Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

  “Perhaps. My men and I shall be ready should you wish our aide. My ships can be ready at a moment’s notice, especially, if the attacks stretch over the sea to my land. It would take weeks to trespass upon the lands I have claimed.” The old bitterness of being forced from court after Olaf had taken his bride reared its head for a moment. Ruthlessly, he pushed aside his anger, his plan to repay his kindness depending upon the redheaded concubine hidden somewhere.

  Olaf nodded, his attention focusing on a slim young woman who carried a large pitcher toward them. Mykyl shook his head upon seeing the lust in his brother’s face. He turned away, watching an older, well-dressed couple walk into the room. A small group following them crowded together. “Her parents?”

  “Yes. I met with them yesterday and everything is set.”

  Mykyl turned at hearing his name called and watched an aged figure moving toward them.

  “Rognvaldr, welcome.” Olaf greeted the old man with a quick nod.

  “My Prince.” Rognvaldr smiled at him. “Are you enjoying this gathering?”

  “Indeed. I’ve spoken to my father, and he mentioned he left my gift in your care?”

  “Without a doubt, my Lord. It is waiting in a chamber for you, at the top of the stairs.” Rognvaldr bowed before them. “She responds to Amoda, my Lord.”

  Olaf licked his lips, lust and anticipation filling his eyes as he glanced toward the staircase. Mykyl shifted uneasily, sickened by the display of his brother’s greed. Mykyl knew Olaf would soon tire of the girl and discard her for another.

  “Perhaps I should pay her a visit before the putting to bed begins.” Olaf slapped Mykyl on the shoulder and chuckled. “Come, brother. I’d like to appraise my gift.”

  Mykyl followed Olaf out of the room and up the stairs. He wouldn’t mind another look himself. Mykyl wondered if a goodly sum of gold would be enough to separate Olaf’s attention from the girl, or perhaps he could replace her with another slave.

  Mykyl kept his distance as they climbed the stairs. The corridor filled with the sound of their footsteps and Olaf’s raspy breathing as they approached the chamber Rognvaldr had indicated.

  Olaf pushed the door open and stepped inside.

  The girl stood before the window with her long, red hair plaited and tied up. Her arms hung at her sides, her hands pressed against her thighs, and a long, pale skirt hugged her legs.

  “Well, what have we here?” Olaf laughed softly and shuffled his bulk toward her.

  Mykyl watched the girl turn to face them with an unreadable expression upon her face. Though foolish, he had to admit he admired her nerve. His eyes fell to the dark fabric covering her breasts, hinting at what lay beneath. Each breath she took forced the material tighter across her young breasts. Her pale skin glowed in the firelight as Olaf grunted his approval. Mykyl saw the revulsion and the fear in the girl’s eyes as she stood stoically and silently before Olaf and his appraisal. Repugnance and resentment darkened her eyes as Olaf reached to squeeze a full breast. Seeing Mykyl staring at her, she raised her chin a notch, straightening slightly and moving away from Olaf’s grasp.

  “Be still, woman.” Olaf roughly squeezed the soft flesh beneath his hand. “It will be a great deal of pleasure to tame this one.” Olaf pressed a hot, open-mouthed kiss to Amoda’s neck. He chuckled when she shuddered. “A fine temperament, much like Darina.”

  Mykyl smiled slightly and shrugged, not dignifying Olaf’s remark with a response. He had much more worthwhile pursuits as he thought of ways to pay his brother back.

  “So much fire within her, Mykyl, I bet she’s extremely talented beneath the sheets.” Olaf’s gaze fixed on the rapid rise and fall of the girl’s breasts.

  Amoda swallowed the urge to vomit at the harsh, clammy, pudgy grip upon her breast. She gasped in horror as Olaf began to untie the laces of her simple dress. The softness of his fingers on her skin sickened her as he slowly peeled away the material.

  The sudden opening of the door drew everyone’s attention. “My lords, King Tyr has summoned you, Olaf. He said it is time for the putting to bed.” The young serving lad’s gaze darted between the men in the room before he withdrew.

  “Of all the…I come now.” Olaf smirked at Mykyl before pressing a kiss to the exposed throat before him. “The woman has to sleep sometime. I look forward to joining you later this evening.”

  Frozen in place, Amoda observed the two men converse. She longed for more of the drugged drink even as she stared at Mykyl, whose eyes followed Olaf as he slipped out the door. In the corridor, his servant followed soundlessly. Turning his head, Mykyl stared at her, a slow, sly grin crossing his face.

  Amoda felt a moment of panic strike her. Something in those blue eyes that stared at her for a moment struck a chord within her. The indifference, the lack of emotion on his face, seemed out of place with what she saw in his eyes.

  Amoda swallowed harshly at the flash of pleasure in his gaze before he quickly masked it from her sight. Her stomach tightened, rolling with disgust and unease as she realized that she was at the mercy of the man watching her. Even without his touch, her body seemed to burn with repulsion, and her anger simmered just beneath her control.

  “What am I to do with you?”

  Amoda blinked at the soft laughter coming from the remaining man. Her mind still hazy from the drugs in the wine. She knew she saw victory in his eyes when he turned to her.

  “Come then. You can’t stay in this chamber for the night,” Mykyl said, heading out the door. He stopped when she made no move to follow him. “Come, unless you wish to wait for his return. I can assure you, the end result will be much less pleasant.”

  Amoda swallowed uneasily. She knew nothing of the man before her and wasn’t entirely certain she wanted to learn. What awaited her with him? What sort of torment would she have to endure before she could flee the confines of her bondage? She’d caught the faint smile on Mykyl’s face and felt a chill race through her. Would Olaf return?

  She jumped slightly when he slammed the door and stalked toward her. The drugs from the wine made her less fearful of the look of impatience on his face, even as she winced as his hand wrapped tightly around her arm.

  A moment later, her arm clasped tightly within his grip, he ushered her none too gently from the room and down the corridor, away from the stairs. There was nothing certain, though it seemed unlikely she would get through this night unmolested, and she wondered if this man would give her to his men once he’d finished with her. Even if she did survive the night, what would come with the dawn?

  Stumbling slightly as he ushered her into a room, Amoda watched as Mykyl gathered a few things and turned to stalk back out the door. The slam of it, along with the sound of a lock sliding into place, drew her from her stupor. She waited until she could be certain he had gone before she crawled into the large bed. Amoda sighed as she sank into the pillows. At least she knew what to expect, knew how to deal with Rognvaldr. Olaf and his brother were completely unknown to her and thus, more dangerous. Enveloping herself in the blankets, Amoda stared at the door, terrified at what the darkness held for her.

  As the faint but distinct sounds of the festivities began to wind down, she shifted in the softness of the bed. With drunkenness came a need to sleep away the access. Mayhap, once she was certain the men downstairs had sought the oblivion brought on by too much ale; she could slip away from the holding. It would need to be before the sun began to lighten the sky, before the guards and slaves began to stir. Aye, she could do it. How much harder could it be to escape a bunch of drunkards than it had been to escape Rognvaldr’s cabin during the night? A shudder raced through her at the niggling reminder at the back of her mind that her attempts always heralded a painful punishment.

  Four

  A rough shake of her shoulder in the predawn light awakened Amoda. She bolted upright. Her gaze darted around the dimly lit room. A large figure loomed over her, the only sound being the whisper of his breathing. She scrambled across the bed and
stared at the tall, fair-haired man standing on the other side of the bed.

  “The tide will not wait while you slumber.” His low, thick tone did little to soothe her. She cursed herself for letting sleep seduce her—it had removed any chance of escaping this place.

  Amoda grabbed for her clothes, fear thickening her blood. Ever mindful of the man watching her every movement, she rushed through dressing in more than the simple dress she’d slept in. She grabbed her thin cloak and pulled it around her shoulders.

  “Hold your tongue while we go through the manor house. I won’t have my Father’s guards awakened by your foolishness.”

  “Aye, my Lord.” Amoda glared at the back of Mykyl’s head. How she would like to slap the presumptuous and self-important air from him. Thoughts of self-protection told her that she should do nothing to draw attention to herself. She rather liked the idea of making a pre-dawn escape from the castle. Once away from the castle and its walls, she would wait for an opportunity to rid herself of Mykyl.

  The still dark corridors seemed to shrink around her as Mykyl all but dragged her through them. She stumbled past closed doors until they reached the open front entrance. A shiver raced through her as they stepped out into the cold, misty grey of predawn. When they reached the courtyard, she gasped in shock. Men and horses mingled in the growing light in preparation of their departure. Cloaks, blankets, and banners flew about, barely visible in the light. A palpable silence hung over them as the men greeted Mykyl with nods and slaps to his shoulders.

  “Ride the bay,” Mykyl said as he turned to pat his own mount with care.

  With an agile leap, she settled atop the bay and waited. Amoda glanced uneasily at the stone walls of the castle. What could be the reason that the Prince would be stealing off in the silence of the early morning? Did Olaf and King Tyr know of their departure?

  “Take care, Mykyl. Your father and brother will not be so forgiving if they believe you’ve tricked them out of their prize,” Cahal whispered as he sidled up to his lord.

  “Why do you think we are leaving now?”

  Amoda swallowed uneasily at the men’s softly voiced conversation. The tall, broad shouldered man who had spoken sounded foreign, his accent vaguely familiar. The knot of unease settled within her chest. Glancing around sharply as several riders encircled her; she followed wordlessly as Mykyl’s contingent left the courtyard at a walk.

  Shadows still masked the hard packed road, the darkness slowly faded into day. With guards on each side, Amoda felt the bitter prick of irritation as her plan of escape from Mykyl of Woodstown died.

  Salt seemed to soak the air as the faint sounds of sea birds reached Amoda’s ears. Glancing up, she saw only the grey mist and cursed softly. They headed for the sea, for the longboats that anchored in the bay. She saw no sign of any of Tyr’s men, just those that rode with Mykyl. When she realized they had escaped detection, she offered up a silent prayer to the Gods forced upon her to accept in her adoptive country.

  “Looking for something?”

  “No.” Amoda turned and dropped her gaze to her hands on the reins.

  As they neared the sea, large white sails became visible as they billowed in the breeze. Waves rocked the boats gently. The creaks and groans of the wooden hulls competed with the cries of sea birds.

  The heavy, moist, salty air lay thick with the scent of seaweed. A heavy fog wrapped around the men. The pale gold of the sun shone through the mist, revealing more clearly the dragon prows that curved around to stare out to sea and inland. Cold and dispassionate, the carved dragon’s head seemed to stare right through her.

  Amoda felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Her eyes darted to Mykyl. The smile on his face spoke of his joy. These boats would take her far away from Prince Olaf and Rognvaldr, but out there, there would be no place to hide from Mykyl.

  “What of the girl?”

  Amoda turned sharply at the question. She watched as the eagle-featured man held the grey while Mykyl dismounted.

  Amoda slid from the saddle and stood next to the tall, dark haired man. Her gaze caught for a moment with Mykyl’s, and she shuddered at the heat in them. The loud shouts of others drew her attention, and she watched as several other women pulled from horses and carried aboard the other ships.

  “Secure her aboard my ship, in my private corner. See that no one molests her, Cahal. Make it clear to all,” Mykyl instructed quickly. Hard and uncompromising, his voice rang over the mass of men and animals loading upon other ships. “The women who are with us are not to be harmed. The first man who takes one without consent will see death. They have all made their choices, and you will honor them.”

  Cahal nodded as an older, grey bearded warrior led the horses away. “Come with me.”

  She walked quickly; ignoring the looks sent her way. A firm grip on her arm guided her along the weathered planks of the ship and over to a small cabin that was obviously meant for Lord Mykyl. Cahal swung the door open and gestured for her to enter.

  “This is where you will remain unless Lord Mykyl gives orders otherwise.”

  “What of the others? Does your lordship plan on—”

  “They have all accepted a warrior of Prince Mykyl’s clan and will be safe. I would not concern yourself with them. He is a just man.”

  Amoda stared at the closing door in dismay. The slam made her jump. Cahal’s footsteps faded into an eerie silence, leaving her more alone than ever before.

  She began to look at her prison. The room itself bore no grand décor. Rather, a wide rope bed hung down along one wall, neatly made up with furs and several pillows. She wondered if it would be where she would spend most of the voyage. Rognvaldr had always insisted that her place was within the bed of her master, that she had no other purpose. She shuddered at the thought of her training, of the feeling of helplessness that seemed to stick with her for hours afterwards.

  Inevitably, her fate tied to the whims of a man. A man she felt no certainty around. She hated this man and his power over her. She hated that Mykyl could so easily rid her of the virtue Rognvaldr had been willing to defile, to steal from his lord, but unwilling to incur the wrath he’d face for it.

  That man, that captain of his, was no better than she was. He did the work his master ordered him like a free man, but it wasn’t the truth. Cahal would always be nothing more than a glorified slave.

  Nothing had gone the way she’d anticipated. On the one hand, Lord Rognvaldr’s power over her was gone, but she now had a new concern. Young, physically in his prime, and not riddled with disease, Mykyl’s power was unquestioned. He conditioned for battle, strengthened by the swordplay that accompanied the rigors of war and his stature. She remembered how impressive he’d looked with his armor. He held something in his eyes, a hint of shadow that only came from exposure to the battlefield.

  More importantly to her, the startling fire in his eyes every time he chose to look at her was foreign and frightening.

  She shuddered, chilled beyond the coolness that hung in the air. Her skin felt tight, as though stretched too thin, her pulse pounded, and she could feel the sweat gather in her palms.

  Hearing the creak of the door opening, she whirled to stare at the man who’d occupied her thoughts. He ducked beneath the doorjamb before straightening. His impressive physique took up more room than she felt comfortable with. “I trust you’ll be comfortable here?” The rich timbre of his voice filled the room.

  “Yes. So how shall I address you, Master?” She struggled to keep the resentment from her voice as she stared at him. She wanted freedom, wanted to have some sense of respect for herself.

  Mykyl shook his head. “Your eyes speak to me with something I don’t like. My Lord shall suffice.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I have a ship to get underway. Do not leave this room for any reason unless I summon you.”

  Amoda nodded once as Mykyl closed the door behind him. She sighed softly and moved to sit on the bed.

  ~
* ~

  A sudden dip in the rope bed drew Amoda from slumber. She rolled quickly, already reaching for the ties of her chemise. As long as she held them he couldn’t untie them, couldn’t relieve her of her only cover.

  “Relax, Amoda.” Mykyl smothered a yawn as he pulled the furs over his bare shoulders. “It is late and I am tired.”

  Amoda stared at him in shock. There was no groping of her breasts, no pulling at her clothes, or forcing his weight between her legs. Rather, he rested with his back to her and promptly fell asleep.

  She peeked carefully over his shoulder. His tunic, shirt, trousers, and boots lay on the floor. His sword, dagger, and belt sat atop the tangle of fabric, easily within his reach but out of hers.

  With the chamber wall at her back and the hard body of her ‘master’ before her, to get to either weapon meant crawling over him or to slide under the blankets.

  “Lay down, woman. I wish to get some rest this night.”

  Amoda shot him a dark look but returned to her place next to him. She would merely bide her time and wait for him to fall asleep before she made a move. She held herself stiffly, her body tensed until it ached as she listened to the sounds of his men’s voices beyond the door, the sea, and his breathing.

  “You seem to have forgotten that we are at sea, woman. If you kill me, what do you think my men will do to you?”

  A wave of panic hit her as she realized that he was right. Trapped upon the ship, the only safety she had lay next to her. Her plan to slice his throat would have to wait.

  ~ * ~

  Mykyl braced himself against the rolling waves and watched as thick, rolling black clouds filled the sky. Men moved around him, securing everything. The sounds of horses stomping and whinnying competed with the distant rumbling of thunder. A cross between the usual dragon prows of his youth and his adopted people’s watercraft; it offered the room to travel, to carry more than just his men.

  “What do you make of it, my lord?” Cahal pointed eastward toward the black, angry sky. The sudden streak of silver-blue across the sky crackled in the air a heartbeat before a boom of thunder shook the ship.