He’d made a vow that before voyage’s end she would surrender to him. She would willingly give him her body, her soul. It was a vow that he had made, and one that she had not yet shown any desire to fulfill. Despite her silence, her obedience in many things, she’d continued to resist his every advance, brushed aside his touch as though it were her right.
Inhaling the smell of salt, honey, and that elusive something that he associated with her, he groaned. His body did not need any assistance, any coaxing to come alive. Already, the fire settled within his groin, hardening him until he craved to bury himself within her.
With hands that shook, he braced his weight off her and stared into her face. As if sensing him watching, a slight frown puckered her brow. He lowered his head, clumsily taking her lips in a crude kiss.
The sudden tensing of the body beneath him made him tighten his grip even as he deepened his kiss. Licking, suckling at her bottom lip, his senses swam in her taste. A roaring in his ears drowned out her smothered protests even as his fingers made short work of the tie at her throat.
Peeling the fabric from her shoulders, he trailed hot, moist kisses down her throat toward the bared breasts before him. Suckling on the skin he exposed, Mykyl used his weight to hold her steady, to still the struggles as he sought her surrender.
His tongue painted a wet path across the top of her breast, settling on her nipple. Teasing at the hardening nub, he worked for a sign that her resolve had begun to weaken.
Her soft moan changed. The soft sound of pleasure gave way to fear as she woke fully. With her arms trapped in the sleeves of her nightwear, she could do little to fight him. A hand, made rough by inebriation, grabbed at the hem of the annoying gown, bunching it so he had access to the warm, smooth skin beneath it.
“Nay!” Amoda cried, struggling to get her arms free of the chemise. Getting one free she pulled on the hair drifting over her skin. Sobbing, she jerked hard, pulling his head away from her breast.
“You think you can tease me, my Lady?” Mykyl demanded, kissing her roughly. “I will have what is mine.”
“Get off me, you—” He smothered her protest with a kiss.
He could see the pulse in her throat pound quickly as he watched her. Catching her jaw, he forced her to face him, forced her to meet his eyes and narrowed his at what he saw in the emerald depths. Fear and anger were at war. Anger won by a hair. With her anger, his disgust raised, his blood seemed to boil, and he lost all reasoning as the wine fogged his mind.
“Do you long for Rognvaldr’s touch? Is he the reason you don’t…?” He cursed. Ruthlessly, he squashed any tenderness within his touch. Instead, his hands turned cold, impersonal, his touch much like he’d give a well tutored whore.
“His touch is no less repulsive than yours. I will never surrender to you, never give in,” she spat at him, bucking and kicking to dislodge him.
“Oh yes, woman, you shall.” Mykyl cursed, the lack of sleep and the late hour preying upon his body. Rolling over, he pulled her tightly against his body. He held her imprisoned within his grasp, one leg tossed over hers, and his arm an immovable band around her waist.
“Soon, we shall reach the shores of my home, very, very soon. Then you shall surrender to me what you guard so zealously,” he rasped, even as the faint sound of her sobs echoed within his head. Closing his eyes, he held her against his body, his grip tight as he slid into a drunken sleep.
~ * ~
The pounding on the door roused Mykyl from a sound sleep. Bolting upright, he swore as he glanced down. Amoda’s green eyes stared back at him with fear and abhorrence in the depths.
“My Lord?” Cahal’s voice boomed through the wooden door. “We’re coming close to shore. We should be making landfall within the hour.”
“Thank you.” Mykyl winced at the fierce pounding within his head and the unsettled sensations within his stomach.
Tossing the blankets aside, Mykyl climbed from the bed, too aware of Amoda’s rapid scramble for something to cover herself. He ignored Amoda as he dressed quickly, pulling on his trousers and shirt with haste.
He glanced at Amoda as she pulled an under-tunic and skirt on. “My manor house is a lengthy ride inland. We’ll arrive before nightfall.”
“What does it matter to me, my Lord?” Amoda pulled her hair back into a thick braid, with a haughty look of dismissal.
Mykyl unflinchingly met her gaze. He watched her eyes flash with anger and disgust and her chin tilt at an angle. The small, dangerous little smile upon her face though worried him.
“Remember my warning, Amoda. Displease me and you’ll find yourself with more trouble than you can handle,” he snapped, his temper frayed by a hefty hangover.
“What would you do, my Lord, pass me off to another without getting what you want from me? It would be most appropriate.” Her lip curled in a sneer.
“Guard your tongue.” Mykyl grabbed her arm in a punishing grip. “Else you might lose it.”
“Why stop at my tongue? Slit my throat.”
“It would make you a much less attractive mistress.”
“Slave,” she corrected him.
“Dress for a long ride,” he commanded with a shout, then stalked to the door and jerked it open. A single glance at her and he slammed the door soundly.
He caught Cahal’s attention when he winced, a hand coming up to block out the glare as he stepped into the sunlight spilling over the deck. “Have the horses unloaded as quickly as possible. Send Vidor with some men to scout ahead. I will not tolerate delays.”
“Of course. And your woman?”
Mykyl smirked. “She’ll travel with me. Ensure that everyone is ready to ride as soon as I am.”
“As you wish.”
Both men turned at slam of the door from behind them to stare at the fuming woman. Mykyl smirked at the irritation written on her face. Quickly, he surmised that she’d thought to escape him on the ride to his home, and he’d inadvertently thwarted her plot.
“It shall be as you’ve ordered.” Cahal bowed, leaving after a stern look from Mykyl.
“Shall we?”
~ * ~
Wordlessly, Amoda struggled to contain the anger bubbling within her. Disappointment raced through her at the loss of an opportunity that riding with her master she couldn’t escape on horseback. It would limit her options, but it would in no way make a bid for freedom impossible.
Standing on shore, she watched as they packed the supplies taken from Bratthl’id on to the horses. Three more ships came in silently, and they unloaded horses, supplies, and several more thralls, quickly, efficiently.
What would he need with so many slaves? A strong arm wrapped around her waist. Startled, she gasped as Cahal wrapped a powerful arm around her midsection and lifted her into the lap of her master.
“Careful, Amoda. We’ve a long ride and you wouldn’t want to fall.”
“Perhaps not, but it wouldn’t hurt me if you fell.”
Mykyl chuckled at her docile tone and nudged his mount to a trot.
~ * ~
The towering walls of the manor sent a wave of despair through Amoda. She watched them rising from the lush greenery around them. The sounds of children’s laughter drifted over her on the wind. Out in the fields, she saw women and older children working steadily, pausing as they heard the army ride along the road.
“‘Tis a pity I foiled your escape.” Mykyl chuckled at her dark expression. “I’m always up for a good chase.”
“Not at all, my Lord. My day will come.” Amoda stared at the women and children as they raced for the tall walls.
Trotting through the gates, Mykyl kept a tight grip around Amoda’s waist. He recognized several of the young men from the stables rushing out to collect horses and sighed. It felt good to be back on familiar territory. Here there were no threats of war, nor any massive parties and celebrations, no trading of souls or gold. Within the walls he’d claimed, he felt at ease, at home.
Mykyl swung down from the saddle
and tugged Amoda down to stand beside him. He smiled at the old man who shuffled toward him, a cane in one hand.
“My lord, Mykyl, welcome home. Your brother…?”
“He is wedded now.”
“I see you did not return empty-handed.”
Mykyl glanced at Amoda who stared at the sprawling village he ruled. “No, no I did not. This is Amoda. Amoda, this is my personal aide, Byrne.”
Amoda nodded quickly, impersonally at the old man.
“I see you’ve returned with several other women. Shall I have one of the women escort them to the servants quarters?”
“Make it clear to all within the walls that the women are not to be bothered. They have chosen to return to Woodstown with the men. Their men can choose their quarters for them,” Mykyl said. “I would ask that you show Amoda to my chambers.”
“Your chambers, sir?” Byrne stared in shock. “But you’ve never had a woman stay—”
Mykyl turned to Byrne, impatience in his body. “Yes, my chambers. How long before a meal is ready?”
“Not long at all. We were roasting some mutton. Would you care for a bath?”
“Yes, draw a large, hot bath. Wash some of this dust and salt off of us.” Mykyl wiped at his shoulders, sending up a cloud of dust. “I’ll be in directly. Have Amoda’s needs seen to.”
“Yes, sir.”
Mykyl watched Amoda follow the old man. He caught the dark look sent his way from both of them but shrugged it aside. As lord and master, he expected obedience.
“You do realize that once Olaf comprehends just how badly you deceived him, he may declare war upon you?” Cahal said.
Mykyl turned to his friend, irritated at the needless reminder. “War is war, my friend. Does it really matter whom you fight?”
Cahal laughed. “I guess not.” “Go home to your wife and children,” Mykyl ordered and slapped him on the shoulder before turning and walking into the cool interior of his home. The house servants bustled about with their work. Still, he saw the looks exchanged; saw the way the women turned away from him. He’d never brought a slave back in this manner, but he was the Lord of Woodstown, and they would get used to this change in time.
With a shake of his head, he started up the stairs to his chambers. He passed several young men carrying empty buckets and a young girl carrying a stack of bathing sheets. He wondered if Amoda had accepted she would be bathing with him. He chuckled. The very idea would infuriate her.
Mykyl entered his chamber and stared. The basin sat in the middle of the room, filled with steaming water. On the end of his bed, a pile of towels rested, and the young servant girl and Amoda were glaring at each other.
“Is there a problem?”
“No, my Lord. I was just leaving.”
Mykyl waited for the door to close before he focused upon Amoda who stood defiantly staring back at him. “They are servants in this house.”
“They are your servants, as I am. I presume you wish me to bathe you.”
“No. You’ll be bathing with me.”
Mykyl laughed softly at Amoda’s shocked expression. “Did you really believe that I would allow you to bathe alone?”
“I am your slave, nothing more. I see no logic in bathing with you.”
“But I do. Now strip or I shall do it for you.”
Anger, stubbornness, pride all flashed in her eyes before acceptance took their place. He watched as she shed the plain clothes that she’d been wearing; now standing before him in all her naked glory.
“Help me undress,” he ordered.
“You have not won yet.”
“I don’t have to win,” Mykyl whispered. He waited impatiently as his shirt, under-tunic, and belt landed on the floor. He eyed the cooling bath impatiently as Amoda took her time undoing his pants. Raising each foot, he allowed her to pull off his boots before shedding his pants. “Into the basin, woman. The water’s already cooled too much but I have no time to have more water brought.”
Amoda glared at him but acquiesced. He watched as she slid beneath the water before crawling in with her. He leaned back against the edge and smiled at her. “See? That’s not so bad, is it?”
“Forgive me if I pray for your demise. You have nothing I want.”
Mykyl laughed and tossed a cloth at her. “Come, wash with me before dinner. I will not dine with dust and salt upon me.”
Muttering under her breath, Amoda slid forward in the basin until she sat on her knees and began working the rough cloth over his chest. With each swipe of it through the hair, she cursed under her breath, unaware that Mykyl heard and understood each and every word.
Let the battle begin. He watched the stubborn, angry expression on her face. He would have to be cautious and cunning, but he knew he could win in this battle of wills.
“My love, your touch, while thorough, is a bit rough. Mayhap, you could be gentler, as I shall be when I wash your back.”
Amoda’s dark glare drew a chuckle as he stared at her defiant expression. He sank deeper into the hot water as her touch eased, feathering over his chest, while her muttered threats against his person continued.
~ * ~
Amoda clung to the shadows of the great hall. Her gaze swept over the gathered crowd with unease. A knot of tension formed in her belly to create a physical ache. Mykyl stood with two men; their heads bent together, a thoughtful look on his face.
She bit her lip in confusion as she watched an older, poorly dressed woman hobble up to them. The woman bowed before the trio, her face covered by the hood of her wrap.
Her stomach dropped when the woman’s gnarled hand reached out to clutch at Mykyl’s arm. Amoda stepped forward, desperate to warn the old woman not to risk the wrath of the Prince of Woodstown, only to freeze. Mykyl patted the woman’s hand and smiled a welcome.
“My lord, forgive an old woman, but I come to plead for your assistance.”
Amoda shifted, her hands pressed to her lips as she inched closer.
Uncertainty a heavy weight on her chest, she waited for the explosion of anger at the old woman’s careless trespass.
In her experience with Rognvaldr, he’d never suffered such things kindly. She was unsure how Mykyl would take the brash act.
“Tell me, what can I assist you with?”
“‘Tis my granddaughter, my lord. With no male relatives alive, she has no champion. I fear that one of the men from a neighboring clan has lain with her.”
“Was she a willing participant?” Mykyl asked. He ushered the old woman to the long bench along the wall. Amoda caught his eye and stepped deeper into the shadows.
“She claims not, my lord. Our family has lost a great many, and I have no one to turn to. I plead with you to help her.”
“Do not trouble yourself,” Mykyl smiled as he settled the woman onto the seat. “I shall have my Captain act as her champion. Justice will be served.”
“I thank you.” Weathered hands clutched at Mykyl’s as she pressed kisses to his hands, tears of gratitude streaming down her face.
Amoda swallowed. This was not what she’d expected, not what she knew to be. Rognvaldr would have beaten the old woman for daring to touch him. Olaf would have ignored her claim or dealt her a deathblow. Confusion settled deeper into her soul as she watched her lord and master mutter something to Cahal before he turned to acknowledge her with the barest of nods.
What sort of man was this dragon of the sea? Amoda wondered as she watched him with his subjects. He carried the weight of his power easily, stopping to speak to those beneath him in stature with an ease she found unsettling. In her experience, men were not to be trusted and danger lurked beneath their facades if boundaries ignored. Amoda ducked her head as she sank onto the bench, her eyes fastening on her folded hands. A niggling doubt began to fester in her mind and she wondered just what game he was playing.
Seven
With a bolt of fabric in her lap, Amoda watched those who lived in the city. Women and children hurried along the packed earth. Bu
ndles of wood and buckets of water hung from tired hands.
She stuck the needle into the brightly colored fabric, her eyes upon some children at play in the courtyard. She glanced at Mykyl as he rode through the gate with three other men. He trotted past the alcove she sat in, his face streaked with dirt and sweat. The cries of children at play reached her, and she glanced over with a smile. Three boys raced about waving wooden swords, the air full of their battle cry.
The largest of the boys raced too close to the men’s horses. Terror filled her as she watched Mykyl’s sturdy sorrel rear, his front legs pawing in the air above the boy’s head. Dropping her sewing, she hurried toward the ruckus. Determined to defend the rambunctious boy, she gathered her skirts and increased her pace until she was running toward the men.
Mykyl’s baritone carried over the cries of horses and men alike. A gentle touch soothed the terrified beast and he dismounted. The boy stumbled backward, falling onto his behind. Stark terror filled his young face as he watched Mykyl push past the still skittish horse. The lad scrambled backward, his body shaking as his friends abandoned him to other safer pursuits far from the scene.
“I’m sorry, my lord.” The boy’s terrified voice carried to Amoda who quickened her step. “I didn’t mean to spook your horse, sir,” he squeaked out as Mykyl reached for him.
“It was an accident.” Amoda pushed past Mykyl to help the boy to his feet. “They were simply playing, my lord. Please—”
“Be still, woman.” Mykyl waved aside her words and stepped around her. “Boy, don’t you know better than to—”
“It was a simple error,” Amoda pleaded, stepping between the boy and Mykyl. “He wasn’t watching where he was going. I am certain he meant no harm. Please, my lord, surely, you remember what it was like to be a child. It was a simple game; the boy’s a bit clumsy is all.”
“Amoda,” Mykyl sighed. “I wish no harm to the child.” He gave her a dark look. “I wish to simply assure myself that he is well and unharmed.”
Swallowing against the knot in her throat, she shifted. Her gaze darted around to the growing crowd. A wave of heat rose up her throat to her cheeks. She ducked her head to hide her embarrassment as Mykyl pushed past her, lifted the boy to his feet, and sent him on his way with a swat to the behind.
Patricia Bates Page 5