“Dead?”
He nodded. She looked so vulnerable, the quality in her voice almost childlike, arousing in him a powerful surge of protectiveness. Or perhaps it was simply his own exhaustion. He sat back upon his haunches, determined to get some answers now that she had finally regained her senses.
“The Slav merchant was also killed. You no longer have anything to fear from them.”
Rurik was greeted with a blank stare, then a soft query, “Merchant?”
“The one who stole you from your master’s caravan.” This time he was answered with silence, and she seemed confused. Wondering if Halfdan’s blow or her ensuing fall might have done more damage than he had thought, Rurik tried another, more direct tact. “Tell me your name, little one.”
Oddly, she opened her mouth as if to say something, then her brow creased in consternation.
“Your name,” he tried again. “Think hard.”
An interminable moment later, she murmured almost to herself, “I…I don’t know.”
“Damn that swine!” Rurik cursed under his breath, wishing it had been his sword that had ended Halfdan’s miserable life. The terrible shock must have robbed her memory. Only the image of the Varangian’s brutality remained.
“Surely you remember your master,” Rurik pressed. “He’s one of Prince Mstislav’s boyars, isn’t he? A member of his senior druzhina? You were on your way to Chernigov to meet him when you were abducted.”
“Master? I don’t know…” Suddenly she grimaced. “My head…it hurts so.”
“Easy, wench, easy,” Rurik said soothingly. It was clear he would discover no information tonight. Perhaps she would remember more tomorrow after a comfortable sleep, at the very least recall her name and that of her master by the time they reached Chernigov, three days hard journey from here.
If that failed…the thought of taking her home to Novgorod was enticing. Yet he hoped, for the sake of his liege lord and the critical battle to come, that she did remember who she was. There was too much at stake for him to indulge his own selfish desires. She was only a woman, after all, and the world was full of those who could please him.
Rurik ran his palm across her forehead, marveling despite his resolve at the smoothness of her skin. He was pleased to see that some color had returned to her cheeks, and her shivering had ceased. “Sleep now,” he bade her as he tucked the blanket once more beneath her chin.
“Yes…sleep,” she said drowsily, closing her eyes.
“You are safe here. No one will harm you.”
“Safe,” came her reply, a whispered echo, then suddenly her eyes flew open and she clutched at Rurik’s hand. Her gaze was wide and fearful. “You will not leave me?”
“No, little one. I will not leave you.”
But he did exit the tent a short while later when he knew from her steady breathing that she was fast asleep and probably would not wake again until the morning. In the night air, his tunic felt cold and clammy, the fabric clinging to his body. Moments before he had barely noticed his sodden state.
Staring at the woman’s face—the soft curve of her cheek, thick, sooty lashes so long it was easy to imagine them playing like the finest silk against his skin, graceful gull-winged brows, a patrician nose saucily tipped at the end, and rosy lips so lush and full he longed to press his own against them and tease them open with his tongue—was enough to make him wish she were nothing but a common slave possessing no ties that bound her to another man…
“Is she well, my lord?” asked Kjell, interrupting the sensual turn of Rurik’s thoughts.
“She sleeps.” Deciding the untested warrior was displaying too much interest, Rurik looked at him sharply. He had brought Kjell along on the journey only at the special request of the man’s father, another member of Yaroslav’s senior druzhina, who believed his son needed toughening. Now Rurik could see why. “And sleeping is what you should be doing. The hour will come soon enough when you must take the helm from Leif.”
With that, he strode to the prow and stripped out of his wet clothes, his mood growing dark indeed. But he wasn’t so much angry at Kjell as he was at himself. He dug in his sea chest for another tunic and a pair of trousers and yanked them on, then throwing his heavy fur mantle around his shoulders, he sat down and stared out across the black water.
By Odin, had madness seized him? He had six concubines in Novgorod, each one a beauty in her own right. There was nothing special about this wench…
“You were a bit harsh with the lad,” came Arne’s reproachful voice behind him.
“He has the look about him of a lovelorn pup,” Rurik said caustically. Running his hand through his damp hair, he did not turn as the warrior took a seat across from him. “Kjell would be wise to keep his thoughts to his duties and not upon fantasies that cannot come true.”
“He is young, my lord. Wenches to him are still creatures of fascination and awe, worthy of adoration. He has not yet learned that their fickle hearts are not to be trusted…as have some of us.”
“It is not only women’s hearts that cannot be trusted, old friend. As for the wench, she remembers nothing thanks to her mistreatment at the trading camp, not her name, not her master’s name. She’s taken on the manner of a child. Only the gods can say when she may recover.”
“Yet that is not what’s troubling you.”
Frowning, Rurik could not see the warrior’s expression in the dark, yet he knew Arne looked in sympathy. The grizzled bear could read him as few could; not even Rurik’s own father understood him as well. Yet he’d be damned to admit that the woman was behind his irritation. He would be a fool to change his plans and keep her. It would be akin to treason, and let him never, never forget that wanting a woman too much held its own dangers.
“Dawn will come soon, Arne. I’ll stay on watch while you get some rest.”
“As you wish, my lord.” He gave a grunt as he hauled himself to his feet. “But rouse me if you decide to go for another moonlit swim. The wench may yet surprise us.”
Chapter 5
But there were no surprises during the next three days. To Rurik’s annoyance, the woman’s state did not improve. Sleeping much of the time, she ventured from the tent only to attend to her private needs behind a blanket while he made sure that all eyes were averted. To him, it seemed as if she were ensnared in a strange dreamlike daze, for she showed little interest in anything around her and cared not if she ate or drank. She still remembered nothing when questioned about her identity, and the one time he had raised his voice at her to see if she might for some reason be feigning her malady, he brought on such a fit of tears that he no longer doubted her loss of memory.
She also made no further references to Halfdan, seemingly content with Rurik’s explanation that the Varangian trader had been killed. Nor did she ask any questions about Rurik or his men or why she might be with them. In fact, she had spoken very little since that first night. Whenever Rurik questioned her about the name of her master, he had been greeted with the same blank stare.
“Slap her, my lord! That will bring the wench out of it quick enough!” Arne had urged impatiently on more than one occasion, but Rurik had decided that remedy was too severe.
Instead, he hoped that the simple trust she displayed in him would encourage her memory. She clearly viewed him as her protector, a role he knew was useful. Yet they were nearing Chernigov, and she seemed no closer to recalling her name than the first night of their journey.
“The trousers, my lord.” Kjell handed over the linen garment as well as a rope belt and a wide cloth sash. “They only reached to my knees, so the wench won’t be swallowed up by them.”
“They’ll do.” Rurik strode to the tent, glad for the concealing gray light of dusk. He had purposely adjusted the sail earlier, slowing the boat’s pace. He wanted to arrive at the fortified city at nightfall, no sooner.
The men would easily pass as fur traders, but the wench might attract attention, even disguised as a male slave. In the light
of day a sharp-eyed individual might discern a female’s form so he would take the cautious path, especially since the caravan’s searching guards might have reached the city before them.
Inside the tent, Rurik was displeased to see that the woman was resting again, one small hand curled beneath her chin as she lay on her side. He had never seen anyone sleep so much, ill or no! But he supposed it was a form of healing and it had kept her from trying any tricks. The past days she had been as docile as a newborn lamb.
Usually, he preferred women with fire and passion like his tempestuous Semirah, although this woman’s tawny beauty more than compensated for her lack of spirit. Looking at her now, the seductive curves of her body outlined beneath the woolen blanket, was enough to rekindle the wanton thoughts he had done his best to repress these past few days—
Thor’s blood, man, do not forget she may still remember her name! Rurik berated himself, angered by his wavering self-control. He went down on one knee and shook her by the shoulder.
“Time to wake, little one.”
His breath caught as she opened her eyes, huge liquid pools of cobalt-blue that inexplicably fascinated him. Their unusual hue reminded him of the faraway Sea of Marmara on a cloudless, sunlit morning. She yawned prettily and stretched, kittenlike, her slim arms extended in front of her and her bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket. Then she looked up and gifted him with a smile as open and guileless as a child’s, a becoming dimple in each cheek.
For a fleeting moment, Rurik could not remember why he had come to the tent. She made such a fetching picture with her wild tousled hair, hanging almost to her waist, framing her face, the oversize wool tunic she wore fallen from one delicately boned shoulder to reveal the soft curve of a breast. Only the sharp scraping of oars outside focused his attention back to his purpose. Cursing himself, he laid the trousers beside her.
“I brought these for you. Stand up and I’ll help you put them on.”
Without a word she obeyed him and rose, catching his arm to steady herself when the boat suddenly swayed beneath their feet, the waves grown choppy in the stiff wind whistling past the tent. Her unexpected touch sent a charge racing through him like wildfire. Rurik clenched his teeth, warning himself to move fast with what needed to be done. Standing so close to this golden goddess was proving too much of a temptation.
“Lean on my shoulder.” While she did, Rurik bent down and slipped first one trouser leg and then the other past her feet. He drew the garment quickly up to her waist beneath her borrowed tunic so that he had little time to focus upon the enticing curve of calf and thigh. Grabbing the rope belt, he secured it around her and then he turned her so she faced away from him.
“I’m going to wrap this sash around your breasts,” he told her, bringing the piece of cloth up under her tunic. “Let me know if I tie it too tightly.”
Rurik swallowed hard as his knuckles grazed firmly rounded flesh, and he must have startled her, for she gasped and stepped backward. Instinctively, his arms closed around her and for an instant he reveled in the arousing sensation of her slim body pressed against him.
Surprisingly, she did not pull away but leaned even closer, her bottom rubbing against the hard bulge his flesh had become. With supreme effort he pushed her away, concentrating again on tying the sash. Last, he gathered to one side the extra folds at the neckline of her tunic and fastened them with a plain metal cloak-pin. Her disguise would be for naught if the tunic slipped again from her shoulders.
“It’s safer for all of us if you’re dressed as a male slave,” Rurik explained as he turned her to face him, although she didn’t seem the least interested in her garb. “We’re very near your new home…and your master. Soon you’ll be with him again.”
She looked at him silently, her tantalizing lips forming no response. Rurik wondered if perhaps he should try Arne’s remedy. There must be something he could do to shatter the queer spell that gripped her, something that would draw forth her master’s name. By the gods, he wasn’t one to use brute force against a woman, but in this case…
“My lord, we’re nearing the city wharf!” came Leif’s voice just beyond the tent.
Deciding to wait until they had found their next few nights lodging before attempting a drastic measure that could bring on a noisy flood of tears, Rurik surveyed his handiwork and deemed the woman’s attire passable. She made a pretty lad, but with her breasts flattened beneath the sash and baggy clothes, he doubted any would question her sex. Yet he had to do something about her hair, although the thought of cutting those magnificent tresses did not set well with him. He had never seen their like before.
“Could you braid your hair for me, wench?” Wielding a sword was far more suited to his large hands than such a task.
Rurik was gratified when she twisted her hair into a thick braid as deftly as if she had done so a thousand times. “Like this?”
He was stunned by her soft query, the first question she had posed to him for three days. Despite himself, he reached out and touched the heavy braid, admiring its silkiness and wondering if she sought to please her master as readily as she had just done for him. He imagined, as a concubine, that she must know many ways to please a man…
His imagination firing at the thought, a sudden idea came to him. His blood raced red-hot through his veins.
By Odin, why had he not considered it before? For a woman accustomed to giving pleasure to one man, whose name, then, would she most likely cry out at the height of passion? Surely that of her lover, the hated enemy with whom Rurik hoped to strike his furtive bargain.
A jarring thud suddenly threw the two of them together. As Rurik grabbed the startled woman to prevent her from falling, he realized the boat was sliding against the wharf. Yet this time he didn’t push her away. He crushed her against his chest, his lust rearing inside him like a wild thing set free. Why not both satisfy his need and aid his plan? He saw no harm in it, and the quicker he got rid of this far too captivating wench, the better!
Lifting her chin, Rurik brought his mouth down fiercely upon hers, tasting her lips for the first time and finding them as warm and soft and as sweet as he had imagined. He was not surprised when she didn’t struggle or twist to escape, instead leaning seductively into their kiss as might any concubine.
When she parted her lips, the moist tip of her tongue touching his, Rurik groaned from the desire shaking him. By Thor, she was eager and willing! Deepening his kiss, his hands slid down her back to squeeze her bottom, and he lifted her against that rock-hard part of himself that ached for the hot softness of her body—
“Harrumph…forgive me, Lord Rurik.”
Arne’s startled yet urgent voice broke through Rurik’s impassioned haze. “What is it?”
“Armed guards, my lord, making their way toward the boat. I suspect with the intention of boarding.”
Rurik eased his hold upon the woman. There would be time…later.
“Find the wench a hat, Arne, quickly!” he ordered. “Her hair must be completely covered.” While the Varangian warrior dropped the tent flap to do his bidding, Rurik lifted the woman in his arms and placed her on the furs. He took a moment to stuff her thick braid down the back of her tunic, and noting her flushed cheeks and the anxious frown between her brows, he sought to reassure her. “You must remain here, little one, until I come for you. Do you understand?”
To his surprise, she protested. “No, I want to stay with you!”
Rurik had no time to contend with this sudden and wholly unexpected spark of spirit, although it boded well for her recovery.
“You cannot, wench, it isn’t safe. You must remain inside the tent. Do not disobey me.”
He had spoken with such sternness that this time she nodded, her eyes very wide. As Arne reappeared with a woolen cap, Rurik rose and brushed past him.
“Put it on her, then meet me outside,” he said grimly. “But stay close to the entrance, Arne. It seems our meek little lamb has a mind of her own after all, and might t
hink to join us.”
“She’ll not get past me, my lord. Have no fear of that.”
After casting a last glance at the woman, Rurik stepped from the tent to greet the enemy warriors he surmised were there to check all vessels docking at the wharf. It made sense in this time of war, and Chernigov was the usurper Prince Mstislav’s most recently conquered city.
“For this hole we must pay thirty silver grivna a night?” Arne held up a smoking lamp to better view the dingy interior of the shack they had rented close to the main marketplace. Tattered furs hung from two narrow windows, the only furnishings a dilapidated table shoved against a planked wall and two benches. Cursing under his breath, the husky warrior kicked at the filthy reeds littering the floor. “Smells of piss and stale ale to me.”
“We’re lucky to have it.” Frowning, Rurik ignored Arne’s continued muttering. “The city is overrun with merchants and Mstislav’s retainers. If we hadn’t chanced down this street as those other traders were leaving, someone else would have slept here tonight.”
“Aye, and if the prince’s watchdogs had only kept us a while longer with their questions, we’d have missed the honor!” Arne snorted in disgust. “Are you sure you won’t return to the ship, my lord? I’d trade a pallet on deck for this stinking hovel any day, and the thought of Kjell and Leif aboard alone, surrounded on every side by our enemies—”
“Enough, Arne.” Rurik’s voice was low and firm. “You know the plan. Leif and Kjell will stay with the ship while we gather what information we can at the market and deal with our valuable charge.” He glanced at the silent woman holding his arm, then met the warrior’s disgruntled gaze. “Don’t forget that our surly welcome committee granted us a mere four-day trading pass, then we must leave the city. We don’t have time to waste.”
Turning away, Rurik held his lamp higher and pushed open a door leading to a tiny separate bedchamber. A mouse squeaked and skittered over his foot into the main room, causing the woman to start.
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