Patricia Bates

by Patricia Bates

  “Everything is secured. Keep a steady gaze out for rocks,” Mykyl ordered and glanced at the silent figure standing, staring out over the rolling white capped waves. She pulled the wrap tighter around her body, the wind whipping her hair free of the thong she’d used to pull it from her face.

  In the days since their departure from Brattahlid, Amoda had demonstrated a talent for compliancy.

  She served him in most things without protest. However, the look in her eyes as she gazed at his weaponry unnerved him. From the little he knew of her, docility was not something she had trained to embrace. Any attempt on his part to get closer to her, she met with stoic reserve and icy indifference.

  Still, he had no room to complain. He had rewarded her with permission to come above deck and enjoy the fresh salt air. With that, reward came the shadowing of his footsteps, her eyes ever watchful of every move he and his men made. In her eyes, he saw pride and wisdom he had not seen in many of her station.

  “It would be best if you retired to our chamber.” Mykyl met her eyes. “I would not wish to have you pitched over the side.”

  ”I am quite aware of my position aboard this boat, my Lord. I am sure I shall not go overboard.”

  “It was not a suggestion. Cahal will escort you.” “As you wish, my lord.” Amoda bowed low before him, her eyes never leaving his. Within the green depths ran a challenge, an anger that told of retribution. She allowed Cahal to escort her to the door of the chambers she shared with Mykyl. So eager and willing to please, Cahal meant no more to her than a simpering, boneless whore to their shared master.

  “Kindly stay here.” Cahal said. “You’ll find that Lord Mykyl would go easier on you if you but listened to him.”

  “When I want the instruction of another slave, I will ask for it. Until then, kindly keep your opinions to yourself.” She sneered at him.

  Cahal shrugged, a smirk turning the corner of his lip upwards. “I have free run over the vessel, woman. What do you have? Free access to his bed?”

  Grabbing an empty goblet, Amoda threw it at his head. The goblet fell to the floor without causing injury. She cursed him as he slammed the door. The fool’s obvious infatuation with his master sickened her.

  Five

  Sitting on the edge of the bed, she eyed the trunk. She opened it and picked up a well-crafted sword lying atop the folded garments, and caressed the cold, shiny blade. She set it down and dug deeper, hopeful that a dagger lay buried within.

  They had to be close to shore and as soon as they landed, she would make good her escape. She would rather he throw her overboard and let her drown at sea than have to endure the touch of a man. Free of Rognvaldr’s control, she refused to give her body to anyone. A shudder raced through her. She had no choice in the matter. Others had made that decision for her long ago.

  “A little something to keep you warm at night, Amoda? Mayhap we could settle upon the order of things without the need for violence.” Deep and rich, the voice filled the room around her.

  Startled, Amoda whipped around to stare at the man lounging against the doorframe. His arms crossed over his chest, an unreadable look upon his face, he stared back at her.

  “You slithering worm! How dare you go about scaring people?” Amoda dropped the sword in her hand at the dark look upon his face. She swallowed as he stalked toward her, his stride purposeful.

  “I dare much in my own chamber!” She flinched as Mykyl kicked the trunk closed. “It seems I should be questioning your motives, Amoda. What does a slave need with her master’s weapons?”

  Catching the dark look on his face, Amoda tensed, fear coiling within her as she stumbled backwards. She wouldn’t beg him for anything, regardless of what his intent. Her eyes slid down to his waist, settling upon the carved hilt of the dagger that rested on his hip near his sword.

  Mykyl’s gaze followed her glance. She swallowed when his right hand came up to settle upon the dagger. Awareness sparked in his eyes. His expression shifted, tightened into an ugly mask of rage.

  “Are you certain you wish to try it?” Mykyl asked icily.

  “Come closer and see.” She knew she couldn’t win using physical strength, but mayhap with shrewdness, she could be the victor. If she had learned anything being Rognvaldr’s slave, it was to pick her opportunity. Sooner or later, a weakness could be exploited, whether successfully or not.

  Mykyl unbuckled his belt, and tossed it at the bed without breaking eye contact. He stopped and waited a few inches from her. A blatant challenge in his eyes, he doubted her will. Amoda swallowed against the tangle of fear and anger. Her gaze darted from his face to his weapon as she weighed the risks. She backed up a couple of steps.

  “Well?” He spread his arms as though in surrender. “Do you wish to please me woman?”

  “Not particularly.” Amoda balled up a fist and swung, connecting with his stomach. Amoda knew it would not hurt him, but mayhap it would shock him just long enough for her to grab the dagger.

  She dove past him as he doubled over. Amoda scrambled to the bed. She grabbed at the belt, pulling upon the dagger’s hilt. A powerful hand clasped around her ankle. Amoda shrieked and pitched forward onto her face. Kicking at him, she clawed for the dagger. She managed to snag the hilt of the sword. She jerked it toward her as his impressive weight settled over her, making it difficult for her to breathe. Roughly, he rolled her over then lay still, his weight pressing against her chest and making her dizzy. Bucking and twisting, she bit his hand, and scratched at his face.

  He pinned her to the soft mattress. “I do not think so woman.” Mykyl caught her wrist with one hand and twisted her hair into a knot with the other. He pulled until her head tilted, exposing her throat. “Be careful of your threats, Amoda. Next time, I may prove to be less understanding. Remember your place, woman. You belong to me now.”

  “You are no different than that diseased old man. I will be free of you,” she snarled, still squirming beneath him.

  Her heart pounded in her chest, the sound echoing in her ears. She felt the hard contours of his body against hers and struggled with the rising tide of bile in the back of her throat.

  Calm, almost kindly, Mykyl spoke quietly, his gaze steady. “I am not a cruel man. I grant rewards to those who earn them. There is a price to pay for every liberty.”

  “You shall pay it in blood. I will rid myself of you one day. Your wisest course would be to set me ashore. Leave me be.”

  “Nay, Amoda. Even if I did so choose, we are already out to sea, and I will not set ashore anything,” Mykyl whispered in her ear, his warm breath stirring the loose curls. “I shall tie you to me with bonds so strong you can’t break free.”

  “Be careful then, my lord and master that you don’t wake to find your bonds have bound you to a creature that has teeth,” Amoda snarled. She threw her head back into his face, renewing her struggles to get free of him.

  “Ouch! Be still, you little hellcat!” Mykyl touched his lip gingerly. He stared at the red smear upon his fingers in shock. She caught the realization in his gaze that Rognvaldr had taught her very little in the way of being an obedient slave, but that mattered naught to him. He got to his feet and jerked her up, staring into her green, hate-filled eyes. “I’ll give you first blood but not without payment.”

  Amoda struggled within his grip. He pulled her flush against his hard length. She squeaked out a protest when he grabbed her apron and held her in place. Amoda slapped him. She glared and backed away from him, but the edge of the bed prevented her from retreating further

  “ Oh no, my dear Amoda. If you think you’re going to escape your punishment then you have sorely underestimated me,” Mykyl purred, gripping her tightly. He settled on the bed and pulled her into his lap, face down over his knees. He grabbed her leggings, shredding the thin material. His hands quickly removed the offending pieces, leaving her bottom naked.

  A shocked gasp escaped her and, with his first strike, screams followed. She squirmed and kicked as he ruthless
ly smacked her buttocks then dumped her onto the floor in a graceless heap. She glared at him as he stood and adjusted his trousers.

  “Next time I won’t be so kind.”

  “I hate you! I pray that some Dane’s axe takes your head from your shoulders!”

  “I assure you that won’t happen today.”

  “I pray that day arrives soon. Until then, my lord, am I to take it you’ve grown tired of me?”

  He bent to pull her to her feet, twisted her arms behind her back, and pulled her flush against him. “You are mine and you shall remain as such. The only bed you’ll warm is my own. I am not so foolish as to believe that my father’s priest didn’t sample your bounty, but I can say I will be the only other.”

  Amoda gulped as his gaze traced over her face and down to the neckline of her blouse. When he licked his lips, she trembled. “As I have said, my lord, you are no different than Rognvaldr. A slimy, disgusting savage and nothing more!”

  “We shall see.” Mykyl dipped his head and crushed her lips beneath his own. He held her immobile while he forced her lips apart. He could feel her struggling within his arms, and forced her to respond to his kiss. Mykyl traced over her teeth, mapping out the contours of her mouth. He released her wrists and moved up to cup her jaw. He groaned, walking her toward the bed.

  The sharp bite on his already injured lip made him wrench back. He narrowed his eyes at her for a moment before he grabbed her and threw her onto the softness of their bed.

  Ruthlessly stripping her of her skirt, under leggings, and blouse, he threw her clothes aside. He stripped with ruthless precision, tossing his clothes aside. A moment later, his heavy weight pinned her to the mattress.

  Mykyl wanted her to understand, to feel what he could not explain. He needed her to want him, to calm the fire that burned within him when he drew near her. Amoda lay beneath him. Her eyes closed as a pained, fearful look passed over her face. Her hands balled into tight fists, and he knew she longed to strike out at him. Every muscle within her body tensed like a bowstring. Her breath came in short, pained gasps. The sight of tears streaking down her face halted him. He would not be his brother. He would not take an unwilling mistress even when it was his right.

  “I want a willing woman, not a victim in my bed. I am not my brother!”

  “You are no different.”

  Amoda’s soft, tearful whisper struck harder than any blow could have.

  Amoda curled into a tiny ball as he backed away from the bed. Silently, she watched him redress. Anger flashed through him as he stared at her for a moment. She squirmed under his appraisal, but she stared back. She must have read something in his eyes because she shuddered. Her eyes glistened with tears, but pride would not allow her to shed the tears.

  “I doubt I shall be the only one who does not get some pleasure out of this arrangement.” Mykyl stepped out of the door and leaned back against it. He could hear the soft sounds of her sobs, hear her distress, and it bothered him more than he had ever thought possible. He’d become too close to acting as his brother would.

  ~ * ~

  She pulled a blanket over her to hide her nudity. The storm outside mirrored the one within her heart.

  Torn by the desperate need to seek approval, to gain more than just the endless nights spent beneath him, she pushed at him constantly. Every time they met, she prodded at what should never be disturbed, stirred the embers of his rage until it overflowed upon her.

  Amoda smothered a gasp as the ship pitched wildly. A heavy creak of protest echoed within the room. She curled tighter in on herself and sobbed openly. The truth of his words cut deeply.

  He could so easily take from her what she did not want to give. She could have her freedom, her honor and dignity, by becoming his mistress. Doubts began to creep into her mind as the storm raged outside. If she surrendered to him, she stood to lose a part of herself that not even Rognvaldr’s cruelty had stolen. Would he honor his word? Could she gain her freedom by giving in?

  ~ * ~

  Mykyl stepped closer to Cahal and eyed the open sea. On the open waves, he felt at peace, in control of his own destiny.

  Out here, his concern had to be keeping on Odin’s good side. Licking at the still stinging wound on his lip, he frowned at the memory of their disagreement.

  “Was it worth it?” Cahal said.

  “Blood must be spilled to win a war, Cahal. You know that.”

  “Somehow, I don’t think she’s the one bleeding.”

  “She’s probably wishing it were her. Rognvaldr did not train her as well as he claimed.”

  “Her training probably was not in obedience but in matters of the bedchamber. It is not your bed she was to warm.”

  Mykyl crossed his arms over his chest and stared out over the blue sea. “Olaf has no more need of another unwilling mistress than he needs a few more pounds of gold. She is an exceptional beauty. She has such fire it stirs me.”

  “Be careful you do not get burned, my friend.”

  “Of course. She is unlike any of the women my father has tried to gift me with.”

  “Mykyl, she may be nothing more than a slave but to be so ruthless?” Cahal frowned. “I do not understand. Does this have to do with Darina?”

  Mykyl shot Cahal a dark look at the mention of the Eire girl he’d once planned to marry. With a shake of his head, he quickly dispelled the notion. “We are alike in many ways, Cahal. She has a wildness that calls to me, stirs me in a way I have not felt before. Darina has nothing to do with this matter. If the challenge did not exist there would be no reward.”

  “Be careful, Mykyl, that it is not you that does not become mastered. Need I remind you that the sea will never be tamed?”

  “It is fun to try, is it not?”

  “What will you have with her?” “Everything.”

  Mykyl watched the play of emotions on his friend’s face. Grateful that Cahal had held his tongue, Mykyl hid a sad smile. Pushing aside any thought of the past, Mykyl turned from the conversation to watch his untamed mistress, the sea, as she fought to destroy all around him.

  Six

  Mykyl finished the last of his wine quickly, only to stare at the empty horn as though it held all the answers. He glanced at the slight movement to his right to see Cahal watching him, a concerned look upon his face.

  “What weighs upon you?”

  “Amoda.”

  “What of her?” Mykyl reached for the carafe of wine and poured more into his goblet.

  “She appears to be plotting something.”

  “That is not something that should concern you.”

  “What do you mean, Mykyl? You are my friend, my Lord, and I cannot stand by and watch you put yourself at risk over a mere slave.”

  “Did we not have this conversation before?” Mykyl gulped at the tart wine as his gaze darted to the heavens. “Do I need to speak of it again?”

  “Yes, we must. This battle of wills affects more than just you, my friend.”

  “I have no desire to argue this with you. I shall win the battle of wills and reap the rewards,” Mykyl declared.

  “You forget what Amoda is. Give her to another, discard her before it costs you.”

  “Nay. I shall keep her,” Mykyl said and smiled. “I will not release her, nor will I bow to her will.”

  Cahal shook his head as he rose. “It is not her will that concerns me, my Lord. I bid you good night. We shall reach home within days.”

  Long after Cahal vanished into the shadows, Mykyl sat nursing his drink. Something about this voyage felt foreign to him. He felt no sense of victory in it, no honor in attending his brother’s celebrations. Rather the events had set in stone his disrespect for the older man.

  The trip had however given him a chance at paradise, and revenge. Warm, soft curves pressed against his flesh. The soft, sweetly intoxicating scent of the woman in his bed teased him, haunted his dreams. That he would take her before Olaf had even a chance to do more than kiss her was well worth any cost. />
  Her glorious mane of auburn hair spread over the pillows and called to him. The pale skin that glowed in the firelight, the fullness of breasts as they peeked enticingly over the collar of her simple chemise tempted him.

  She slept so innocently, the pain and shadows that he usually saw darken her eyes gone while she rested. Her warm breath against his skin awakened a familiar desire to claim. He wanted more than to take from his brother. He wanted to mark her with his essence.

  Mykyl rose to his feet and stumbled drunkenly across the deck of the ship. With one hand braced along the wall, he staggered toward his bedchamber and the temptress within it. He paused at the door, his mind registering the laughter and voices of men still awake.

  He shook his head at their folly before he opened the door and slipped inside. Two lone candles flickered in their holders, the pale wax pooling in grotesque globs along the columns. The light fluttered along the floor to wrap around the sleeping woman in the bed like a golden blanket. The pop and hiss of the flame filled the air as the soft sound of Amoda’s breathing reached him.

  With movements made clumsy by drunkenness, Mykyl stripped his shirt and under-tunic from his body. He quickly tossed them aside, his trousers and boots following to land on the floor. Lurching unsteadily across the floor, Mykyl crawled across the bed.

  He struggled with the blankets, tossing them aside. Intent upon uncovering Amoda’s sleeping form he slid under them. The warmth of the flesh under her chemise surrounded him as he nuzzled into her hair. He longed to wrap himself in the softness of her body, longed to claim what, by all rights, belonged to him.

  His fingers itched to tangle in the thick, silky waves spread over the pillows, hair that he knew should be cut, but he loathed to shorten it. He wondered why Rognvaldr had not cut it before now. The only logic he could come up with was that it had been something Olaf intended to do himself.

  Snickering softly, he lifted the strands to his nose, inhaling their rich scent. Too beautiful to be a cut in the manner slaves had to wear, he thought. No, she should keep her long curls. They felt too soft and silky trailing across his flesh.