Storm Maiden Read online

  It was the sensible course of action. Sigurd would dump her overboard, and her compelling beauty would vanish beneath the cold blue waves forever. He would never have to see her again, to deal with her sinister enticement.

  Dag glanced at his bandaged arm. The woman had saved his life, healed his wounds, caressed him with gentleness. The memory of her soothing hands would never leave him. He could not banish the sense of obligation he felt toward her.

  “Nei, I don’t want her killed,” he said.

  “Why?”

  He didn’t want to answer his brother’s question, to face the weakness inside him, the urge to tenderness he had fought all his life. “It may have been evil for her to aid me, her father’s enemy,” he finally responded. “But because she did so, I am beholden to her for my life.”

  Sigurd looked skeptical. Dag realized he must think up some sensible motive for sparing the woman’s life. His companions would be appalled if they knew he could not kill the woman because of how he felt about her. To them, she was a piece of property, and naught else. Considering her as property made him think of something. “The woman is the only thing of value I obtained during the raid,” he told Sigurd. “I am loath to see costly booty tossed overboard.”

  Sigurd snorted derisively. “Costly? She will cost you, of that I have no doubt.”

  “I can sell her for a fine price at the slave market at Hedeby. Many come to Hedeby with their belts heavy with gold. I would not go home empty-handed.”

  Sigurd jerked his head toward the tent. “What sort of a price will you get for that? She’s much too small and delicate to work as a field slave. Looking at her smooth, white hands, I doubt she has the training to serve as a kitchen thrall either. The best slaves are sturdy, plain, and stupid, and she is none of those things. With her sultry face and slim body, the woman is worthless except as a bed thrall.”

  Dag thought quickly. “Ja, exactly,” he answered. “I would sell her as a bed thrall.”

  Sigurd raised his brows. “Throwing her overboard would be kinder. You’ve been to Gorm’s slave market, seen how he displays the women near-naked and lets any man with gold have a sample of their bed skills. The man’s crudeness is offensive even to me.”

  Dag felt sick at he thought of the fat, toothless slavemaster thrusting between the Irishwoman’s creamy thighs. He could no more sell the woman to Gorm than he could throw her into the sea.

  “You could let the other men have her now.” Sigurd nodded to the men sprawled across the deck. “They would all pay for a turn at her. Especially Brodir. He’s always eager to have a new woman to mistreat. You would get your gold and save us a trip to Hedeby.”

  “The woman is worth more than that.” Dag struggled to keep his voice impassive as he envisioned the woman being passed from man to man. “I would not have her rare beauty destroyed by these louts. I doubt they would pay enough either.”

  “If you don’t think your fellow warriors can meet your price, wait to sell the woman until we arrive home,” Sigurd suggested. “I’m sure we can find a neighboring jarl with enough gold to satisfy you.”

  Dag realized suddenly that gold had nothing to do with his plans for the Irishwoman. He simply didn’t want any other man to have her. The thought unsettled him even more.

  “Why not keep her for yourself?” Sigurd asked, echoing Dag’s uncomfortable musings. “You can always sell her later, when you tire of her.”

  Dag glanced down and pretended to examine the ragged bandage on his wounded arm. “She is fine to look at, but not exactly to my taste. I prefer my women big enough that I don’t have to worry about crushing them beneath me, and also more Norse-looking.”

  “Like Kira?”

  Dag’s jaw clenched involuntarily. Kira had played him for a fool. It was because of her that he mistrusted women so much.

  “Ja, like Kira,” he answered.

  The two men stood silent for a moment, both watching the pattern of waves as they swirled past the boat. Dag contemplated how to escape the burden of the Irishwoman and yet keep her from any other man. “I could sell her as a gentlewoman’s servant,” he suggested. “She could help some jail’s wife with the spinning and weaving and such.”

  “Are you sure she knows such things? She seems like a pampered, useless creature to me.”

  “She must have some skill, else she could not have sewn up my arm. And there is always her healing knowledge to recommend her. She cured my fever as well as tending my arm.”

  “You think she is a wise woman?”

  “ ‘Tis possible, isn’t it?”

  “Every wise woman I’ve ever seen was an ugly old hag.” Sigurd gave Dag a searching look. “You make no sense. First, you speak of selling the woman as a bedthrall, then you decide she would better make a gentlewoman’s helper. I begin to question whether you want to be rid of her after all.”

  “Of course I do. It makes my skin crawl to remember how she first appeared to me. I told you I thought she was a fairy, an enchanted being come to steal my soul.”

  “But now that you have bedded her, you surely can’t think that. She’s only a slave, an odd-looking, unusually comely one, but still a slave. If you don’t want to kill her, you must get some good of her somehow.”

  Dag’s jaw tightened. The Irishwoman certainly had him trapped.

  “Does this have something to do with Kira?” Sigurd asked.

  Dag looked at his brother, startled. “Why should it?”

  “You’ve been strange about women ever since Kira decided to wed with Snorri.”

  “Strange? How have I been strange?”

  “You refuse to wed or even take a woman to your bedcloset for more than one night.”

  “Why should I wed? Unlike you, I will never be Jarl of Engvakkirsted, or anywhere else for that matter. I have no need of an heir, and that’s the purpose of taking a wife.” Dag did not like the bitter sound of his words. Truthfully, he had no desire to be jarl. In his mind, the power that came with the position did not make up for the responsibilities. Once his brother was jarl, he would no longer have the freedom to go aviking every sunseason. He would be busy at home, negotiating alliances and settling disputes.

  “ ‘Tis not that I envy you your lot, brother,” Dag added quickly. “I merely point out the differences between your life and mine. A wife would only be a burden to me.”

  Sigurd nodded. “I have fared better than most. Mina is efficient in all things and demanding in few. But it would please me to see my younger brother wed.”

  “We stray from our topic of what to do with the Irishwoman,” said Dag. “In truth, I worry about the grief she would cause me if I keep her. When the ale flows and the warriors’ blood runs hot, every man in the longhouse will want her, and I don’t need the trouble of being her defender.”

  “Then heed my advice and dump her over the side of the boat,” Sigurd growled. “She’s only a woman.”

  They were back to where they had begun. Dag tried to think of another plan to protect the woman, yet banish her from his sight. He couldn’t sell her, yet being responsible for the untrustworthy bitch made him distinctly uneasy.

  Sitting down on his sea chest, Dag let Sigurd take the tiller. His arm ached, and he felt tense and restless. Despite using his hand to relieve his lust only a short time ago, his shaft was hard and ready once more. Damn the alluring witch! He had only to close his eyes against the sea glare and see the image of her naked body—the supple curves, the contrast between her creamy skin and ebony hair.

  Dag glanced toward the prow and cursed again. The woman had left the tent. She was dressed and her hair demurely braided, but that hardly diminished her allure. The snug gown only reminded him of the lush curves beneath, and nothing could reduce the impact of her exotic face. Such pale, wild-looking green eyes, dark brows, and crimson-tinted lips—she was like a siren, luring a man to an unbearably pleasurable doom.

  He watched her glance around warily, as if she might flee back to the safety of the tent. H
e prayed she would.

  “Ho, lass!” Sigurd’s voice boomed over the deck. Dag’s body went rigid as out of the corner of his eye he saw his brother beckon to the Irish wench. Thor’s fury! What did Sigurd mean to do?

  Fiona stiffened as Sigurd motioned to her. She had found some water to wash her face and arms and Duvessa’s kirtle covered her decently; but despite being better prepared to face him, she didn’t want to be anywhere near the man called Dag. A quick glance told her he was seated close to where his brother steered the ship.

  “Come,” Sigurd called insistently. “My brother has need of you.”

  Aware that she had no choice, Fiona stepped gingerly among the clutter of sea chests, booty, and men. She kept her own gaze fixed on the swaying deck. Not all of it was to keep her balance. She also feared to meet the lustful looks that followed her.

  She reached the stern of the ship. Avoiding the fair Viking’s gaze, she met Sigurd’s. He reached out and grasped her by her shoulder, thrusting her toward the other man. “Make yourself useful and look to my brother’s arm, wench. See that it heals so he can use it as before.”

  Dag didn’t look up as Fiona reached for his injured arm. Pretending a calmness she didn’t feel, she unwrapped the bandage and examined the wound. The stitches were still intact, despite the Viking’s rough treatment. The angry redness around the sword cut had faded, and there was no other sign of infection. Fiona couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction. Without her aid, this man would have died. Her skill and patience had not only saved his life but preserved the use of his sword arm.

  She raised her eyes to the dark Viking. “Tell your brother that his injury heals well,” she said. “In a few days, I will remove the stitches.”

  Sigurd grunted in apparent satisfaction, and Fiona refastened the bandage, then released the Viking’s arm. She took a half step back, feeling the man’s hot gaze on her body. She longed to seek shelter in the tent, away from his disturbing presence, but she was not certain she had leave to go.

  Sigurd spoke a few words in Norse to his brother. There was a mocking, playful cadence in his voice, and Fiona was not surprised when the other Viking didn’t answer. After a moment, she began to move away.

  She gasped as the man called Dag reached out and caught her skirts. She whirled around, and his icy-blue eyes impaled her. His gaze raked over her, like hands caressing her body. His silent scrutiny unnerved her.

  The Viking spoke a few words to Sigurd. The big man nodded, and Fiona looked at him in puzzlement. “He asks why you saved his life.” One of Sigurd’s dark brows shot up speculatively. “Why would you aid one of your father’s enemies?”

  Fiona stood utterly still, racked by conflicting emotions so powerful she didn’t know whether to sink to her knees weeping or dissolve into wild laughter. This man asked why she had aided her enemy so that he might burn her home and destroy her life? There was no answer she could give them, no answer that would not shatter her into pieces with shame.

  She swallowed. “I will not tell you.”

  Sigurd, appearing puzzled, translated her words for his brother. Without even looking at Dag, Fiona could feel his rage building. She stepped back. The man raised his hand as if to strike her, then abruptly lowered it. His mouth worked and he gave her a look full of loathing and something else, something like fear.

  Fiona met his stricken gaze in amazement. What was wrong with him? The Viking’s wits seemed as addled as hers were.

  She began to shiver, overcome by the fear, anger, and grief that had battered her since she’d awakened. Sigurd appeared to curse, and she sought his eyes, wondering if he knew what ailed his brother. His cold look said he did not. She worried he might strike her as his brother obviously wanted to do.

  * * *

  Dag heard Sigurd growl something in Irish, and the woman moved away, her blue dress swishing.

  “I ought to have you ravish her again to discover whether you hate her or care for her,” his brother said.

  Dag gave him a threatening look, and Sigurd grunted. “So, that would not help it either, eh? By Frey’s power, what ails you? I’ve never seen such looks as you give the woman. They are potent enough to melt glaciers and set the North Sea boiling. Are you certain you were not hit on the head when you were taken? Your mind doesn’t seem right anymore.”

  Dag shook his head. He had not been struck down, yet his wits were clearly awry. The woman had defied him outrageously, yet when he’d started to deal her the appropriate punishment, he’d been unable to do so. What power did she have over him?

  The uneasiness in his gut deepened as he took the tiller from his brother.

  Chapter 8

  When Fiona awoke, she was certain it was night. No light shone around the edges of the tent, and the harsh voices of Sigurd’s men had quieted. Her stomach burned with hunger, and she wondered if anyone meant to give her food. A shiver of dread went through her. She was so alone, so helpless. If the fair Viking turned his back on her, there was no one who cared if she lived or died. Except mayhap Sigurd. She didn’t think he would starve her. More likely, he would tire of her angering his brother and throw her into the sea.

  As if her thoughts had conjured him up, Sigurd suddenly appeared in the tent opening. She knew it was him because of his massive size.

  “I see the fine Irish lady is awake.” The contempt in his voice didn’t reassure her. “Get up,” he ordered. “You can’t sleep here. My men think I have favored you too much already.”

  Something came sailing toward her. Fiona put her hands up before it hit her in the face.

  “A bedsack,” Sigurd said. “Take it to the far side of the ship, near my brother. I would order you to share his, if he would stand for it.” He laughed. “It will be entertaining to see how long he persists in his stubbornness.”

  Grunting, Sigurd pushed his bulk into the tent. Fiona crawled away from him as he settled into the pile of furs she had just abandoned. Her heart racing, she made her way toward the tent entrance, dragging the bedsack after her.

  The sea air was cool, and she shivered violently as she left the tent. Above her, a veil of stars glittered across the heavens, and the soft sound of snores greeted her ears. She took a deep breath and began to edge past the sleeping Vikings. Harsh anxiety filled her as she neared the stern of the ship. Dag hated her; his brother had said as much. Yet, she was to lie near him, for protection.

  She couldn’t see him, but it seemed she was near the sea chest where Dag had sat earlier as she’d tended his arm. Surely this was close enough to satisfy Sigurd.

  Shaking out the bedsack, she lay it down on the hard ship bottom, then found the opening and crawled in. The bedsack was made of otter furs stitched together; it smelled musty and old. She rubbed her arms and squirmed around trying to generate some heat so she could be comfortable.

  The strange sounds of the sea disquieted her. The creak of the mast, the whipping noise of the sail, the splash of waves against the keel of the boat—they all reminded her of the foreign, threatening world she now dwelled in. Her life had been spent in the timeless, soothing realm of Eire, a land of warm mists, gentle hills, and water-smoothed stones whispering of the past. All that was behind her now. The Viking world was filled with the sting of the sea wind, the blinding glare of the waves, and the sharp odor of stale fish and sweaty men.

  She thought with longing of the warm snug bed she had shared with her foster sister. Burned. Destroyed. Her father, little Dermot. Dead. Murdered. Duvessa, Siobhan—perhaps alive, but lost to her forever.

  Fiona’s throat burned and tears seeped into her eyes. She had not known until now how much she had to lose.

  Memories of her father swam before her closed eyelids. She recalled his teasing her as a child, gently tugging her dark braids and calling her little darling—acushla. There had been a gentleness in Donall, a tenderness most warriors lacked. Mayhap that was what Fiona’s mother Aisling had seen in him, why she had left the world of trees and spirits to wed a Christ
ian warlord.

  Fiona had never appreciated her father; now it was too late. Or was it? The priests said a man’s soul went to heaven when he died. Was her father there now? Could he see her and understand her troubles? If only he could tell her what to do. This time she would listen. She would not be so stubborn and willful.

  She choked back a sob. Her former life was ended, gone as if it had never been. The concerns and troubles that had once obsessed her seemed hopelessly petty now. To think she had been consumed with loathing at the thought of marrying Sivney Longbeard. She had not known then what true misery was. Although Sivney might be disgusting and crude, he would never have denied her physical comforts. He would have protected her, even pampered her. Now she was to be reviled, treated as if she were no more important than a dog.

  The harshness of her new life had only begun. She knew the Northmen used slaves to do the hard labor on their farmsteads. Would that be her fate—cursed to a life of endless servitude in the fields? Or would she be used as a bedslave, a vessel for the Vikings’ lust, then tossed aside when she lost her looks or her body thickened with a Viking offspring? Once she had dreaded the thought of lying beneath Sivney’s repellent body; now she might be forced to endure the attentions of many men.

  Fiona let loose a sob, her throat choking with grief and despair. She had been a fool of the worst kind, a spoiled, misguided child. She had failed her kin, her father. The terrible pain of regret pierced her, and she could hold back no longer. As the Viking ship sailed into the darkness, she wept bitter, hopeless tears.

  The woman wept. Dag could hear her ragged breathing, detect the rhythm of her quiet sobs. He hardened his heart against the pitiful sound. She was naught but a deceitful, wicked creature. He had been taught from childhood that loyalty to kin was more important than life itself. Her aiding him, people’s enemy, seemed unforgiveable.

  Why had she done it? Had she pitied him, wounded and helpless in her father’s prison, and decided to heal him because she couldn’t bear to see him in pain? Dag could almost understand such feelings. He’d always found it difficult to ignore suffering. As a boy, he had sometimes tried to mend wounded animals he found, despite the ridicule of the other boys who thought such sentiments a sign of weakness.