The Viking's Captive

by Ingrid Hahn

He was going to claw out of his own skin if he didn’t get air. Now.

  Without warning, the hull tipped up, lobbing the ship out of the water. His mouth opened and he gasped and coughed and gagged.

  Through the sheets of rain there was…nothing. Lightning tore at the sky. Still nothing. He clung to the ship, but…no Sigurd. Sigurd had been right here.

  But now he was—

  No!

  Impossible.

  Thorvald retched. Sigurd was strong. One of the few men who followed Jarl Erlendr who was Thorvald’s equal in strength and prowess—even the landed warriors who were still safe at home. More than that, he was as good as Thorvald’s brother.

  The sea churned and the storm raged with deafening clamor. If the depths had claimed Sigurd, it could have him too. He’d wanted air. Now he had it and wanted nothing less than to breathe with the living.

  Thorvald was about to let go when something heavy crashed upon him. He turned, expecting to see the supplies they’d tied come loose, but instead found a figure. Another person still existed in the living world. It seemed strange. He was alone except…he wasn’t.

  A flash of light revealed a woman. A woman?

  Her. The princess. The one he’d needed in a life that now seemed very, very far away.

  But she clung to him with one hand while the other had the hull.

  She. Clung to him. As if she might save him from going overboard.

  The water plastered her hair over her face, but her huge eyes were still visible. They pled with him.

  Pain slashed his heart. Surrendering himself to drowning would be no way to honor Sigurd’s death. And if he did, what would become of her? He’d sworn to protect her for as long as he could.

  The reviling truth was, he was going to have to live.

  Thorvald tipped his head back and a shriek tore from his body.

  The storm swallowed the sound.

  Chapter Eleven

  Loss of a Brother

  The eastern horizon shimmered in gold brilliance and still the water retained the gray opacity of the sea after a storm. Yet, both ships remained afloat. Only three had died. Not counting…

  Thorvald was nothing more than a corpse wandering the world of the living. His stomach was going to fail him—it was worse than the first time he’d been hit with the stench of a field after battle.

  The world seemed vast, empty, and utterly silent until Hrolf came up beside him. “Are we pushing on?”

  Thorvald scrutinized the unkempt ball huddled on the deck. The princess looked like a half-drowned cat. He would not have believed a man if he’d told him a captive—a female captive—had done what she did. She’d known what he was about to do. Was it him she’d wanted to save? Or did she simply abhor death? Only a fool wouldn’t have realized the sea could easily have swept her away. She must have acted while cognizant of the risk. That made her as brave as any warrior.

  He forced his attention elsewhere.

  Both sails had survived, having been carefully folded and stored, but one of the masts was gone. The oars remained, though. Tying down the supplies had been only moderately effective against the strength of the storm. Among that which had been lost was part of their water supply. They could survive a few days of thirst. If they had to. But a thirsty man could be dangerous. Anyone who went mad and tried to thwart Thorvald would have to be killed.

  Songs were not sung of practicalities. Songs were sung of glory in battle.

  Thorvald turned to scan the faces of the men awaiting his answer. They were haggard with exhaustion. Everything they wore was soaked. He smacked his mouth, tongue already swollen for want of a cool drink.

  Oh hell, they weren’t headed for battle anyway. That they could suffer didn’t mean they were compelled to suffer.

  “We go to land. Rebuild. Repair. Resupply.”

  By the time the sun was partway up its climb to midday, they were beaching the ships on an empty expanse of rocky sand. The storm had blown them off course, back west, to the wind-lashed landscape of the isles. It was more than a day’s sail from the place they’d taken the princess and the journey would be much longer by land. That she might choose to flee couldn’t be ruled out.

  Thorvald helped the princess to her feet. She’d lost her cloak to the storm and so had he. She took a few wobbly steps on unsteady legs. He’d have none of that. He swooped her into his arms.

  The princess made no attempt at resisting him.

  The storm had stripped him of vigor and Sigurd’s death hollowed his insides. He should have been too weary for her body against his to stir him.

  But it seemed he wasn’t too weary to forget he was a man.

  The muscles of his arms tightened, pulling her more closely against him as he navigated the rocky sand in waterlogged shoes. For a moment, her head rested against his shoulder and she sighed, almost as if she were content. For one brief, desperate moment, hope fluttered in the depths of his heart that she might come to trust him…and the trust might turn into something more.

  Then she started, as if realizing what she’d done, and lifted her head away again, body unnaturally rigid. His stomach soured. He didn’t want her to have that reaction to him.

  But he could expect little else. He’d made her his captive.

  Every instinct he possessed begged him to keep her safely against him. He wanted to hold her close until she fell asleep.

  Instead, he set her gently on the narrow strip of land at the far end. Looking at her tired face, it would have been easy to think she was fragile. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her skin was pale as sun-bleached linen, her clothing tattered, dirty, and sagging. Her hair a mess.

  She looked away from him, deliberately averting her gaze from his, and wrapped her arms around herself, shivering.

  And this woman had saved him from the storm.

  He didn’t deserve it. Not after what he’d done to her. And he certainly hadn’t wanted it.

  Yet, here they were. He was in her debt and all he was going to do was betray her. But until that fetid moment came, he would do right by her.

  “You, Boli.” He pointed to one of the first out of the water. “Build her a fire and keep guard of her.”

  Boli did as he was told, leaving Thorvald to tend to his responsibilities. He’d always let Sigurd do as much of that work as possible, trying to groom him into doing what Thorvald couldn’t: overthrow their dog’s anus of a jarl.

  The men staggered ashore. Thorvald scanned them and caught himself. He’d been unconsciously seeking Sigurd’s face among the crowd.

  When the last of the survivors lurched to land, Thorvald stood before them. “Fasti, Berg, find fresh water. Don’t come back without it. The rest of you will build fires. Six at least, as big as you can get them blazing. Then we will dry ourselves.”

  With all the men working together, the task was quickly completed. The wet wood smoked terribly, but it could not be helped. Large branches and oars were rigged nearby for clothing to be draped to dry.

  Ignoring the minor unsteadiness in his legs, Thorvald roamed partway down the sand. His eyes narrowed on Ubbi. Pity he’d lived. If there were justice in the world, a foul pestilence would claim him and he would die in agony. The rotten rat’s gizzard slung on the opposite end to where Thorvald had placed the princess. He clung to a sack.

  Thorvald traipsed closer, his jaw clenching. That sack—when had Ubbi the time to hide it? Had it been on the other ship the whole time? Ubbi’s eyes went shifty.

  Thorvald’s stare didn’t leave Ubbi for a moment. “Hrolf. Ozrik.”

  The two men stood. Thorvald kept his gaze on them. They were the two who, now that Sigurd was gone, he trusted most. Ozrik had a quick mind and kept a level head. Hrolf kept close to Ozrik, relying on him as a friend, while still desperate for his good opinion. Ozrik did not take advantage of Hrolf’s painfully obvious d
esire to please the older warriors with every move he made. “You’ll have to wait to see to your comforts. You’ll need to go inland and barter for the supplies we’ll need. Not all of us survived the storm with our weapons.”

  It was the only way to give the warriors time to regather their strength. But neither did Thorvald have the fire in his spirit. Without Sigurd…

  He wouldn’t think of the death. Not yet.

  “Barter?” Ozrik struggled back into the ragged shirt he’d been stripping from his skin. He had thick hair the color of sun-washed grain. “With what?”

  Thorvald stalked the rest of the way to Ubbi. Ubbi shrank but held his ground. With one strike, Thorvald grabbed the sack from the man’s hands and tipped it upside down. The precious items fell out, clanking.

  Ubbi made no apology. He stared at Thorvald defiantly.

  Thorvald turned back to the men he trusted. “Go on. Take them. Ubbi has no claim on them.”

  Ozrik and Hrolf did as they were told, Thorvald calling after them, “Extra items of clothing for those who’ve lost them. Cloaks too, if you can manage it.”

  Ubbi had a look on his face like a small army of lice ran rampant on his scrotum, but he couldn’t scratch. Good. Lice couldn’t find a worthier host for their entertainments.

  Thorvald went back up the beach. The men’s bodies were bare. They reclined in the sand, hairy bellies skyward, penises flopping lazily in the nest-like thatches between meaty thighs. A few snored.

  Boli was tugging on the princess’s outer garment while she struggled to free herself of his grip. Thorvald quickened his step to reach her faster. “Hey there, stop that now.”

  “If she doesn’t take off her clothes”—Boli leveled him a dirty scowl—“she’ll catch a chill.”

  “That’s her concern.”

  “But if we take her back only to have her die—”

  “I said, that’s her concern. We’ve done enough to her.” Thorvald wanted to see her naked, even more than he wanted to see most women naked, true enough. He’d not pretend otherwise—and it wasn’t simply because the sight would be far more interesting than the everyday male nudity currently on display.

  But that was his problem. And he’d suffer in silence. “She decides for herself what she wants to do about damp clothing.”

  “But—”

  Thorvald raised a hand. It was all he had to do. The man was dismissed.

  When he was gone, Thorvald all but collapsed by the fire, keeping his back to the men. They couldn’t see how tired he was. Everything hurt. And he wanted everything to hurt. Anything to override the knife still twisting around and around in the mangled flesh of his heart.

  He let his salt-stung eyes fall shut, concentrating on feeling the warmth of the flames caress his skin.

  “It wasn’t your fault.”

  He opened his eyes again. The princess had taken a seat beside him. “Risking yourself that way was very foolish. You’re not strong enough. You couldn’t have saved me.”

  “But I did.”

  He scowled. “You could have been killed.”

  “I have little to live for.”

  Realization rode up Thorvald’s sorrow-bent spine, saving him the trouble of having to mentally acknowledge how her statement added to his burden. “You speak our language.”

  With a faraway look in her eyes, she gave a shallow nod. “You loved him.”

  “Yes. And he should have died in battle.” A warrior like Sigurd did not deserve a death by drowning. But what one deserved and what one received seldom seemed right. Wasn’t that part of what Thorvald was doing? Putting his own world to rights again?

  He glanced up at the princess. He was setting his world to rights while destroying hers. Maybe there was no balance to be had in the world. Take one rock from the wall and a hundred others tumbled.

  “Was he your brother?”

  “Like a brother.” Thorvald’s mind wandered to the distant past. “My first memory was of him.”

  “Memory?”

  Fingers spread, he placed an open hand over his heart. “Memory. That which we have already lived and still cling to, in a way. A memory from when I was a small child.”

  “Memory.” She paused as if making sense of the word before replying. “Tell me.”

  He was too weary to fight against the words that were already forming. And part of him…part of him wanted to tell someone.

  No, not someone. Her. The softness in the clear depths of her eyes made him want to do something he never did. Confide.

  “My mother…” He sighed, old hurts and new pain mingling. “My mother died within several days after bringing me into the world, but my aunt had also given birth within hours of her sister and she took me to her breast with her own son. One day when we were a few summers old, we nursed after a nap. Or tried, until we were laughing as we played a foot war. My aunt scolded us, but she too was laughing. She set us outside to play. That’s the first thing I remember.”

  One of the great heartaches of his life was not knowing his mother. As a boy, he’d hoped his mother had been coherent enough to see him and talk to him before she’d died. That maybe he’d once heard her voice.

  There’d been a time he’d have denied he had such feelings. It didn’t seem right to his young and unformed mind that he could be a full-fledged warrior and still feel the cold emptiness in his life where his mother should have been.

  He had his aunt, of course—and thank the gods for her. Still. He wondered and wished and mourned never knowing the woman who’d given him life.

  When he was about Hrolf’s age, he’d told himself he didn’t care. That such things didn’t matter to grown men. Mothers were for milk and children. Not men. Now that he was older, he could admit the truth of what he felt. If the princess saw through him…well. She might as well know what sort of man it was she’d saved.

  There was another slight pause. But her face betrayed no scorn or judgment. Only gentle curiosity. Even compassion, maybe. “So you are…brothers of the milk?”

  “Were.”

  The princess took his hand between both of her own. His pulse quickened at her touch. Her long fingers were cool and dry against his skin. Her hair was a wild mane, tangled by sticky sea water, and looked more like a pile of twigs sticking out in every direction.

  But she was beautiful. More so than she’d ever been. From the first moment he’d seen her face, he’d been intrigued by it. Peculiar how he’d not noticed she was the comeliest woman he’d ever set eyes upon until now.

  Never had a woman been more forbidden. So what if she was beautiful? So what if he wanted her? This woman was off-limits to him.

  Forever.

  Chapter Twelve

  An Unwanted Attraction

  The arrival of water was especially welcome. A drink would help restore Alodie’s senses. Water possessed powerful properties. Blessed by a priest at baptism, it saved souls. The least it could do for her was set her to rights.

  The men didn’t need to be told to bring it first to their leader. They set the barrel in the sand before him. Instead of drinking, he filled a wooden cup, offering it to her.

  Slowly and reverently, she took it and brought it to her mouth. The smell set her body alight with something not entirely holy. It touched her lips. Cool. Then her tongue. Sweet. And oh-so-welcome. The sensation of it moving down her throat was no less than a potent kind of pagan magic. A healing spell.

  When she could drink no more, it was the demon leader’s turn. He drank deeply. The Adam’s apple of his throat dipped and rose. The thick pelt of his beard was not a uniform color. Some of the hairs were a light brown, almost an ashy hue. Some pure gold. Maybe it was a trick of the light. Which ones caught the sun from any given angle and which didn’t.

  When he offered her another drink, she accepted, staring into his face. The storm had made hi
m wan. The loss of his brother of the milk had stripped away a layer. He was trying to rebuild the walls around him, but she’d already glimpsed what he was trying to hide. It made him less a demon. Far less than she was comfortable with. She would have to remember that he’d stolen her.

  She dropped her gaze. He wasn’t so interesting as to merit such a detailed visual examination.

  Too late. The one called Hrolf flashed a grin. “I think she likes what she sees, Longsword.”

  Alodie went hot with indignation. How dare he speculate on what he thought she liked the look of?

  Hrolf was young. Probably not more than…what, eighteen or so? He’d not outgrown the lankiness of youth and had the sort of easy smile that on one of her people would have been infectious. His beard was still straggly, the hairy patches drawing extra attention to a few bright red spots marring his skin.

  The only thing to move were the demon leader’s eyes as he shot the youngster a dangerous glance. He growled out a warning from between clenched teeth. “Let her alone.”

  The youth didn’t need to be told a second time and went off to make himself look busy. He returned a minute later, his arms laden with a pile of fabric, which he let fall onto the beach before his leader. “Just like you asked.”

  The demon leader began picking through the pile. Cloaks. He stood and held them out, one at a time, snapping them open to assess them individually. He held each collar to his nose, presumably to sniff out how much of the previous owner clung to the material.

  “Here.” He held out a mantel of vivid green.

  It was the finest among them. She opened her mouth to protest, but he spoke first. “Fit for a princess.”

  Bristling, she glared at him. “I don’t see how that matters now.”

  He stayed silent a moment, then replied in a soft murmur. “It matters.”

  She remained silent, ill at ease in the knowledge of who she was—or wasn’t. What will become of me when he discovers my deception?

  “Stand up.”

  “I…” The wool looked heavy. The garments against her skin were damp. She shivered. When no other objection appeared in her mind, she ignored his outstretched hand and pushed to her feet.