The Captive Heart (Kathleen Kirkwood HEART Series)

by Kathleen Kirkwood

  Wimund’s eyes brightened. He abandoned his stool and scuttled forward. “Yes, Princess. She is most useful. Most useful, indeed . . .”

  Rhiannon quelled him with an sharp look, sending him scuffling back.

  Ailénor seized the moment, daring to rise to her feet and confront Rhiannon. She heard Garreth utter her name but ignored the concerned warning in his voice. Boldly she stood fast, her hands tied and a heathen at her back.

  “Confess it, Rhiannon, your plans are already spoiled, and you have lost your advantage. You cannot hope to have another opportunity to seize my mother. My father will protect her with his lion’s heart and eagle’s eyes.” Her gaze went to Wimund. “Neither this creature nor anyone else you send has a prayer of getting near my family. Meanwhile, all Normandy searches for me, and when they find — ”

  A discordant laugh burst from Rhiannon’s lips. “My dear, your kinsmen have no idea where you are or who abducted you.” She narrowed a look at Wimund. “Unless that, too, was bungled.”

  Wimund quickened forward solicitously. “No, Princess. Not bungled. They have no way of knowing.”

  A gleam of satisfaction appeared in Rhiannon’s eyes as she turned her gaze on Ailénor once more.

  “As to ensnaring your mother, Wimund is right. I have no need to abduct her. She will come most willingly to sacrifice herself and exchange places with you — her oh-so-precious daughter.”

  Ailénor seethed. The woman had the heart of a viper and a soul full of poison.

  “Do not underestimate my parents. Either of them,” Ailénor grit out, making no effort to veil her contempt. “But, most especially, do not underestimate my father. Christian though he may be, he is a full-blooded Norseman — a great warrior and fiercely protective of his family. You and your vermin are no match for him. Do you really wish to face his retribution?”

  “Ahh, your father. Of course, I have not forgotten the courageous Lyting Atlison. A very handsome, very desirable man.” The corners of Rhiannon’s mouth tilted upward, memories tempering the harsh light in her eyes. “So, he succeeded in freeing Ailinn from our Norse captors. He had to have killed Hakon to do so. For that I am grateful.”

  Beholding Rhiannon’s look, Ailénor realized this Hakon must have been the man who had enslaved and abused her. For a scant moment, she felt a twinge of pity for the woman and the horrible plight she had endured. But then Rhiannon’s eyes welled with loathing once more.

  “Judging by your age, ‘twould appear it did not take Ailinn long to entice Lyting between her thighs. Did she seduce him on the banks of the Dnieper? I suppose, in good conscience, he felt compelled to marry her.”

  Ailénor’s temper flared. At the same time it surprised her to hear the twin notes of jealousy and envy in Rhiannon’s voice. Had Rhiannon lusted after her father those many years ago?

  Ailénor lifted her chin proudly. “They were wed in Constantinople amid great splendor and with the emperor himself in attendance. I was begotten after my parents’ marriage in the Imperial City.”

  “So they told you. Rhiannon smirked.

  “So I know. The months can be counted easily enough. The depth of their love is obviously beyond your comprehension and something you prefer to deny.”

  Rhiannon’s eyes flamed. “What I comprehend is that because of your mother my life has been ruined. I will be avenged!”

  “Ruined? How? Because she was not raped in your place? Or abducted by the tribesmen in your place? Or simply did not die when you wished her to, for your own selfish reasons?”

  Rhiannon hissed, raising a clawed hand to Ailénor’s face, ready to slash and disfigure her. At the threat, Garreth bolted to his feet, knocking back the bench and shouldering in front of Ailénor.

  In a heartbeat, Varya kicked the bench away and lunged forward, leveling his sword at Garreth’s neck, the blade’s honed edge kissing the place just beneath his jaw.

  “You shall pay for those words,” Rhiannon snarled in Ailénor’s face. “Just as your mother shall pay for her offenses.”

  Anxious, Wimund shifted from foot to foot and wrung his hands, his great eyes rolling from Rhiannon to Ailénor to Varya and the deadly sword at Garreth’s neck.

  “Yes, yes, Princess. She shall pay,” he soothed. “But we need the daughter now to snare the mother and lure her here. I will deliver the missive myself.”

  Rhiannon rounded’ on him, looking ready to swallow him whole and spit out his bones. He cowered beneath her glare, and a long moment passed. Then, unexpectedly, she vented a breath and turned her interest to Garreth. Signaling Varya to withdraw his sword, she considered Garreth closely.

  Wimund started to retreat a step, but Rhiannon’s arm shot out. Seizing him by the front of his tunic, and without so much as a sideways glance, she hauled him back.

  “What more can you tell me of this Saxon? Varya said only that he was with the girl in Lundenburh, and you insisted he be spared and brought here. Something about a ransom.”

  “Aye, aye. A fine ransom.” Wimund nodded vigorously. “He is a nobleman, a thegn. He was at the court of Rouen and sailed the Channel with us. The boatswain claimed him to be connected to King Athelstan’s court. Gave us a good bit of trouble, he did, too. Escaped with the girl and took her straight to the palace at Winchester. Don’t know his status among the Saxons, but by his fine garments, I’d guess he ranks high enough to bring a fat purse.”

  Wimund rubbed his chest as Rhiannon released him.

  “Can’t let him go without some gain.” He darted a nasty look at Garreth. “After all, he is responsible for Grimbold’s death.”

  “Is he really?” Rhiannon closed the space between herself and Garreth. Smoothing a hand over his chest, her interest sharpened. “Do you have a name, Saxon?”

  “The girl calls him Garreth,” Wimund supplied hastily, interrupting.

  “Garreth.” She rolled the name on her tongue as though it were a savory morsel. “‘Tis a pleasing name. I would know more about him. Much more.” Rhiannon dragged her gaze from Garreth’s features. “Varya, take our Saxon guest to my private chamber and bind him to a chair. I wish to question him further. You can then return the girl to the souterrain.”

  Ailénor stood appalled yet found no opportunity to explain the exchange to Garreth. She saw that Varya’s look had hardened, tension lining the muscles in his body. When he remained unmoving, she feared what the barbarian might do. To her relief, he only gestured toward a door at the back of the hall and shoved Garreth toward it.

  But just when her worries were allayed, Garreth heeled around on Varya, unwilling to leave Ailénor.

  “Non, Garreth. Please.” Dread wrung Ailénor’s heart. He stood not a chance against the barbarian with his hands tied. Varya could fell him with one swift stroke of his blade. “Go with him. Rhiannon desires to question you.” Ailénor did not expand on her suspicions. “I will be all right. Truly.”

  Garreth looked unconvinced.

  “They dare not hurt me if they are to use me to lure my mother here, as is their plan. Now, please go. Do not bring harm on yourself.” She sent him a small smile. “How could you help me, then?” she reasoned, hoping he would accept her logic.

  Garreth’s jaw hardened, a muscle leaping there. But at last he tore his gaze from Ailénor and allowed Varya to conduct him from the room.

  Ailénor turned to Rhiannon whose eyes followed Garreth with a look that was a mixture of triumph and anticipation.

  “He does not understand Gaelic,” Ailénor clipped.

  “Does it matter?” Rhiannon smiled cattily, then traversed the room to resume her place on her chair and bid a servant to refill her goblet.

  “Princess.” Wimund followed after her and sidled close, nervously licking his lips. “Ol’ Wimund has already risked a lot. Made a mistake, ‘tis true. But the baronne’s daughter is still of great value and the mother has already suffered much anguish at her disappearance.”

  “What is it you want, little man?” Rhiannon snapped impat
iently.

  He licked his lips again. “Surely the girl is worth part of the promised treasure. And — ”

  “And?” Rhiannon’s voice rose, her temper flashing.

  “And you promised ol’ Wimund could pleasure himself on the baronne. Why not on the daughter, then? ‘Twill aggrieve Lady Ailinn all the more to have her daughter violated in her stead.” His look grew avid, and he pressed closer. “‘Tis something that can never be repaired.”

  Rhiannon mulled his words, her eyes slanting to Ailénor. A malicious smile spread over her lips.

  “Very well.”

  Varya reappeared just then, his scowl still in place. Looking to him, Rhiannon rose to her feet.

  “Varya, take the girl below to the souterrain. Chain her and let Wimund have her as he will. When he is finished, he will need be rewarded with what is rightly due him. Do you understand?”

  Alarm sleeted needlelike through Ailénor at Rhiannon’s words. Still, she did not miss the look that passed between Rhiannon and the barbarian, a private, knowing look.

  She saw how Rhiannon transferred a domed ring from her right forefinger to the opposite hand — a signal of some sort. Ailénor could only wonder at Rhiannon’s true intentions toward Wimund, but knew it would make no difference to the fate about to befall herself.

  Rhiannon started across the room toward her private chamber, then stopped and glanced back over her shoulder. “If it pleases you, Varya, you can have the chit as well.”

  Chapter 14

  A fresh wave of terror crested through Ailénor.

  Wimund hastened to her side and gripped her arm. “She’s mine first,” he muttered blackly to Varya and forced her across the hall.

  Varya ignored him, remaining fixed in his stance, not a muscle flinching as he watched Rhiannon disappear into her private chamber and close the door. He waited several heartbeats longer, staring at the barrier, then drove his sword into its scabbard. Seizing a torch from the wall, he heeled after Wimund and Ailénor.

  Tremors racked Ailénor as she stepped into the pitch-dark courtyard, flanked by the two men who would defile her. Desperately she strove to harness her fears. To cry out and alert Garreth would bring him certain death. ‘Twas clear Varya would like nothing better than to terminate any efforts Garreth might make to reach her, and permanently so, whether he still be bound or not.

  Wimund propelled Ailénor forward. She gave each man a sharp, quick glance, then instantly regretted it. Torchlight exaggerated their features, Wimund appearing eerily grotesque and Varya even more spine-chillingly brutish than before.

  Her stomach roiled. Fine beads of perspiration broke out on her forehead as she and her captors continued toward the entrance of the passageway. Gulping a lungful of air, she lifted her eyes to the black bowl of the sky overhead. The stars watched from above like a thousand eyes.

  Did Heaven see? Did Heaven listen? Did Heaven care that she was about to be ravaged?

  A prayer rose from her heart like a dove on wings. She beseeched the Almighty for deliverance, then His host of saints, especially those most dear to this isle at the edge of the world — Patrick and Brigid and . . .

  “Get on with you,” Wimund grumbled when her step faltered.

  Ailénor’s breath caught to see they stood before the mouth of the souterrain. Sending a final appeal heavenward, she entered its jaws and began the descent.

  Varya held the torch high so that its light tumbled down the steps and illumined the path to the appointed place of her ravishment. Hope deserted her that she might yet escape this bitter lot.

  She would survive, she told herself firmly and clung to the thought as Wimund pulled her farther down the throat of the passage. ‘Twas not these men’s purpose to slay her.

  Wimund gave an eager, chuckling laugh, his excitement increasing as they reached the bottom of the stairs where the light pooled. He smiled at her, his toadlike eyes staring, and ran a grimy hand along her arm. She shrank inwardly and tried to jerk away, but he gripped her all the tighter and hauled her toward the wall where the iron chains waited.

  Ailénor’s heart raced as the cruel moment closed in on her. She darted a glance about the cave, seeking an escape or something to lay hold of to protect herself, but knew ‘twas in vain.

  Wimund chuckled again, drawing his knife and setting its point to her side. Ailénor stiffened at the menace.

  “Down on the floor with you.” He prodded her with the tip of the blade when she failed to move.

  Ailénor winced as it pricked her through her gown, but before she could respond, Wimund fisted a handful of her hair and yanked her down to the cave floor.

  Pain shot through her knees, the heels of her bound hands burning as she caught herself on the rugged stone. She gasped as Wimund dragged her back up by her hair and forced her to a sitting position as he knelt beside her. He continued to anchor her by her hair, pressing the knife to her back, directly in line with her heart.

  “Put the irons on her,” Wimund barked at Varya though his eyes remained lodged on Ailénor. “‘Twill go easier for you if you don’t fight ol’ Wimund. Hate to have to bruise you up. Give ol’ Wimund a good ride, and he won’t need to.”

  Wimund’s grin widened as he eased closer. Ailénor’s nostrils filled with his stale, unwashed odor. Snatching a sideways glance of him, she saw the intensity of his look and the drool forming in the corner of his mouth. Her stomach turned. Utterly repulsed, she looked to Varya where he placed the torch in an iron bracket.

  He turned and approached her, then crouched at her feet. Taking up the iron cuff, he shackled her right ankle, chaining her to the wall. Ailénor’s gaze met his as he fastened it in place. Varya’s black eyes appeared dispassionate pebbles of jet. Yet she perceived a flicker of thought behind the stone.

  Varya’s expression did not alter as he stood and withdrew several paces. Crossing his arms over his thickly muscled chest, he remained locked in his stance, his sword gleaming at his side. He waited. And watched.

  Wimund chuckled at Ailénor’s ear. Her skin turned to gooseflesh as he freed her hair and rubbed his hand up and down her arm.

  “When I’m done with her, I’ll be wanting to see the treasure the princess promised,” Wimund informed the barbarian.

  Varya acknowledged with a brief nod of his head but did not move otherwise. Noting this, Wimund’s eyes narrowed. “Ol’ Wimund doesn’t need any help here.”

  Varya remained stock-still.

  “You want to watch? Is that it? Take a few lessons?” Wimund’s grin faded when Varya gave no response. “Hrmmp. Well, suit yourself.” He returned his attention to Ailénor. “Now, my sweet, let’s see what you’ve got waitin’ for ol’ Wimund.”

  Ailénor felt the knife tip catch the lacing at the back of her gown and cut through. Before she could react, Wimund fisted her hair again and forced her onto her back, immediately lurching atop her. He locked his lips on hers and thrust his tongue into her mouth, delivering a wet, gagging kiss. Revolted, Ailénor shoved at him with all her strength, kicking out at the same time and toppling him off of her.

  Wimund scrambled back, a vicious look slashing his features. He gripped her by the throat, high beneath her jaw, and drove his fingers brutally into her flesh, squeezing off her breath as he held the knife before her eyes.

  “We can do this your way or my way. Easy or rough. Doesn’t matter. I’ll enjoy it either way.”

  Incensed by his words, Ailénor gave him a fierce look, worthy of her Norse-Irish blood. Surprise sparked Wimund’s great eyes as she continued to cleave him with the look. He maintained his suffocating hold on her a moment longer, until she began to slip into a faint. Then, releasing her, he left her choking for air and drew away.

  Spots still danced before Ailénor’s eyes when Wimund reappeared with a fresh length of rope in his hands. Forcing her arms back over her head, he fastened the rope to her already bound hands and ran it through the second iron ring affixed in the wall where, earlier, Garreth had been moore
d. This done, Wimund scrabbled back to Ailénor’s side. He gave a chortling laugh as she lay virtually immobilized on the floor.

  Sheathing his knife, he then straddled her waist and pinned her down, making it impossible for her to dislodge him with her free leg.

  “Now, you’ll not be giving or Wimund any more trouble. Just pleasure.”

  His lust surging, he grabbed her breasts with greedy hands and began to knead them roughly.

  “Aye, a lot of pleasure, my lovely. That’s what you’ll be giving ol’ Wimund.”

  Coarsely he crushed her breasts, causing her to wince in pain. She bit her lower lip to keep from crying out and tried to twist free of his grasp, but to no avail.

  Reaching to the neck of her gown, Wimund jerked it open. Ailénor’s flesh crawled, and she could not control the shaking that overtook her as Wimund spread kisses and spittle along the curve of her neck.

  Looking to the ceiling of the cave, she beseeched Heaven once more to help her.

  Cool air touched her shoulder as Wimund dragged the cloth farther down. As his lips slid over her skin, tears sprang to Ailénor’s eyes. On a desperate, inexplicable impulse, she looked to Varya.

  »«

  Rhiannon flamed a slim taper over the oil lamp, then transferred it to the golden grains of incense waiting in the censer. She held it there until the resinous substance began to smoke, diffusing a dense, musky odor.

  Snuffing the taper in a glazed vessel of sand, Rhiannon turned and gave the room a cursory glance. It pleased her well. A dozen small oil lamps bathed it in a soft glow, heightening the sheen of the fabrics that draped the walls. To her right, the wide bed waited, deliciously inviting, its dimensions strewn with an extravagance of pillows.

  Her gaze came to rest on the Saxon where he sat bound to a straight-backed chair, his arms and hands secured behind him and his legs tied separately to those of the chair.

  Rhiannon’s blood warmed in her veins, pulsing a steady beat. Such a handsome man to have fallen into her lair. The winds of fate blew capriciously at times, bringing the most unexpected — and pleasurable — surprises. She would not question her good fortune or waste fate’s offering. Not tonight when the gift was so very desirable. So exceptionally virile.