Ivar The Red

by Victoria Vane

  ”Did her father make no effort to rein her in?”

  “They frequently butted heads. She is an unusually strong woman.”

  “In need of a strong hand repeatedly plied to her backside until she learns her place,” he retorted. “And I’m just the man to do it.”

  “That would certainly win you into her good graces,” the duchess replied sarcastically.

  Ivar swore another oath. “I don’t look for her good graces. I expect obedience. She should be on her knees thanking me for my mercy.” The mere thought of Lady Emma on her knees sent a surge of hot lust to his loins. He envisioned a number of pleasant ways she could show her gratitude from that position. He swore to the gods he would, but not by brute force. Only a coward forced a defenseless woman into submission. He would find another way.

  “There is one thing you could do to soften her,” the duchess suggested.

  “What is that?” he asked.

  “Allow her a proper Christian burial for her father.”

  “She believes I would deny her this?” he demanded angrily. Did she think so little of him? Her father had died honorably and deserved all the rites of a fallen warrior.

  “She believes you have no respect for Christian traditions.”

  “Is that so? Then you will tell Lady Emma that I will show her the same respect she reciprocates. If she wishes to bury her dead, she must come to me.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  EMMA WAS FURIOUS at Ivar’s command to sup with him. Did he mean only to speak with her or would he force her to go to his bed? When she’d asked Adèle, the duchess answered that he wasn’t inclined to elaborate. Neither was Emma inclined to acknowledge the summons.

  Nevertheless, she had nothing to gain by refusing to speak to him. Although entire being revolted against responding to Ivar’s summons, her father deserved a proper burial, and she needed freedom from her rooms if she had any hope of escaping.

  She finally had the semblance of a plan, but it all hinged on the Norseman granting her request to lay her father to rest. How far was she willing to go to persuade him? Would she be compelled to betray herself to secure her escape? She prayed it would not come to that. Dropping to her knees, she murmured a prayer to the Holy Mother asking for courage and protection from the fiend who presently occupied her father’s high seat. If she rebuffed him again, how long would he keep her prisoner? The confinement was already about to drive her mad, but her hope of rescue was still five days away.

  “He calls for you again, my lady,” Havoise said. “Mayhap ‘tis unwise to tarry.”

  “I do not tarry,” Emma scoffed at the warning. “I will go to him when I am ready.”

  She was already an hour late for supper, but purposely dragged her feet, changing her tunic three times, and then fussing unnecessarily with her veil and filet. Was she delaying from nerves or just to agitate him? Perhaps it was a bit of both. With a final fortifying breath, Emma crossed the chamber only to have the door burst open.

  “My supper has grown cold.” The beast himself filled her doorway, wearing an expression that would have sent a meeker woman cowering.

  “You need not have waited,” she said.

  His stance broadened and his gaze hardened. “Leave us,” he commanded Havoise.

  The old woman looked to Emma, her eyes wide with alarm.

  “Do as he says, Havoise,” Emma calmly replied. She feared what was about to transpire but even more that he’d turn his wrath upon her servant.

  He closed the door the moment her servant shuffled out and leaned back against it, with his powerful arms crossed over an equally massive chest, regarding her in silent scrutiny. He was much larger than she remembered and also much cleaner. In truth, she would not have recognized him. His wildly ungroomed beard was neatly trimmed and his shining, russet hair fell in loose waves to touch his shoulders. The open neck of his shirt revealed more coppery hair dusting his chest. His tunic was finely woven wool in deep sea green, the same shade as his eyes. Once more, Emma shook off the strange notion that there was something familiar about his eyes.

  She noted a silver torque engraved with symbols she didn’t recognize around his thickly muscled neck. He wore a similar band of silver about his wrist. Dressed in such finery, he might even have passed for a Breton nobleman. Yet, this more civilized version of the Norseman seemed somehow more ominous than the savage she’d expected to meet downstairs in the great hall.

  Raising her chin, she asked, “Why are you here?”

  “You didn’t come to me. I will not tolerate your disrespect.”

  “I was feeling indisposed.” She glanced away, herself unable to hold his gaze.

  “Reneging is cowardly, Lady Emma. And lying is equally dishonorable. I expected better from you.”

  His barb hit home. She had indeed acted cowardly. “I will never respect you. And it is not I, but you, who acts the part of a liar and a coward.”

  His chest expanded as if he were about to explode. Releasing a long, slow breath, he replied ominously, “If you were a man I would cut out your tongue.”

  “Because I speak the truth? You said you would not enslave me, yet you would make me your whore!”

  He came toward her with a steely stare. “I want you willing. If I intended force, I would have had you already.”

  An almost hysterical gurgle of laughter bubbled up in her throat. “How can you call it willing when you use threats and coercion?”

  He stopped mere inches away from her. Emma found her gaze even with his chin. “The difference is that you would not be shackled to a bed… as my mother was.”

  He’d stunned her into silence. Was it true? “Your father treated your mother as a slave?”

  “My mother was a bed thrall. She was taken as a young girl many years ago from this very land.”

  Emma’s mind whirled. How could this be? She studied him anew. She’d marveled that he had such a perfect command of her tongue. And his eyes seemed so familiar. Was that also due to his Breton heritage? “Your mother was a Breton? Is this really true?”

  He nodded. “She was from the north, Ille-et-Vilaine.”

  “Our priest, Father Pascweten, is from Ille-et-Vilaine,” she remarked, still incredulous. “When did this happen?”

  “Over thirty years ago,” he replied. “She was only nine or ten-years-old when her entire family was killed and she was taken as a slave. She was intended as a house thrall but she was very beautiful once she grew into womanhood. My father noticed her and took her for his pleasure. She later bore him a son and two daughters.”

  “Where is she now?” Emma asked.

  “She is dead.” His tone was flat and his expression seemed strangely devoid of emotion. “She died before I could redeem her.”

  Emma was still stunned. He was half Breton and his mother was a slave? Each new revelation about him only increased her curiosity. What must it be like to be the offspring of such an unholy union? “I’m sorry,” she murmured the words of sympathy without even thinking.

  “As am I,” he replied.

  “What do you mean by redeem?”

  “In my homeland, a slave can be made free—either for a price or as a gift. My freedom was a gift from my half-brother Valdrik.”

  “Your freedom?” Emma gaped. “You were also a slave?”

  “Aye,” he replied. “Valdrik and I grew up together. Although I served him, we were near the same age and very close. The season before our first raid, when we were both barely past our twelfth summer, he asked our father for my freedom as his coming-of-age gift.”

  “He did?”

  “Aye. He also helped me later to redeem my sisters.” His gaze clouded, giving her another brief glimpse of his humanity. “I owe him much.”

  “And where are your sisters now?” she couldn’t help asking.

  He regarded her for a long moment, as if considering whether he would respond. “My sisters are both happily wed to farmers back in my homeland. I have not seen them in many years.” />
  “I always wanted a brother or sister,” Emma replied, “but my only brother died at birth—along with my mother. My father always blamed me for not being a son.”

  She blinked in surprise as he cupped her chin and tilted her head back to meet his gaze. His gentleness was unexpected. “As I said at our first meeting, were you a man, you would have been a formidable foe.”

  His words of praise strangely thrilled her. “But I am not a man.”

  “No.” His sea colored eyes searched hers and then dipped to her mouth. A tiny shiver rippled through her as he stroked the pad of his thumb gently over her lower lip. “You are not.” The pleasurable sensation of the touch surprised and overwhelmed her.

  The next thing she knew, his lips were moving over hers. The kiss was hot and moist, and muddled her mind. Emma shut her eyes seeking clarity, but the act only intensified the sensations of his masterful mouth melding with hers, of his big, powerful body and musky, male scent. She hadn’t invited the kiss but couldn’t seem to find it in herself to reject it either. How could she let this happen? This man was her mortal enemy!

  Had he not just admitted to raiding and pillaging since he was a boy? How many times had he plundered innocent people in all those years? How many unconfessed sins blackened his pagan soul? Yet, he and the men under his command had exercised restraint. Her emotions were suddenly at war with her brain. Had his mother not been taken captive… would he not have been her countryman?

  She tried to shake away the unsettling thought and pull away, but her limp limbs refused to obey. He cupped her face between big, calloused hands and deepened the kiss. She was swimming in confusion and trembled as his hot, wet tongue stroked over her lips. She despised her weakness in yielding, and even more, for finding pleasure in it—yet, the pleasure was undeniable. It was as if his lips had awakened in her an acute awareness of her womanhood.

  She responded with a moan and clutched the soft wool of his tunic. His mouth became still more demanding. One of his hands slid down to cup her breast and the other grasped her buttocks, pulling her against his big strong body. Emma stiffened in sudden awareness of his arousal. Large and hard, it pressed against her belly.

  Though a virgin, she was well aware of the danger. Just as he breached her mouth with his tongue, he would soon seek to breach her maidenhead with his…

  “No!” She shoved against his chest with a gasp as he began backing her toward the bed. “I will not do this! Please don’t make me!” she beseeched breathlessly.

  “Make you?” He raked a hand through his hair and exhaled a lungful of mumbled curses. “If I intended to force you, you would already be flat on your back.” He shook his head. “I begin to think you are far more trouble than you are worth.”

  Emma didn’t understand why the remark stung.

  He turned, and strode toward the door.

  She was so shaken by the kiss that she’d almost forgotten her plan—until he reached for the latch. “Wait!” she called out.

  His broad shoulders stiffened, but he didn’t turn around.

  “Please,” slipped as a whisper over her tongue. Everything hinged on his granting her request.

  He turned back to face her, his posture rigid and gaze narrowed. Any sign of softening toward her had vanished. “What is it?” he demanded.

  Emma licked her lips as her mind scrambled to offer him something by way of appeasement. “If I agree to do as you wish, will you first grant me leave to bury my father?”

  She held her breath as he studied her in silence, pensively stroking his beard. “Your father faced death with valor and deserves all the respect and honors befitting a great warrior. You will honor him in a suitable fashion.”

  Ivar locked the door behind him, leaving Emma in a daze. What manner of man was this? He’d been enraged when he entered her bedchamber. The moment she’d seen his face, she’d feared she’d pushed him too far. She’s expected far worse than what she’d received. Other than his barbaric threats and the blows to her backside, which had done far more damage to her pride than to her flesh, he’d exercised remarkable restraint. In truth, her own father probably would have ordered her horse-whipped.

  She was even more surprised that he’d released her the moment she resisted.

  She reluctantly conceded that this barbarian did indeed adhere to a certain code of honor. He was also intensely loyal to his brother, and by the way he’d spoken of them, he cared a great deal for mother and sisters. Furthermore, he’d not only granted her permission to bury her father, but had even commanded that he be venerated. She’d expected him to demand payment in advance for granting her request, but he’d left without demanding a single concession. Until this moment, she wouldn’t have believed that any Norseman possessed honor, but now she wondered if good and evil alike existed within these heathens. Perhaps he wasn’t just a godless pagan, but a mortal man who shared the same strengths and failings as any other?

  ***

  Ivar hadn’t planned to kiss her. He rarely kissed a woman. But her lips were impossible to resist—and the moment he’d tasted them, his lust had roared to life. He was nearing the point of no return when she’d pushed him away, but her passionate response had further stoked the fire in his loins. Now raw need pounded in his veins, echoing the throb of his bollocks.

  Leaving her chamber, Ivar felt all too much like a ravenous beast. Then again, he’d never before denied himself for such an extended period. He’d never wanted for a willing woman before, but suddenly there was only one that he wanted.

  In the beginning, he’d told himself he sought her goodwill purely to help strengthen Valdrik’s position in Brittany, but he could hardly deny his growing fixation with Emma. Was it just the challenge? No man could deny the appeal of the unattainable. Was is not so with Freyr and his giantess Gerda? Possessed with both beauty and bravery, Emma was in every way his own Gerda. He viewed her as his gift from the gods and vowed to prove to himself worthy.

  Her baffled expression when he’d granted her request almost made him laugh. Little did she know that he would have honored the count in death—even if she hadn’t asked. It had pleased him to have appeared magnanimous. He’d finally cracked her armor—it was only a matter of time before she would be his.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  PRESSING FINGERS to her bruised and kiss-swollen lips, Emma still couldn’t comprehend quite what had transpired. She was as bewildered by Ivar’s kisses as she was to her body’s response to him. She never could have imagined kissing the very man whose heart she’d wished to cut out only hours ago. She still despised all that he stood for, even if she hated him just a little bit less. Was she softening? How could she succumb to the man who’d come to conquer Quimper?

  Her breath caught at the rattle of the latch. Had he changed his mind and returned? She bolted upright as the door opened and exhaled in relief as Havoise entered with a supper tray. She’d refused to sup with him, but he apparently had no intention of starving her for it.

  Havoise’s wrinkled face was furrowed in concern as she approached. “Are you unwell milady? Or did that beast—“

  “No, Havoise,” Emma reassured her. “He didn’t accost me.”

  “I fear for you, mignonne. I prayed to the Holy Virgin for your protection.“ Havoise set the tray down and crossed herself.

  “Thank you,” Emma replied. “I need your prayers.”

  “Why is that?” Havoise asked.

  Emma lowered her voice to a whisper. “I would have you pray that God in His divine mercy will grant me an opportunity to escape.”

  The maid wrung her hands with in dismay. “You know I would do anything for you, mignonne, but what will happen to us if you leave?”

  “I’m not abandoning you,” Emma promised. “I will return to Quimper with an army.”

  Havoise looked bewildered. “Where will you find one?”

  “I have a plan,” Emma said. “But I will need help from you, Budic, and Father Pascweten.”

  “Of course,�
�� Havoise said. “But how will you do it? There is a guard posted at your door.”

  “I have been granted permission to lay my father to rest,” Emma replied. “Since they do not know our customs, no one should question if I retire to the chapel for a time of private prayer. If Father Pascweten could hide a priest’s cowl behind the altar, I will disguise myself in it and slip away. I just need Budic to secure me a horse for my escape.”

  “But ‘tis too dangerous for you to go alone,” Havoise warned. “Budic must accompany you.”

  “What about you?”

  “Nann.” Havoise replied with a regretful shake of her head. “This old woman would only slow you down.”

  It was true. She would never be able to keep up, but Emma feared for her. The Viking would surely punish Havoise if he discovered she’d conspired in Emma’s escape. Emma tearfully hugged the frail little woman who’d been as a mother to her. “Is there somewhere safe you could go until I return?”

  “You must not fret about me,” Havoise reassured. “I will make myself scarce enough. Where will you go?”

  “To Poitou. I have waited in hope that Count Ebles would honor his troth and come to our aid, but fear he never got word.”

  Havoise scowled, “Or, like our men of Quimper, he is too cowardly to fight.”

  “I don’t know the reason,” Emma said, “But I intend to find out.”

  “Please tell my people this vile occupation will end soon. I will do everything in my power to reclaim our homeland from this pagan scourge.”

  ***

  Ivar returned to his brother’s chamber to find Valdrik conscious at last. “I’m glad you have come back to us,” Ivar said. In truth, he was so happy, he barely held back the urge to take him into an unmanly embrace. “When did the fever break?” he asked the duchess.

  “Only minutes ago,” she replied. “Thanks be to God.”

  “Which one do you thank? The Father, Son, or Holy Ghost?” Ivar scratched his chin, intentionally baiting her. “You Christians seem confused on the matter.”