“I have many slaves, but none quite like you.” He reached out and fingered a lock of hair.
Lorna had to prevent herself from recoiling, lest she tumble backward down the stairs and cause herself harm. Instead she drew in a breath. “I am no’ a slave. Just a prisoner. But before long I shall be free and ye shall regret ever laying a hand on me.”
His lips quirked in amusement and he brought his hand up to stroke her head, as if patting an animal or small child. “I like your spirit and you are vakker, in a small, sweet sort of way. You would look fine atop my furs.”
“Perhaps so, but ye shall never know,” she responded with a smug smile.
The hand on her head curled into her hair, grasping it and tugging it until her scalp burned. She gasped as he drew her into him. “The laird will do anything to keep me happy. Including giving you to me.”
“I am not his to give!” she declared, earning another sharp tug on her hair.
Ivar pulled her head to his chest and sniffed her hair before thrusting her back. She grappled on his arm to stop herself from tumbling and managed to right herself.
“You would do better to try to please me. Once this battle is over, the Norse shall dominate much of Scotland. Before long, we shall have complete power. And I shall take you as my slave so you can see me slay your family and rule over your people.”
Licking her dry lips, Lorna contemplated a response—trying to decide if he might hurt her again should she spit out any more words—but they were interrupted by the trudge of feet. Logan led two other men past their position. He flicked a dismissive glance her way, then his gaze landed on Ivar and hardened. The two men-at-arms paused to eye her and Logan motioned for them to follow.
“Keep moving,” he barked. “Ye have work to do.”
They watched him walk past. Her heart ached with every beat of his boots while he walked away from her as if she was nothing, no one. Lorna glanced up at Ivar, her throat dry. Logan was not going to come to her rescue. Mayhap she had to resign herself to the fact Logan would never be the man he once was.
“Ye cannae have me,” she whispered, eyes cast down.
Ivar chuckled and snatched her hair again. She squeaked and fought against his hold, but the burning sensation in her scalp made her eyes water. He dragged her to the castle, hauled her up the stairs and led her to stand in front of the top table. She tried to tear away but his grip was too strong and painful.
Standing with her head at an angle, she spat words at Ivar. “Release me, ye buthaigir duine.”
“What is this?” From under the hair that fell across her face, she could make out Gillean’s raised brow of surprise.
“I have a bargain to make with you, Gillean. Once the battle is done, this woman is mine.
Gillean laughed. “I am giving ye my men, my arms, my loyalty. What more do ye need?”
“I want this woman. If you want my men to aid you, give me her once the battle is done. You have no need for her once your enemies are slain.”
Lorna peered at the laird through her hair and made another futile swipe at the Norseman. The ache in her head was muddling her thoughts, and tears dripped down her face at the sting in her scalp.
The laird remained silent. Even those around them had stilled. No clatter of knives or shuffle of feet sounded. Only her pulse throbbed in her ears like the beating of a drum.
“Well?” Ivar prompted.
“Fine.”
Lorna’s heart sank to her toes. Her fate had been undecided until now but to be given to a Viking... it was worse than any of her imaginings. A slave. She’d have no rights, no hope. He could do with her as he wished. Even being the chattel to her husband was a better life.
“After the battle, mind,” Gillean continued. “I need her for now. Should her clan decide to come for her, I need leverage.”
She caught the cold glint to his gaze and if it had been possible, her heart would have dropped out of her toes and melted onto the floor. Despair struck her deep and strong. She had to escape. If this Viking took her, she’d never see Ewan again, and if Gillean succeeded in his battle plans, her family was in grave danger.
She had to escape. Somehow.
***
The urge struck to dunk her head in a nearby ale and drain the beaker. Tèile scrubbed a spindly hand over her face and slumped against the tempting drink. An entire night locked together, and still nothing had come of it! She had felt sure a little time together would make things right. These Highland men were as thick-skulled as they came. Even after giving into temptation, Logan was being as stubborn as a mule.
And now Gillean intended to hand Lorna over to the Viking. This would not do. What sort of happy ending was that? Her reputation as a matchmaker would be tarnished but more than that... her heart ached with sorrow for the woman. Tèile rubbed her chest. It was an odd sensation—a little frightening if she was truthful. When had she become so invested in human fate when she had nothing to gain?
She contemplated diving into the ale once more but she needed all her senses right now. If she was to come up with a way to bring them together without causing all sorts of trouble with too much magic, she would have to remain clear-headed.
This match was proving harder than expected. She might have to aid an escape and try to bring them together again later.
Chapter Twelve
Logan leaned over the stone wall and peered into the night. The skies had remained clear. He hoped they stayed that way. Should it rain, marching across the Highlands would be that much harder, as would carting any siege weapons with them. A half moon made an attempt at lighting the sky but the stars did a fine job of caressing the hilltops with their silvery glow. He drew in a long breath, one scented with smoke and wild flowers. Had he done this before? Stared out at the night and thought of a woman? The emptiness of his mind made him curl his fingers into the stone.
That, and the news of the deal Gillean had struck.
Soon, Lorna would no longer be their burden. She’d be Ivar’s slave.
Bitterness sat in his throat. He was no fool. A female slave, particularly one like Lorna would be used and abused, treated no better than an animal—mayhap worse. But what could he do? Their alliance with the Vikings, it seemed, now hung on this small bargain. So close to battle, it would not do to anger their leader. And if he deserted them and the king got wind of their plans? Death would be the best they could hope for.
He turned and rested his back against the cool stone, relishing the slight jab in his back as it brought him back to his senses. He had a job to do and an army of men to worry about.
An army of men who appeared infatuated with Lorna. He’d never seen their heads turn as quickly as they did with her, and he was not oblivious to their whispered comments about her. Many fancied their chances with her—if only he did not act like her shadow. What choice did he have but to trail after her when an entire castle of men wished to slake their lust with her? Ach, though he’d managed admirably to avoid her for the day. Not that it made a difference. Everywhere he went he saw her. Her voice rang in his ears. If he stepped foot in the kitchens, his body tightened in remembrance. On the balcony, the scarred wood reminded him of her wild, angry expression. Even here, he saw her in his mind, her skirts blowing about her, fair hair fluttering in the breeze. She would turn to him and take him in her arms—
Laughter broke his imaginings, shattering them to a thousand pieces. He jerked himself away from the wall. “Fool,” he muttered to himself.
Righting himself fully, he peered over the inside of the wall and hunted down the source of the laughter. The men by the rear gate—the small escape route that was barely visible unless you knew it was there—were talking with a lass it seemed. Another ripple of male laughter bounced around the walls. Annoyance made his lips curl and he stomped down the inner stairs to throw about a threat or two. They were meant to be standing guard, not seducing maids.
He stalked over and the men didn’t spot him until he was upon them
. The maid, Anne, pivoted, her wide-eyed gaze falling upon him. She stepped back as if fearful he might harm her. Logan grunted at the men and tried not to be aggravated by the woman’s fear. He was well aware of how he appeared and he didn’t need a serving maid reminding him of that.
“What are ye doing?”
The two men peeked at each other and stayed quiet.
“Well?”
“Just taking a drink, sir,” the smaller one muttered, lifting a beaker.
“Forgive me, sir,” Anne said quietly. “I was bringing refreshments.”
“They dinnae need refreshments. They’ve only been on duty for a matter of h—” Something caught his gaze. “Back to yer stations,” he barked at the men before thrusting a finger at Anne. “Ye come with me.”
She followed as he dashed over to the hay cart where he’d spotted the movement. Sure enough, crouched behind the tatty cart was a hooded figure. He grabbed the fabric and hauled the person to their feet. When he flung back the hood, he was not surprised to see a tumble of fair hair and pale features staring up at him. Anne released a gasp.
“Going somewhere, my lady?” he asked.
Lorna tore her mantle from his grip and he let her. She had nowhere to go. “Nay!”
He swung his gaze between the two women and saw the look they shared. “So ye werenae planning on luring the guards away?” he asked Anne. “And ye werenae planning on using that opportunity to slip out the door?”
“Pray, s-sir,” Anne stuttered.
“’Twas my fault!” Lorna blurted, dragging his attention to her. “Anne had naught to do with this. I begged her. Pray, dinnae tell Gillean. He’ll harm her, ye know he will.”
Unable to do anything but admire her bravery, he blew out a long breath. “Anne,” he said tightly, “return to the keep.”
“Sir?”
“Return!” he barked.
He didn’t bother watching her leave. He listened as her footsteps faded and eyed the gentle curve of Lorna’s cheeks while her chest heaved under the mantle. When he took a step forward, she took one back and came smack against the wall. The temptation to press himself against her, to feel that soft, petite body against his, burned brightly. By some miracle, he managed to resist.
“I... pray, dinnae tell him,” she begged.
He ground his teeth and stared at her. What was with this woman and her need to put herself at risk all of the time. Would she run across the Highlands alone and risk death to escape Gillean’s clutches? Or Ivar’s clutches now, he corrected himself. Dread twisted his stomach as he imagined the Norseman taking her as his slave. He saw large hands groping her. The Viking demeaning her, breaking her spirit. As aggravating as it was, he wasn’t sure he wanted to see that spirit lost.
“I will say naught. But dinnae involve her again. Ye placed her in grave danger.”
“I know.” Lorna ducked her head before lifting it. “Ye really willnae tell Gillean?”
“I willnae.”
“I thank ye.”
“For what?”
“Yer mercy.”
He snorted. Mercy? Is that what it was? He wasn’t sure he knew how to be merciful. A hardened warrior, that was his role. What role did mercy have in a place like this?
“Dinnae mistake me, I am no’ merciful. The laird doesnae need to be dealing with such matters at this time.”
A hint of a smile teased her lips and she sighed. “Ye are a better man than ye think ye are, Logan. If only ye would see it.”
Unsure how to respond to this, he scraped a hand through his hair and pointed wearily toward the keep. “Get inside before I have ye locked away for good.”
She nodded, snatched her skirts and made to hurry away, but not before pressing a hand to his arm and murmuring, “Thank ye,” again. He remained motionless and waited for her to disappear into the castle. His arm burned and tingled at that small touch and her words rang in his ear. A better man? How was that possible?
Chapter Thirteen
Lorna froze on the top step when a figure lurched out of the shadows at the end of the gallery. A hard knot gathered in her throat as Ivar stepped forward. His gaze glittered in the torch light. She considered turning around and scurrying downstairs, but that meant she risked meeting Logan again, and at present her heart could not bear it. She glanced behind her and let out an unsteady breath. Most were abed and even if they were not, none would interfere with this Viking taking whatever he wanted.
And he wanted her.
She already knew that, but dark lust simmered in his gaze now and it seemed he did not intend to wait to take her away from here before indulging that need. Shoulders tight, she considered running again—Logan be damned—but her room was closer. If she was quick, she might make it into her chamber and be able to shut the door on him.
They eyed one another and he licked his lips, a grin flickering on them. He enjoyed this—the thrill of the chase. Like prey toying with his food. The faint trudge of feet outside the keep and the occasional pop of wood punctuated her thickening breaths. Around her, servants slept on, men continued to patrol the walls. Life continued, oblivious to the peril she was in.
Hand curled tightly around the banister, she watched the Viking crook his neck and seem to shake loose his muscles, as if readying himself for battle.
He knew. He knew she intended to run. So why not make a move and take her now?
Lorna released the wood, finger by finger, and tensed. She snaked one hand down to grip her gown and sucked in a breath. Held it. Ignored the sweat prickling down her spine. Tried to suppress the sickening thud in her chest. Ivar’s grin widened.
Heart in her throat, she lunged, racing across the wooden floorboards to her chambers. So close. The door was mere paces away now and she did not even know where the Viking was.
Until his hand closed around hers as she gripped the door handle. She went to let out a scream, an instinctive reaction but a meaty hand closed around her mouth. The slick texture of it meant she almost managed to slip her face free, but he gripped tighter and she battled to draw in breaths. His body came next, pinning her to the door. Her breasts crushed against the wood while he eased his hips against her rear. Her stomach bottomed out and bitter liquid rose in her throat.
He was aroused. Through her skirts and his thick jerkin, it was obvious how much he wanted her—how he enjoyed the game. The shock of his attack dissipated and her head cleared. Forcing her thoughts away from what he intended for her, quashing the images of bruised, naked skin and a hulking Viking on top of her, she freed a hand from where it was trapped between her body and the door and flailed for some kind of purchase.
Her fingers met rough fabric, and she gripped and tugged it. This apparently only drew amusement from him as he chuckled and grabbed the hand, drawing it up painfully behind her back.
“Do not move, my lady. I would not wish to break your arm,” he hissed in her eat. His warm breath made her shudder and the sting in her throat increased.
She protested against his hand, begged him to release her, but the words were muffled and useless. Once again, she was at the mercy of a man. And he would take little pity on her. Her sister by marriage had nearly been a victim of the Norse and Scotland had suffered their ambition for hundreds of years. Would she be yet another victim of a Viking?
“I am going to release your mouth,” he told her, “so I can open this door. A noble lady like yourself at least deserves a bed, do you not think? Should you make a noise, I will break your arm.”
The cold way he said it left her in no doubt he was serious. The urge to fight burned strong in her chest. She had to keep herself from trying to bite his hand or scream to the rafters as he lifted it away, but if she was to fight him off, she needed to be in a less vulnerable position. A broken arm was the last thing she needed.
Lorna remained tense, aware of the throbbing pain in her shoulder while he slowly twisted the door handle. Metal clunked and his breaths rasped in her ear. Ivar kept himself pressed against her,
and his lips teased the back of her neck. A shudder ran through her, but this was no pleasurable shudder. When Logan’s mouth touched her skin, her skin blazed and a beautiful unfurling sensation eased into every inch of her, but these lips made her grit her teeth as chills traversed her spine. Her body shook more than she would have liked.
Courage, bravery. Those were the traits she relied on. When her husband lashed her and broke her skin, she remained stoic. When he died and left her alone, she refused to reveal any emotion. And when her lover had been killed, even though inside she had withered and died, she remained strong. So where was her strength now? Gone when Logan disappeared from her life perhaps and reappeared as another man.
The hinges groaned, and Ivar pushed open the door. She tensed, ready to be pushed forward but the hold on her arm loosened. She tripped when Ivar seemed to stumble against her. Her palms slapped against the floor of the chamber and stung. She swept loose strands of hair from her face and twisted to see Ivar being dragged back by Logan.
The two men vanished around the side and Lorna scrabbled to standing, her foot catching in her skirts and nearly making her trip again.
“Wretched gown.”
She righted herself and clasped her gown before spilling out of the door.
Logan had Ivar pinned against the wall. Lorna felt her eyes go wide, and her heart pressed against her ribcage. The large Viking struggled as Logan spat at him, “Ye dinnae touch her, ye understand?”
Ivar grunted and pushed Logan back, sending him back against the railing. Lorna clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a startled cry. Both men were large, easily matched. But Logan had suffered an injury. In any other circumstance, she would have staked her claim on the dark haired, incensed Scot, but who knew if his injuries had taken their toll on his skill as a fighter. She had seen him at weapons practice many a time and occasionally engaged in the odd drunken brawl. He fought with little finesse—his upbringing as a poor, starving child had taught him all he knew—but what he lacked in grace, he made up for in determination and pure brute strength.
To Avenge Her Highland Warrior Page 10