“Master?” Zora interrupted, deciding that this Varangian must be mad. He had made little sense since first opening his mouth. She was glad when he picked up a pair of trousers and tugged them on, although she would be the last to admit how disconcerting she had found his nakedness. Keeping her gaze trained upon his face had been almost impossible for what lay below, his physique more formidable than any man’s she had ever seen—
Furious at herself for even thinking that this Norseman was remotely attractive, especially after what he had done to her, she spat, “I have no master.”
“No? Before I took his life, the Slav merchant who stole you from the caravan told me that you did.”
“You killed Gleb?” Stunned, Zora recalled all too clearly that ruthless merchant’s plans for her.
“So you remember him.”
“Yes,” she replied bitterly. “He was going to cut out my tongue and sell me in Constantinople. How could I forget such a man?”
“Then you must remember Halfdan as well.”
Zora eyed the Varangian with renewed suspicion.
“Do not fear, little one. He is also dead. I told you all of this before, but you’ve been ill since I took you from that trading camp. You suffered a severe shock. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, even though you’ve shared my and my men’s company for almost four days now.”
Four days?
Unwittingly lowering the jug, Zora wondered if this astounding statement could be true. She remembered the events at that horrid camp so clearly, as if they had happened only an hour past. Yet here she was in a tiny room at some unknown place with a half-naked stranger who was leading her to believe that he had saved her from Halfdan and Gleb.
Saved her? she scoffed, taking the Norseman’s measure from head to toe. He had also raped her, and she refused to believe otherwise. Surely even ill she would not have allowed him to steal her honor. This damned Varangian had ruined her!
“Where are we?” she demanded, raising her weapon again when he made a slight movement toward her.
“Chernigov.”
Her father’s city! So close to her new home, to Ivan her betrothed, and yet this giant was holding her captive for God knew what purpose. Zora lifted her chin, her tone icy. “What do you want from me?”
An unsettling glint of humor lit his eyes. “Only your master’s name, little one. I want to release you to his care, but I cannot until—”
“I told you I have no master!” she snapped, infuriated that he would find anything in this situation amusing. “You make it sound as if I am a slave—”
“Not a slave, perhaps, but a boyar’s concubine or so I was told. A favored one…and obviously without having shared his bed. No wonder the man’s wife hated you.”
It was on the tip of Zora’s tongue to declare hotly that she was no concubine but a princess of the Tmutorokan Rus, and that everything he had been told about her were lies. But something stopped her. She was not certain this man would truly help her. She was nothing to him…unless he had something to gain by assisting her.
Smelling treachery, Zora nervously chewed her lower lip, her heart beating a little faster.
Perhaps she was in the hands of an enemy of her father’s. Varangian warriors held positions in Mstislav’s army, but they were few in number. Unlike Grand Prince Yaroslav who possessed strong alliances with Norse kings and chieftains. If this man knew she had been abducted from the caravan, why hadn’t he taken her back?
She was no fool. Her father employed spies against his elder brother. Yaroslav must do the same. Perhaps this man was a spy, and hoped to use her to gain some military advantage for the grand prince. He obviously believed her to be a boyar’s concubine; perhaps it was best to convince him.
“What I meant is that I don’t look upon Lord Ivan as my master,” she said in a much softer tone, giving the Varangian the true name of her betrothed. Ivan would never betray her father, and he was a shrewd man. He would know how to outwit her captor and win her return long before the Norseman discovered her identity. “Nor does he see me as merely his concubine. We are so much…more to each other.”
“So I thought,” Rurik muttered, any amusement he had derived from her pretty display of hauteur vanishing at the image of her even smiling at another man.
Then, angrily reminding himself of his resolve to be rid of her, he demanded, “Where can I find Lord Ivan? I want to send him a message and let him know that you are well.”
“Why don’t you just take me to him?” Zora countered as guilelessly as possible. “If we are in Chernigov, it would be an easy matter to escort me to the kreml. My Ivan is one of Prince Mstislav’s most trusted warriors.”
Rurik had no intention of betraying himself or his men. It was best she believed he was a mercenary. “It’s not that simple, wench.” He was determined not to call her “little one” again, forcing himself to think of her as nothing more than a pawn. “There is the matter of ransom.”
“Ransom?” came her startled reply.
He laughed, mocking her. “Of course. Did you think I had brought you all this way for charity? When I learned of your value from the Slav merchant, I knew I would profit well by your safe return.”
Zora felt her face grow hot as she realized she might have misread this man entirely. So he was only interested in gaining ransom…and he was a murderer to boot! She would have felt safer if she were in the hands of a disciplined spy and not some ruthless fortune hunter.
Suddenly her situation felt much more precarious, and Zora decided that she would not wait for any ransom to be delivered. As soon as she saw her chance, she would escape. Then, once she was safe with her father, she would have this coarse Varangian and his companions hunted down and see that they paid with their lives for the unthinkable indignity she had suffered.
“What is your name, wench?”
Zora hesitated. If he discovered that he held a princess, who knew what he might do? “Ilka,” she lied, using the name of one of her slaves.
“Ilka. It doesn’t suit you.” The Norseman’s gaze raked over her in a manner that filled her with apprehension. “Beauty such as yours deserves something finer.” He gestured to the bed. “Lie down, Ilka.”
Zora clutched the fur more tightly around her. “Lie down?”
“We’ve only a few more hours left until dawn and I want you to look your best tomorrow for Lord Ivan.”
Zora wanted to refuse—it was humiliating to sleep in the spot where he had so recently defiled her. But his forceful tone discouraged any argument. Perhaps she had nothing to fear from him, she tried to reason with herself, setting the wine jug close within her reach as she lay down upon the bed and arranged the fur so that it covered her torso. He had been sleeping upon the floor after all—
“Move over.”
She stared up at him in disbelief, her heart hammering. “What?”
“I don’t trust you, Ilka. You’ve already proved to me that you can wield a sword. I don’t want to wake up to find myself bleeding to death. Or you gone.” When she hesitated, he kicked the jug so hard under the bed that it shattered against a corner post. “Move over!”
Her mouth suddenly dry, Zora obeyed by quickly scooting as far to the wall as she could go. She had just turned her back to him when a powerful arm went around her waist. She gasped as he brought her hard against him and threw a heavily muscled leg over her thigh. To her horror, her bare bottom was nestled right up against his hips.
“Sleep well, Ilka.”
Sleep well? she thought furiously as his breathing soon became deep and regular.
God help her, she’d be damned if she closed her eyes at all!
Chapter 7
To Zora’s relief, morning came mercifully swift. Watching sullenly as the Varangian pulled his tunic over his head, she told herself that she held no interest in the immense breadth of his shoulders, so thick with muscle, the bulging contours of his arms, the impressive span of his chest, or the masculine leanness of his wa
ist. She was merely keeping a cautious eye on him.
Amazingly, she felt little fatigue even though she hadn’t slept, the heat of his body alone enough to help keep her eyes open. His every movement in sleep, radiating more strength than she imagined most men possessed in their waking hours, had also kept up her defenses.
She suspected that she must have gotten enough rest during the past few days to make up for the lack last night. Since the moment her stern-faced captor had arisen to relight the oil lamp and begin to dress, she had felt alert, eager, and ready for any chance of escape that might present itself.
“Get dressed,” the Varangian ordered as he fastened a wide leather belt about his waist. Drawing his gleaming sword from the scabbard, he ran two fingers along one filed edge to the tapered tip and then down the blade’s other side as if checking for any damage from its recent mishandling.
To Zora, it looked almost like he was caressing the weapon, the expression on his handsome face somber and reverent. She had heard tales that Norsemen revered their swords, surrounding them with an aura of mystique. Some Varangians even gave their swords a name.
“What do you call it?” She must have asked her question a bit too flippantly for he shot her a dark glare.
“Branch-of-Odin.”
“Makes sense for a pagan like you,” she muttered, resenting his frown and her own shiver of fear.
He ran the flat of his palm down the three-foot-long blade and then thrust the deadly weapon back into its sheath. “I thought I told you to get dressed.”
Bristling at his tone, Zora held the fur she had not let go of since last night more snugly against her body. “In what, if I might ask?”
He picked up some clothes scattered upon the floor and tossed them to the bed.
Inspecting the two garments gingerly, almost afraid to touch them for fear of finding lice, Zora’s eyes widened. Trousers? A man’s tunic? Was he mad? She glanced at him in confusion, but before she could speak the Varangian chuckled in amusement.
“You seem surprised, Ilka. Surely you can see that we couldn’t bring you into the city as a woman wearing fine silks and slippers, your beautiful hair unbound and flowing down your back. Someone might have recognized you and we would be dead men.” He threw a rope belt and a damp piece of cloth into her lap. “Until you’re back in Lord Ivan’s arms, you will play the part of my slave”—his voice grew heavy with warning—”and a docile one at that. Do you understand?”
Nodding, she bit back her sharp retort, though the thought of meekly following this heathen’s orders even for a short while turned her stomach.
“May I at least bathe before I dress?” she began in a deceptive flat monotone, but her anger at her lost virginity suddenly overcame her discretion. “Ivan will not be pleased to have the smell of another man upon me.”
Her statement was rewarded with a black scowl. She glared right back at him, which seemed to displease him all the more.
“There’s water in the bucket,” he said tightly. “I used that cloth sash to bathe you last night, but of course you don’t remember.”
“You did what?” Her gaze skipped in surprise from the wrinkled length of material to his face, which was inscrutable.
“It doesn’t matter,” he bit off. “Take care that you wring out the sash well when you’re finished. Your breasts must be bound with it as part of your guise.” Paying no heed to her gasp of outrage, he strode to the door and flung it open, only to pause at the sight of another Varangian who appeared as if he had been just about to knock.
Zora swallowed her pique for the moment, thinking ahead to her escape. She hoped there were not many more Norsemen hiding in the adjoining room. This older man was as dark as her captor was fair, even for the sprinkling of gray in his hair and beard, yet a full head shorter and much wider in girth. His face was round and swarthy, and he had the most peculiar nose she had ever seen. He looked as if someone had punched him good and hard, breaking his nose and squashing it to one side.
“Ah, Lord Rurik, you’re awake,” the graying warrior said amiably. His gaze flew to the bed and he grinned, which made Zora grip the fur all the more tightly to her breasts. “I trust you and the wench slept soundly.”
Lord Rurik? Zora thought, realizing she had neglected to ask her captor his name. Then again, most likely he wouldn’t have told her even if she had. She decided Rurik suited him. A hard name for a hard man. But what of the title? That puzzled her. Since when did mercenary rogues of his sort have titles?
“Not as soundly as I might have wished,” Rurik said, casting a meaningful look in her direction. “It’s not every night that a man’s own sword is raised against him.”
“Your sword?” The hulking warrior’s grin vanished. He glanced incredulously from Zora to Rurik. “The wench?” Rurik nodded.
“By Odin, I slept too well! I heard nothing!”
“Don’t trouble yourself, Arne. There was never any real danger. Our captive beauty vastly underestimated her opponent. Now come, we have much to discuss and the wench wishes to bathe.”
Not missing his sarcastic tone as he shut the door behind him, Zora felt like flinging the damned bucket across the room. Damn his pagan’s soul to hell. She couldn’t wait to be free of him!
Rising from the bed, she dropped the fur to the floor and proceeded to scrub herself clean, the cold water proving some balm for her temper. A bit of soap would have been nice, but she would just have to wait until she was back in the women’s terem where she could enjoy a proper bath.
As she gave herself a final rinsing, she squeezed the dripping cloth against her shoulder, relishing the opportunity to wash away any remnant of Rurik’s loathsome touch. Sucking in her breath as the chilled water trickled down the front of her body, she suddenly froze as an unsettling flash of memory struck her…Rurik, standing tall and broad in front of her, his eyes burning into hers, his knuckles grazing her sensitive flesh as he pressed the soaked cloth between her breasts—
No, that couldn’t have happened! she told herself fiercely, cursing that her nipples had grown hard and turgid. He hadn’t bathed her! That had been another of his lies!
Flinging the cloth into the bucket with a splash, she dressed quickly although her skin was still damp. She wanted to be clothed, her nakedness an unwanted reminder of her disgrace. Outside, the sounds of activity beyond the planked walls—people shouting and laughing, carts rumbling, horses neighing—spurred her on.
She felt as if she were suffocating in this dim, stuffy little bedchamber, no windows to provide fresh air or an escape. She wanted to see the next room, wanted to know how many other Varangians were in Rurik’s band and then weigh her chances. With trembling fingers, she rebraided her hair, then she went to the door and thrust it open.
Rurik was leaning against the wall with his heavily muscled arms folded over his chest, obviously waiting for her to emerge. Her breath caught, for in the bright morning sunlight streaming in from a nearby window, she finally got a good look at his face.
He was more strikingly handsome than she had thought, his short beard and mustache only accentuating his hard, sculpted features. His thick blond hair was longer than she recalled, skimming his shoulders, and gleamed with silvery highlights that mirrored the brightness of his sword. When he inclined his head slightly, she spied a glint of gold and noticed for the first time that he wore a small hooped earring in his left ear, although he bore no other ornament.
But what drew her attention was his eyes. They weren’t black as she had imagined them to be, but an intense blue like the color of deep water, or the sky after twilight just before it darkens into night. She found herself captivated by them, thinking they were the most arresting hue she had ever seen…
“You forgot the sash, Ilka.”
“What…?” As if shattered from some spell, Zora felt a hot blush burn her cheeks as he smiled lazily at her, his teeth a brilliant white against his sun-bronzed skin. Clenching her jaw stubbornly, for she didn’t want to wear that
clammy cloth against her skin, she muttered, “I did not.”
“I’m not blind,” he countered, his gaze falling to her breasts. “Your beauty juts free and unfettered for all to see.”
Zora wanted to slap him for staring at her so, and to her mortification when she followed his eyes, her hardened nipples were well outlined against the linen tunic. That alone made her rush into the bedchamber, and turning her back to him, she lifted the garment and wound the damp sash around her upper body.
“Do you need any help?”
“No!”
But she did. She sighed with frustration as she struggled with her arms behind her to tie a knot, then jumped when she felt his large warm hands cover hers to take over the task. Shivering at his touch, she jerked her hands away as if stung and, made furious by her reaction, wondered what the devil was coming over her. The man had raped her, let her not forget!
“Come, Ilka,” he said when he seemed satisfied that the sash was tied tightly enough. Her breasts were all but flattened, which was quite uncomfortable. “There’s food in the other room.”
Biting her tongue, Zora followed him from the bedchamber. She made quick inventory of her new surroundings—two narrow windows that she could easily squeeze through, another door leading outside, and best of all no other Varangians in sight except the strapping Arne—while Rurik led her to a bench where he gestured that she should sit. Arne was already seated at the table, ale glistening in his beard as he thunked down his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.
“Aye, she’s got a vixen’s gleam in her eye, just like you said, my lord. But I’ll watch her well, you can be sure.”
Zora shot a glance at Rurik as he set bread, cheese, and a mug of frothy ale in front of her. “You’re leaving?”
He nodded. “I’ve a message to deliver to the kreml, remember?” He quaffed his ale standing up as if soon to depart.
Zora’s mind raced. Though her stomach grumbled noisily, she gave no notice to the food beneath her nose. If the Varangian gave her name as Ilka, then Ivan might not know it was her and think the message a ruse!
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