The Pagan's Prize

by Miriam Minger

  No, by Odin! For that reason alone, he would leave this wench to her fate!

  His actions had been impulsive since the first moment he saw her, but no more! Women were trouble of the worst kind, and he would do well to remember that.

  Besieged by bitter memories, Rurik shifted the woman from his body and rose from the bed. To continue touching her, holding her, was a torment he did not need. After covering her with a soft fur, he threw several skins onto the floor and lay down.

  Tomorrow morning he would rid himself of her, even if he must abandon his plan to use her for information. He wanted no woman around him that made him feel like this one. He would leave her near the gates of Prince Mstislav's palace, where someone would surely recognize her and return her to her rightful master.

  It had to be done.

  Chapter 6

  Awaking with a start, Zora winced at the tenderness between her legs. It wasn't a true pain, but a dull ache, yet she had never felt such a sensation before.

  She shifted slightly, amazed that her entire body was sore. She stared in confusion at the raftered ceiling, trying to gather her muddled thoughts. Where was she? Rubbing her hands over her face, she sharply inhaled as she touched her left cheekbone. Ouch, it hurt! Frowning, she ran her fingertips more gingerly over her skin, wondering what she could have done

  "Holy Mother Mary," she breathed in horror, all too suddenly remembering why her cheek hurt so painfully as if a ray of brilliant light had pierced her brain. He . . . he had struck her! That Varangian trader, Halfdan Snakeeye!

  Dreadful memories leapt to life in her mind, lurid sights and sounds: Halfdan's scarred face, his leering grin, his terrible laughter . . . and the naked slave women in the tent, all of them writhing, moaning, then the trader throwing her down upon a bench and stroking himself right in front of her!

  Halfdan's coarse words flew at her "You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have you, here, now, in the dirt!" Then she was running, running, and begging for aid but no one would help her. No one would listen! Fierce-looking Varangians were everywhere, and Halfdan was coming closer and closer. She remembered crying out, "You cannot do this!" then he struck her down and she was falling

  "Oh, no . . ." Zora whispered, feeling suddenly very sick. "Oh, God, no." Rising abruptly on her elbow, Zora flung aside the furs, her hand moving to the place where the dull throbbing was centered. She felt a wetness and gasped in disbelief at the scarlet blood staining her trembling fingers, the same telltale sign smeared upon the inside of her thighs.

  He had raped her! That brutish, dung-smelling Varangian had raped her!

  A half sigh, half groan suddenly drew her gaze to the floor. She stared wide-eyed, her heart pounding in rage and fear, at the naked man sleeping only four feet away with his broad, muscled back to her. In the dim lighting she could see that he was huge, his hair blond. She didn't need to see more.

  Halfdan!

  Her first thought was to flee. Then the bright glint of metal near the sputtering oil lamp caught her eye and she drew fresh courage. Focusing with deadly intent upon the sword lying within arm's reach, she decided then and there that she was going to kill him for what he had done to her.

  Burning for vengeance, Zora vaulted from the bed, and grabbing the sword hilt, she yanked the heavy weapon from its sheath. She staggered beneath its weight, but clenching her teeth from the effort and fueled by blinding fury, she managed to lift the sword high enough to deal one fatal, hacking blow.

  "Now you will pay!" Yet the blade had no sooner begun its downward motion when she was knocked violently to her knees, the sword wrenched from her hand.

  In the next instant she was hauled by the shoulders to her feet, coming face-to-face with a man she realized at once was not Halfdan. In fact, she could not recall ever seeing him before, although she guessed from his sheer size and fair hair that he must be a Varangian. She gaped up at him in astonishment, his expression so thunderous that she was swept by cold fear.

  "This is something new, little one," he said in a low husky voice that sent strange chills through her. He gripped her upper arms tightly. "I've heard of those who walk in their sleep, but to engage in swordplay? A most dangerous affliction indeed. Someone could have been hurt."

  Confused that he addressed her as if he knew her, Zora stared into eyes that appeared black as night in the room's dimness and a bearded countenance made no less handsome by his obvious anger. "Who-who . . . are you?" she finally demanded, her voice hoarse.

  "You don't recognize me?"

  Again, she was startled. Recognize him? How could she? She had never seen this man before.

  Zora shook her head.

  Now the blond giant seemed somewhat surprised. "Yet you raised my own sword against me," he said, searching her face. "Why?"

  "You raped me! You deserve to die for what you have done, you . . . you filthy pagan!"

  Rurik stared at her incredulously, his head beginning to pound. It seemed his docile charge had at last recovered. Gone was the acquiescent child-woman who had so captivated him, and in her place, a defiant avenging angel with apparently no memory of the past few days, let alone the last few hours. Thor's blood, if he hadn't heard his sword sliding from the scabbard, he would have been dead!

  "It was no rape," he said tightly. He had never taken any woman to his bed against her will. That might be the sport of other Varangian warriors, but not his. "You did not spurn my advances, wench, but eagerly welcomed them."

  "Liar!" Her eyes snapped indignant fire. "I would rather die than submit to a barbarian such as you!"

  Suddenly she ground her heel into his big toe with such fury that he released her, cursing. She fled to the foot of the bed, and as if realizing for the first time that she was stark naked, she yanked a fur off the mattress and flung it around herself.

  "Say what you like, wench, but you did submit to me and willingly." Undaunted by her insults and her behavior although his toe throbbed in pain, Rurik took a step toward her but reconsidered when she lunged for the empty wine jug and held it poised in front of her like a weapon. Perhaps if he tried to reason with her, he might coax her into cooling her temper. She had already tried to kill him once and then stomped upon his foot. He didn't relish the idea of sustaining any further injury at her hand.

  "I didn't know you were a virgin." He used the same soothing tone she had responded to favorably in the past. "If I had, I wouldn't have touched you. It was not my intent to cause any trouble between you and your master—"

  "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 th
ey 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 waist. 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 stem-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.