The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

Sigurd yanked Ubbi back. “Stop, you stupid clod.”

  Thorvald gathered the rope from beside the princess. It took more force of will not to look at her than it took not to slash gills in Ubbi’s neck and see how he fared with the fish. His body tensed.

  But he was riled from the exchange, that was all. It wasn’t being near her that affected him. He didn’t want to study the exact shade of her eyes, or memorize the curl of her delicate lashes. He didn’t want to see the curve of her throat or wonder how his lips would feel grazing the surface of her skin.

  There was no punishment heinous enough for Ubbi if he dared touch the princess again. Thorvald glared at the man. “If I tie anyone, it’ll be you, and I’ll use your own guts to do the job.”

  Sigurd tossed him a sour glance. “Your first idea was better.”

  Saying no more, Ubbi slunk back to the far end of the ship. His face was red, the thin strands of his hair in disarray.

  Thorvald and Sigurd stood together over the princess, Sigurd’s eyes sharp as he kept his stare upon Ubbi. “I don’t know why you had to bring him.”

  “You know why.”

  “Oh yes, you do everything the jarl says. How could I forget?”

  “Shut up, will you?”

  But there was no malice in either of their tones. It was the old disagreement between them that would have to be sorted out…soon. Not today, however.

  At Thorvald’s feet was another problem. Or maybe the problem was in his trousers. Didn’t matter. It was there and he was going to have to shake off whatever foolishness was plaguing him.

  Chapter Nine

  The First Night at Sea

  Thus far, they hadn’t beaten her. They hadn’t killed her. Hadn’t pinned her down and forced themselves on her, each taking a turn to violate her in the worst possible way, while the rest looked on, cheering and laughing—as she’d feared.

  Neither were they starving her. Not that food mattered. Between the state of the rations—people could eat this?—and the manner in which some of them demonstrated the answer to her question—they could eat that…that…stuff, and not prettily—hunger didn’t seem like it would be much bother.

  They might have been demons, but they were fastidious in their grooming. They picked their teeth clean after eating and rubbed the surfaces clean with a scrap of cloth. As the sky began to darken, they brushed and rebound their hair, smoothed their beards, and attended to their fingernails. Under different circumstances, it might have been fascinating to observe. Cuthberht had forever been keeping his nails clean and trimmed too, but she’d never thought much beyond it being simply part of his nature.

  The day that had seemed endless was now drawing to a close without an answer to the question, what will they do with me? Alodie had strained to overhear the leader talking with his friend, but caught almost nothing. They’d been just far enough away and the wind had picked up at an inopportune time, drowning out their faint murmurs.

  She watched, though. The way the leader and his friend leaned in to one another spoke to their closeness—perhaps they were brothers? And their grave expressions said that what they talked about was very serious.

  And the demons’ reaction to her? Mostly, they’d ignored her, in a way. There were curious glances. The occasional way they’d be talking to each other and looking at her with odd comments, many of them about her age. Apparently, they thought the princess would be younger. A fair assumption, considering how long the real princess had waited to agree to be bartered away into marriage. Normally, a daughter would have no say in her father’s plans. But the princess held power even over him.

  The demons’ general speech was so highly inflected with vulgarities, it took little effort to learn certain words Cuthberht had overlooked teaching. Despite this propensity, only one ribald remark about her had been made. “What do you think she’d do if I waved my prick in her face?”

  “Don’t try it. She’ll bite it right off.”

  An uproar of laughter had followed, but was quickly silenced with a sharp rebuke from their leader. Apparently, whatever he’d said had been enough to put a quick end to the crudeness. He’d spoken quickly and she’d only caught the word throw. Whenever she began thinking there were more similarities than differences in the two languages, something new would crop up to dissuade her.

  That had been hours ago. After a long while meticulously studying the stars with the light-haired man who appeared to be his most trusted companion, the demon leader piled furs over the planks. He was readying himself for bed. Once they’d gotten an unswimmable distance from shore, he’d untied her. She should have taken the opportunity to spit in his face. Anything to show her defiance. To make him lash out at her. Provoking his natural inclination to violence would ensure she never stopped hating him.

  Alodie balled herself more tightly. How was it that she didn’t believe in miracles and found herself so desperately needing one? She needed an angel from heaven to wing her back home.

  No angel appeared. Not even a glimmer in the sky that might have been mistaken for one. Instead, everything became more horribly real with every passing hour. An iron rivet driven into the plank was pushing upward into her backside. It was slight, but it didn’t take long to become noticeable. After a few hours, her flesh began to throb and ache. Still, she didn’t dare move. Maybe God would accept the pain as punishment and show her a means of delivering herself from this nightmare.

  It was because of the unholy thing she’d done with the blacksmith without the benefit of marriage, wasn’t it?

  At the time, all those years ago, she’d wanted it to happen. She’d needed to know if she could stomach what would be required before she bound herself to him, body, soul, and life. Meaning to marry him, it hadn’t seemed so grievous a sin.

  If she married him, she would’ve had to make peace with the gasp and wheeze of the bellows invading all her days. Any woman who loved him wouldn’t have minded, but after the initial shock of penetration, that’s all she’d been able to think about when he’d been thrusting inside of her. Having to live with that sound.

  She would’ve also had to make peace with sharing herself with a man. That’s what had compelled her. Partially, she’d needed to test herself. And frankly, she’d been curious.

  The blacksmith was a good sort. Upstanding. He’d singlehandedly driven a man out of the village for beating his wife when many would have said the wife had brought it on herself. The blacksmith was big, caring, gentle, hardworking, and the broken bones he set tended to heal well. With him, Alodie would have had a good life.

  She cursed herself for being ungrateful and not accepting him. For a long time, she’d thrown herself even harder into her work—all the better to turn her mind from the upwellings of stinging shame that emerged again and again so she didn’t have to wonder if she’d made a mistake by rejecting the blacksmith’s suit.

  It was the princess who’d sealed Alodie’s decision. The very same evening Alodie had parted with her virginity, she’d returned to the castle and found herself needed in service to the person who shone above all others. At the time, she hadn’t been able to choose marriage, even a good marriage, over staying close to the princess.

  God’s punishment for her sin in lying with a man outside of marriage had been a long time coming. Now it was here. And she was paying. Dearly.

  Then the demon leader looked at her. She sat, arrested by the force of his gaze, like a knife had pinned her in place. He motioned. “Come.” He patted the furs. “Bed.”

  Terror, pure and potent, froze her in place. Did he expect her to…?

  A cold sweat broke out over Alodie’s skin. Was the reason she hadn’t been violated yet because they all knew she now belonged to their leader?

  He motioned again. “Come.”

  She hugged herself more tightly, squeezing her thighs against each other. For all she’d committed a sin with the b
lacksmith, it’d been sin on her own terms.

  “You’ll be safe with me.” The demon leader repeated more slowly and with careful emphasis. “Safe.”

  He didn’t expect her to believe that load of horse droppings, did he? Nobody and nothing could be safe with such a man. He could take what he wanted from whomever he wanted.

  Without warning, he withdrew his sword. The polished metal glinted in the moonlight. Alodie squealed once, sounding like a mouse.

  He rested the sword gently in the middle of the furs, then hit himself in the center of his large chest with an open hand. “Me…” He pointed down to one of the sides the sword had created. “There. You…” He pointed to the other side. “There.”

  She shook her head and kept her tongue firmly in her own language. “No.”

  A voice emerged from the back of the boat. “Either show her why you’re called Longsword, or give her to me. She wants a real man, not a dolly to snuggle.”

  “Wouldn’t be worth the trouble,” came a second voice. “She looks like she’d yowl and hiss and scratch like a she-cat.”

  “Wouldn’t stop me,” answered the first voice. “I like a bit of fight in my women.”

  The demon leader’s expression became deadly enough to cut stone.

  “I have a mind to show you and the back of your skull the real reason I’m called Longsword, Oslac the Flatnosed, son of Arnhald.” His voice was smooth and low, his tone lethally calm with exaggerated patience. “You’ve eaten fish meat in your day. Could be it’s their turn to have a chance at yours.”

  What thin laughter there’d been vanished into the salty night wind.

  Thus far, the leader of the demons was all threats and no action. Times past, though, he must have made plenty good on his word. Else the men wouldn’t treat them like they did. It took more than being bigger and stronger than everyone else to command people. The princess was proof enough of that.

  The princess. May God keep her.

  Alodie squeezed her eyes shut. She hadn’t cried yet and she wasn’t about to now, even if nighttime made the struggle more difficult. What was important was that the princess was safe. Everyone was safe. Even her, in a way. Thus far…

  The leader of the demons stalked close. She forced her eyes open again and lifted her gaze up the soaring length of the man. The moon was behind him, casting him in a mystical glow. If he pronounced himself one of his pagan gods, she might believe him.

  “Come.” He extended a hand to her.

  She’d been safe because of him. Not all of the men wanted to force her to submit to their violent impulses. At first, it’d seemed that way. But quickly it became obvious there were only a few. A few were more than enough, demon dogs that they were.

  Alodie had prayed for deliverance. She didn’t believe in miracles. But Cuthberht was proof enough that God could touch the heart of a demon. She cursed her own doubting heart. Miracles had to exist. They had to. All of Christendom believed. She would too. She need only try harder.

  Something fierce radiated from the leader’s eyes. An unknown force of will fed by an uncharted source. There was no doubt, if she did not place herself in his care, he would still protect her.

  It made a difference.

  Her fingers moved. She reached up. His hand closed around hers. Big. Strong. Certain.

  Her stomach fluttered.

  The first time she’d seen him, he’d reminded her of what she’d given up. All she’d believed she hadn’t wanted. A true wedding night, for one. Not a hasty fumble under an oak tree. Now she was going to be close to him. Sleep with him.

  Alodie wobbled a little. If only she could fall into him and feel his heavy arms around her while she poured out all the tears she hadn’t been able to shed.

  Instead, she kept her head bowed to avoid seeing his face, took her side of the skins, and arranged her cloak about her.

  Then he took his side.

  Somehow, she had to sleep. Her whole body ached with strain; terror early in the day had made her muscles weary. How could she ever drift off? And now, with him next to her, her whole body was ablaze with awareness that this…this very masculine form rested closely to hers. It was at once perfectly chaste and horribly intimate.

  If there was hell to pay, this was paying it.

  Chapter Ten

  The Storm

  The first hint came with the dark smudge at the edge of the sea. Then came the swells slapping the hull, and a sharp increase in the up and down motion of the ship. Thorvald scanned the horizon. Wouldn’t be long before the wind would pick up to account for the large waves.

  “A storm is coming.”

  Sigurd nodded.

  Thorvald addressed the men. “Take down the sail, the mast, and tie down everything that can possibly be tied down.”

  He remained in the narrow prow, watching. They were too far out in the open to outrace the storm. There was no land close enough and they were still far from home. Matte gray clouds, low and threatening, overtook the blue sky.

  Ubbi appeared at Thorvald’s side, silent as a malevolent wraith. He sneered. His greasy face was sallow and lined, his teeth twisted in his crowded mouth. The ends of his thin hair whipped around and around in the wind. “I hope you drown. Then I’m going to pin that pretty princess to the ground, force her legs open, and do everything to her you aren’t man enough to try. She’ll scream so loud, you’ll hear her all the way at the bottom of the sea.”

  A hot rush of violent fury snapped Thorvald in two. In one arching movement, he tossed Ubbi into the sea. There was a satisfying splash. Thorvald stood on the edge of the deck, struggling to breathe. The force of his ire choked him, and he crackled with all the fire and ice of the oncoming storm itself.

  If he hadn’t tossed Ubbi overboard, he’d have pummeled the man to an unrecognizable pulp, smashing his bones with his bare hands until the yellow fragments embedded in Thorvald’s own bloodied skin.

  In the waves, Ubbi flailed. If any clemency lingered in Thorvald’s burning veins, it was absent as he watched. If Ubbi dared touch the princess…

  Thorvald yelled out over the gunwale. “Swim to the other ship or take the coward’s death waiting for you.”

  Maybe his words were lost to the wind. Maybe they weren’t. Thorvald turned his back. It was time to stop pretending he cared. After the vile ugliness of what he’d threatened, Ubbi could live or die.

  Thorvald’s gaze landed on the princess. The sky above darkened. The wind picked up speed, snapping the sail and whipping loose locks of his hair, a biting chill upon his skin. They might not live to see the sun rise. His protective instincts veered dangerously in a direction he’d been avoiding. Up until now, he’d been master of himself.

  His animal appetites roared. Everything he’d been containing threatened to burst free, as dangerous and untamed as the oncoming storm. His hot blood and unassuaged passions culminated in one mad, desperate moment of a savage longing to press his lips against hers until they were both clinging to one another. His whole body cried out for her to call for him by name. To tell him how much she wanted him. An impractical desperation to cling to life at the most fundamental level while they went cold in the shadow of death.

  More fool him.

  If nothing else, she was forbidden. She was his captive. Under his care. And destined for the jarl—the price for Thorvald’s freedom.

  The waves crashed like creatures of the deep reaching for bones. All they could do was cling. Cling to the boat. Cling to hope.

  Thorvald secured himself to the hull with one hand. With his free arm, he clutched the princess around the waist. He might have been crushing her, but better that than letting her wash away. He wouldn’t lose her now.

  Icy cold soaked him to the marrow. Water stung his eyes and saturated every inch of his skin. His clothes turned heavy, impeding his ability to move. He didn’t need to—h
e needed to stay put and cling to his captive. But it felt wrong. If he needed to run, he wanted no encumbrance.

  The sky had turned black as night and huge drops of rain fell in sheets. There was nothing to do but beg the gods’ mercy. To plead with them to see the end of this and once again feel what it was to be dry and warm. To breathe freely. To let them live, even if they could never scrub away the scent of saltwater.

  This was one battle they couldn’t fight with axes, or purge from their veins with the clash of swords and splash of blood.

  The ship tipped precariously; it was almost vertical. A flash of light cut through the darkness, illuminating a form falling down the deck. A person had lost his grip and was sliding down…down…

  Another flash of lightning revealed Sigurd’s terrified face.

  In the ear-splitting thunder trailing the light, Thorvald’s heart practically stopped beating. His throat ached. Water poured into his open mouth. They both must have been yelling, but the only sounds were the rain and waves.

  Without another thought, Thorvald shoved the princess into Hrolf’s arms. When the next wave tossed the ship, Thorvald gulpped a lungful of air, let go and slid down, grabbing hold on the other end of the hull just in time. His fingers wouldn’t hold long. Pain shot up his arm. He needed his other hand, but until Sigurd was safe, he would have to hope he could sustain himself with what he had.

  Reaching with all his might, Thorvald ignored the sharpness in his shoulder. Any second it would burst from the socket. He didn’t care, only strained harder. He wouldn’t stop. It had to work. It had to work. The sea would claim all or none. The tips of their fingers touched. He almost had him. They were so close. Just a little more and—

  Sigurd slipped. Another wave took the boat, flinging it upward, and then crashed over them, swallowing the ship whole. The blackness of the sea consumed him. His lungs burned. The underwater world temporarily rang with an eerily dampened silence. There was no up. No down. Only twisting and burning.