Storm Maiden Page 4

  Her hand trembled as she pulled the small, sharp knife from the leather thong at her waist and began to cut off the Viking’s tattered tunic. It was already badly torn at the neck, exposing much of his chest. She made a cut at the top, ripped it the rest of the way, then began to ease it off.

  Under his left arm it seemed to stick. She leaned over and saw that the garment had adhered to a patch of dried blood. As gently as she could, she loosened the fabric and pulled it away from the jagged gash. She grimaced. Another wound. Indeed, now that his chest was bare, she could see a half-dozen ugly bruises and several deep cuts marring his fair skin.

  Pity filled her. He must have been in awful pain the first time she’d come to him. It was well the wine had kept him unconscious and eased his suffering. She felt the familiar regret that the Viking’s magnificent form should have been so battered and damaged.

  She turned away and sought out the supplies she had brought. Unstoppering the jar of water, she poured the water into the cauldron, reserving a bit for the Viking to drink. She added a handful of medicinal herbs to the cauldron, then dipped a cloth into the mixture. With slow, gentle strokes, she began to wash the Viking’s face.

  Her hands trembled as she felt his smooth flesh beneath her fingers. She cleaned the cut on his forehead, then rinsed the cloth and rubbed it over the planes of his chiseled cheekbones and the stubble-covered squareness of his jaw. The torchlight made his sun-reddened skin gleam bronze and brought out the coppery highlights in his wavy hair and thick mustache.

  She reached his neck, and her hands shook even more as she perceived the raw strength of the corded muscles in his neck, the breadth of his square shoulders. Steadying her hands, she rinsed the cloth and continued washing. Here, where it had been covered by his tunic, his skin was fairer, a creamy shade, darkened with freckles. A silky down of reddish-gold hair began at his neck and spread across his upper chest, then trailed down his belly in a line to his groin.

  Awe and some other emotion she could not identify assaulted Fiona as she rubbed the scented cloth over his chest. The sensation of sleek skin over iron-hard muscles made her throat go dry. He was so beautiful, so pleasing to look at. The sight, the feel of him caused a dull ache to spread through her body. She could do this forever, stroking him, feeling his aliveness, the deep thud of his heart beneath his skin.

  She forced herself to concentrate on washing. The dried blood that caked the gashes on his skin took some scrubbing. As her fingers rubbed at the wound on his lower chest, the Viking took a sudden, sharp breath. Fiona froze, watching his face. When he made no other movement nor emitted any sound, she returned to her task. A deep bruise was visible around the cut. It seemed likely that the damage extended to the ribs beneath. Fiona left the injury alone and began washing beneath his left arm. He shivered slightly as the cloth touched his armpit, and Fiona again tensed. Most people were ticklish there, but if the man were truly unconscious, he should not feel it.

  She sat back on her heels, observing the Viking closely. Could he be aware, but pretending unconsciousness? Nay, it was absurd to think so. Why would a man lie as if dead while a stranger bathed him?

  She watched him a moment longer, then went on with her washing. After rinsing what she could reach of his other side and back, she glanced with distaste at the murky water in the cauldron. She should have brought more, but it was awkward to carry and would have been difficult to explain if anyone had noticed her. She would have to make do with what she had.

  Fiona took a deep breath and glanced at the line of hair that ran down the Viking’s flat, muscular belly and disappeared into the top of his trews. Her skin suddenly felt hot, and the weak, aching feeling inside her deepened. Despite the reek of his clothing, did she have the nerve to bare more of his breathtaking-but-frightening body?

  Fool! she told herself. You mean to have him couple with you—what difference does it make if you see him naked? Fortified by the thought, Fiona sought out the knife and used it to cut the drawstring of his trews. Grasping the stiffened fabric, she slowly eased it down. She had not even gotten it past his hips when the trews fell from her hands and she gave a smothered cry.

  Sweet Bridget! Fiona gaped at the large, erect phallus thrusting up from the Viking’s thatch of reddish pubic hair. The man was as aroused and ready as a stallion in rut! Suspicious, she darted her eyes back to the Viking’s face. His features were still, expressionless. Was it possible that a man’s body could be primed for lovemaking while his mind remained unaware?

  Fiona swallowed hard. Dared she continue washing him? At any moment, he might throw off his stupor and grab her and rape her. But was that not what she wanted?

  Her eyes again took in his engorged male organ. She had not thought men were so large. He seemed as huge as a stallion—and she was no mare! Would he kill her if he coupled with her? At the very least, it would be painful. She felt sweat dribble down between her breasts. She must be brave. Losing your maidenhead was said to hurt, but it could hardly be worse than bearing a babe. If a woman’s flesh yielded to allow a babe through the birth passage, surely it could accommodate a man of almost any size.

  Fiona bit her lower lip and stared. Men often referred to their phalluses as “shafts” and “swords.” Observing one closely, she found the descriptions very apt. The woman’s body acted as a scabbard—the sheath for the man’s weapon. Fiona felt a blush firing her cheeks. She wanted to touch the intriguing sword of flesh rising from the Viking’s belly. She wanted to know if it felt as smooth and warm as it looked.

  She shivered with the thought and shot another glance at the Viking’s face, relieved to see no hint of awareness in the man’s impassive expression. Cautiously, she reached out her hand.

  Silky. Hot. A faint smile curled Fiona’s lips as she explored. The tip of his shaft was very soft. It tapered like an arrow point, then dipped in to meet his sleek, firm length. Beneath his shaft, his softly rounded testicles drooped downward.

  Her fingers encircled him, gauging thickness, weight, warmth, experiencing the wonder of supple skin overlaying solid flesh. She imagined him inside her, filling the passageway to her womb. Her knees went weak and her insides clenched with yearning.

  She paused, eyes closed, her senses intoxicated by the Viking’s glorious hot flesh. What she felt was sinful. It was wicked enough to defy her father, worse yet that she might enjoy the wanton thing she intended. And there were other risks. What if the Viking’s seed took hold in her womb? It would be disastrous to bear a half-Viking babe.

  Fiona pulled her hand away and clenched it stiffly against her body. The further she progressed with her plan, the more addle-witted it seemed. She meant to couple with a barbarian, a savage, and she expected him to neither kill her nor impregnate her.

  She stood. She should give up this folly, gather up her things, climb the crumbling steps, and bolt the souterrain opening behind her. Let the Viking rot.

  Fiona leaned down to grab the handle to the cauldron. She paused. Her eyes sought the captive’s sprawled form and perused his naked, gleaming flesh. A wild hunger unfurled inside her. One time—what could happen if she lay with him one time?

  Her fingers released the cauldron handle, and she bent to kneel in the dirt at the Viking’s side. She jerked the man’s trews down to his hairy thighs, then paused. Because of the ankle shackles the man still wore, she would have to cut his trews to remove them completely. Finding her knife, she used it to sever the fabric, then alternately ripped and cut the garment the rest of the way down his legs. Grimacing, she threw the smelly trews aside. They were good for naught but burning now, and the man did not need clothes for what she wanted of him. Indeed, being naked might discourage him from escaping. To that end, she decided to take off his cowhide boots as well. She unfastened the leather strips from around his ankles and removed the boots.

  Fishing her cloth out of the cauldron, she resumed washing the Viking. She went about her task rapidly; but even so, she could not avoid noticing the muscular sha
pe of his long legs, the awesome size and perfection of the man’s lower body. Every inch of him seemed as solid and strong as if honed of tempered iron.

  Finished, she dumped the soiled water in the corner of the chamber, then returned to the captive. Although hardly clean, he no longer smelled of blood and sickness. She reached to feel his brow again and noted with approval that he seemed cooler, as if bathing him had eased his fever even more. There was nothing else she could do for him until he roused.

  Would he rouse? If he had not stirred during all her washing and touching, why should she think he would ever awake? New anxieties crowded Fiona’s thoughts. The Viking had suffered a head wound. Could that be what kept him unconscious? She examined the gash on his forehead carefully. There was some swelling there, but not enough to seem dangerous. Except for his arm, the man appeared whole and relatively healthy. His breathing was even and deep; his color appeared normal. Every moment she was with him, she expected him to open his eyes and confront her. It was baffling that he did not wake.

  She leaned over him and sighed. She could not linger here. It must be midafternoon now; if she did not appear by the time of the evening meal, Duvessa would grow alarmed and alert Donall to her absence. If her caresses didn’t rouse the man, it seemed nothing would.

  Frustrated, Fiona studied the Viking. His shaft seemed incredibly stiff and solid. She wondered if she might be able to force it inside her body though the rest of him lay inert and insensible. If he tore her maidenhead, who was to know how it had been done?

  She started to undress, then paused, suddenly feeling cold with guilt. Her whole plan was unscrupulous, she had accepted that. But to use a man’s body while he lay wounded and helpless—something inside her rebelled. She defied her father because she didn’t think it right for him to treat her like a thing, a possession. Now she meant do the same to the Viking, to exploit him for her own ends.

  But he was just a godless savage, an animal, she argued with herself. He had come here to kill and destroy. His feelings were beneath consideration.

  Fiona shook her head. The Viking was not an animal. She had heard him speak, looked into his compelling blue eyes. He had a soul, and she would not trade his soul’s freedom for her own.

  Her hands left the girdle at her waist. She would come back tomorrow. Surely by then, the man would waken.

  Fiona retrieved the cauldron and her leather bag. She would leave the water jar and the food. If the Viking woke, he would need refreshment.

  She took the torch from the niche in the wall and left the captive. Halfway to the doorway of the chamber, she turned once more, unable to shake the sense of connection she felt with the wounded man. She had tended him, bathed him, touched him as intimately as a lover. Although she didn’t know his name or the slightest thing about his life, she could not help feeling that there was a bond between them. A bond that would not easily be broken.

  Chapter 4

  Dag exhaled a groan. He had survived, but only barely. To lie still and lifeless while the fairy tantalized him with her gentle, teasing fingers—Thor’s hammer, what agony! At any moment he had expected to lose control and twist her body under his and thrust into her until he exploded with release.

  Obviously, that was what she wanted. She had removed his clothes and washed him to prepare him to mate with her. It was a wonder that she had not also undressed and mounted him, her slender thighs parted over his groin, her small sheath pressing down on his flesh.

  He clenched his teeth. Thank the gods she had not tried that! All his resolve would have been undone. A man could stand only so much. If she were a toothless old crone, he would have found it easy to resist. But he had seen her; he knew exactly what loveliness she possessed.

  He shuddered again, then moved his hand down to his shaft. With swift, rough strokes, he brought himself to climax in seconds. As the last tremors of satisfaction pulsated through him, her image filled his mind—so fey, so delicate, so unearthly beautiful.

  He sighed, the tension flowing from his body as he wiped the sticky seed off his belly with the edge of the cloak beneath his hips. The woman was an enigma. The way she’d touched him, the tenderness and patience with which she’d cut off his garments and bathed his body—she had treated him as a lover would. Could it be she sought his heart as well as his seed?

  The thought unsettled him. He didn’t know what to think of the beautiful creature who had tended his hurts and inflamed his passion. She felt real, a fleshly being rather than a supernatural one. Except for the oddness of her appearance in his dank prison and her extraordinary beauty, he would have assumed she was mortal as soon as he laid eyes on her. He had been delirious then, his wits confused by pain and exhaustion. Now that he was alert and aware, he knew his rescuer to be as mortal as he was.

  He frowned. That fact didn’t resolve the puzzle, only worsened it. Why would an obviously highborn woman tend a prisoner? More baffling still, why would she seek to seduce a bloodied, fevered warrior? Such a woman could have her pick of lovers. What had he to offer her?

  It made no sense. The woman did not seem wanton, but frankly innocent. He would swear she had never known a man’s body before his. Her touch had been hesitant, curious. Indeed, it was the very wonder with which she explored him which had aroused him so unbearably. To have a virginal beauty like that caress him with such reverence… He had gone near mad with pleasure.

  Only by summoning up every scrap of determination he possessed had he resisted. Fear drove him at first—the dread that she meant to steal his soul and entrap him in her fairy world for eternity. Once he no longer suspected her of magic, he realized there was another reason to control his urgent lust. This woman affected him, so deeply it was frightening. He could not risk that she might involve him in some other dangerous fate.

  He must keep his wits about him. His shackles had loosened; a few more hours work and he would be free. The pleasure of dallying with a beautiful woman could not make up for the threat to his life nor cause him to forget his responsibilities to his sword brothers.

  Dag sighed wearily, thinking of the ordeal ahead of him. He was weak from lack of food and water. If only there were a drop or two left of the water she had bathed him with. He sat up slowly and reached out his good arm to search the dirt floor around him. His fingers encountered the smooth surface of a pottery jar, and his heart leapt as he heard the slosh of water when he lifted it. He raised it to his lips and drank it dry.

  Tossing it aside, he again searched his surroundings. A small bundle lay next to where the water jar had been. Dag picked it up and inhaled the intoxicating odor of food. He unwrapped the cloth and began to greedily gnaw the hunk of beef. Finishing in moments, he stuffed the large piece of cheese into his mouth and swallowed it in one bite.

  Dag smiled. Hardly an extravagant meal for a man who had not eaten in days, but it would serve. Already he felt stronger. The fairy woman had thought of everything. Although he did not expect to see her again, he would not soon forget her. No matter what happened, from this day forward, no matter how dire his circumstances, he would think of her and summon back his hope and courage with the enchantment of her memory.

  The shadows grew long as Fiona left the souterrain. This side of the palisade seemed strangely quiet, and her instincts warned her that something was wrong. She reached the large timbered feasthall in the middle of the encampment. Except for a few bondswomen going about their duties, the place was deserted. Fiona’s uneasiness increased.

  She checked the women’s house. Empty. She started toward the gate. In the open area at the entrance to the fortress she found her fiery-haired foster sister among a group of free-woman. They were all talking intently.

  “What’s happened, Duvessa?” she demanded. “Where is every one?”

  Duvessa reached out and hugged her. “Fiona, I’m so glad you’re safe! A messenger came and told us Lisconnar was attacked and burned last night by Vikings. Your father fears we are next.”

  “Nay!” Fiona pr
otested. “A handful of Vikings wouldn’t dare attack an armed settlement like Lisconnar. The barbarians seek out easy quarry; they strike unprotected villages and holy houses, not strongholds of Irish warriors.”

  Duvessa shook her head. “ ‘Tis true.”

  Fiona’s stomach—already twisted in knots—clenched even tighter. “Where’s my father? Where are the other men?”

  “They went to watch along the river for Viking dragonships.”

  “But if there are Vikings near, my father should be inside the gates!”

  “Donall hopes to lie in wait for the enemy and attack first.”

  “ ‘Tis madness.” Fiona groaned. “If the Lisconnar warriors could not repel the raiders, my father does not have enough men to defeat them either!”

  “Your father means to try,” answered Sybil, Duvessa’s kinswoman and wife to Niall, one of Donall’s oldest and fiercest war companions. “He said he would not wait meekly for his fate.”

  Fiona shook her head in dismay. The other woman hadn’t seen the Viking in the souterrain. They could not know what monstrous warriors Donall and his men would face.

  Duvessa put a gentle hand on Fiona’s arm. “Come, join me in the feasthall for a bite of freshly baked bread and honey. You look half dead.”

  Fiona sighed and followed her friend.

  With the warriors gone, the feasthall was quiet. Near the huge hearth, two hunting hounds snarled over a bone while a group of boys too young to join the warriors or stand guard played a game of draughts in the corner. Seeing Fiona and Duvessa, one of the boys left the game and hurried over to them.

  “Thank the saints, Duvessa found you,” Duvessa’s russet- haired brother Dermot said to Fiona, his voice cracking slightly. “You’ve heard, haven’t you, about the raid at Lisconnar?”