men of Strand, I present to you Ragna FisRam.”

  It was close enough. She smiled tentatively. Her name seemed to surprise them. Several licked their lips. Some returned her smile, others elbowed their neighbor. She pulled the blanket more tightly around her shoulders and clutched Thor’s collar.

  Reider squeezed her hand. “You will afford our guest the respect she is due.”

  Whatever he had said surprised some of them further. She turned to Kjartan, putting her hand atop his. “Please thank these men for saving me, and my dog.”

  He translated and many smiled back. “We were glad to do our part, but it was Reider who saved you.”

  She looked at her Viking. She suddenly knew that if he had not beckoned, she would never have jumped into the sea. She had trusted him to save her and he had, at the risk of his own life. She felt a bond with this man that she had never felt with anyone outside her family. It alarmed her. She inclined her head slightly and murmured, “Thank you, Rider.”

  His face reddened and he took her hand from Kjartan’s. “Kjartan is my second in command. These men are our loyal crew.”

  Ragna looked round again and became uncomfortably aware that she was the only woman in the large chamber. She scanned the recesses. Were the women hiding there?

  Her gaze fell upon a man she recognized, Captain Philion, the fool who had put their lives in jeopardy by deciding to ride out the storm. He had evidently abandoned ship after her leap of faith. Clad in a simple tunic, he ladled food into bowls from a large cauldron hung over the hearth. Scowling, he carried them to one of the trestle tables where he set them down in front of the foreigners. He cast a look of resentment at her and a shiver went up her spine. Another man, the young leader of the mercenaries she had hired, served other crew members.

  Something stuck in her throat. Sweat broke out on her brow. She suddenly felt light-headed. After cheating death, these men had been forced into servitude. Was this the fate that awaited her? Her blood turned to ice. It was more likely she would be delivered into a different kind of servitude. The smiling politeness of Rider and Chartan was meant to lull her into acceptance of her fate, a woman alone with a crew of rough men. But she would not yield. There was a reason her family called her their Wild Viking Princess.

  IX

  For the second day in a row, his dismay increasing, Count Dieter von Wolfenberg watched ship after ship limp into the port of Hamburg. Their crews told harrowing tales of the worst storm in living memory. Many blessed their good fortune at finding shelter along the coast to wait out the gale. Men of Christian persuasion crossed themselves in benediction for any unlucky soul caught in the sea’s fury.

  Dieter’s apprehension grew each time the ship he had travelled from Saxony to meet failed to appear. It carried his sister-by-marriage, Ragna FitzRam. He dreaded bringing the news to his wife that her sister had been lost at sea. Blythe had barely recovered from the grief of her parents’ loss in the White Ship disaster four years before. She had miscarried twice since.

  Unsure how long they might have to wait, he had sent his men off with Magnus Braunschweig, confident his old friend would find a suitable place to pitch camp. Dieter scoured the docks, going from ship to ship, enquiring about a Norman cog. His search yielded nothing, until he chanced upon a captain who had picked up a survivor of a capsized cog. The man had not lived long after his rescue, but had told a tale of his ship turning over after a Danish longboat had come to their aid. Trapped under the ship, he had clung onto the drifting wreck for hours.

  Dieter doubted this was Ragna’s boat. Why would it be close to Danish shores, unless it had been blown a long way off course? “Did the wretch say which port they had sailed from?”

  The sailor drew hard on his wooden pipe. “Newcastle.”

  Wreathed in foul-smelling smoke, Dieter rubbed his fingers against the stubble of his chin, nervous to ask the next question. “Did he say aught of the Danish boat rescuing anyone?”

  The captain sucked on his pipe again and blew out an impressive array of smoke rings. “In his delirium, he raved about a madwoman with a dog jumping into the waves to swim to the longboat.”

  If any woman had the courage to leap into the swells of a raging sea, it was Ragna, and she would never leave her beloved hound behind. Despite the lump in his throat, Dieter asked, “Did he say if
this woman reached the longboat?”

  The man hacked up phlegm and spat it out. “He thought a few of his fellow crew made it to the rescue boat, though he pitied those that did.”

  A cold chill settled in Dieter’s spine. He suspected he knew the reason. “Pitied?”

  “It’s well known the Danes have always forced captives into servitude. It’s not likely they’ll be any more humane to those they saved from a watery grave.”

  Dieter thought sadly of his sister-by-marriage. He had only met her once, four years ago after the birth of his daughter, Sophia. Ragna was beautiful, opinionated and stubborn. Blythe had told him the FitzRam family’s nickname for her. Now she was probably in the hands of Vikings.

  Slavery would destroy a woman of Ragna’s temperament. It was his duty to do something, now convinced that this story of a woman jumping into the sea was Ragna’s tale. He discussed with the seaman the likely places where the cog might have capsized, then hastened off to lay plans with Magnus for a search. Blythe would expect no less.

  X

  Ragna pushed away the half eaten trencher of fish. She should eat, but her appetite had fled. The men among whom she had lived for two days had maintained their friendly demeanor and made no attempt to force her into any compromising situations. They had erected a crude wooden screen around the spring where the men bathed. The frigid water had left her teeth chattering for a long time afterwards, but she prized cleanliness and appreciated the privacy.

  She had slept in Reider’s bed, but he had remained on the hard floor beside his pallet, never touching her. The strange disappointment she felt at his distance irritated her. Was it because Thor lay on the other side, or did the Viking not want to touch her? She had lain awake, studying his features while he slept.

  He was a handsome man. Male beauty was something she had never given any thought to, though she had known many attractive men. They had left her indifferent. This broad-shouldered Dane stirred unwelcome sensations in strange places.