The Viking's Captive

by Lily Harlem

The horror of what was in her future was like an actual, physical pain. Plus she was dizzy, with being upside down. The sickness was back, and she was cold too, the wind catching them as they traversed through the cliff pass.

  Don’t give up. Don’t let this be the end. I’m worth more than this.

  From somewhere she found the energy and she wriggled and fought, trying desperately to release the iron-like arms that gripped her. This was the fight of her life. It may well be the last fight of her life.

  “You have a wild one there, Halvor,” the Viking behind her said.

  “Aye, the wench won’t stop wriggling.”

  Smack.

  She yelped. He’d slapped her ass again!

  “Ha, that’s it, teach her a lesson,” the brute behind her chuckled.

  She raised her head and glared at him. It was the monster who’d attacked Esca. “You can speak my tongue,” she snarled. “So understand me when I say leave me be.”

  “We can speak your tongue, aye, makes it easier to tell our slaves what to do.” He laughed, an evil guffaw that filled her with dread.

  “I’m not your slave and I never will be.”

  “No, but I have a feeling you now belong to Halvor. You’ll be his slave until the day you die.”

  “I will not.” Halvor. Now she knew the name of the marauder marching away with her. Now she had a name for the man from her dreams. But what difference did that make? The thought of being his slave until the day she died turned the blood in her veins to ice.

  The sand dunes flashed by in her peripheral vision, as did long skinny blades of grass that cut shins like razors if care wasn’t taken when walking through them in the summer.

  The Nordic savages, in their boots, trudged ahead. She tried to listen for other women, but could hear none. Was she the only female taken from her village? Were the others dead?

  Halvor came to a stop. He clasped her waist, stooped, and set her bare feet on the ground.

  As she straightened, a wave of dizziness came over her. She staggered to the right, her feet sinking in the sand and her arms flailing.

  “Steady there.” He gripped her elbow, his big fingers wrapping around her mid-arm and tugging her so she stayed standing.

  Black dots swarmed over her vision. The noise of the ocean dwindled. A strange floaty feeling gripped her brain.

  “Hey, stand up.” He took hold of her other arm. “You’re unharmed.”

  It was true, she was, apart from a smarting ass and bruised ribs, that was.

  “Where are you taking me?” she managed.

  “To our homeland, Celtic wench.” The Viking at Halvor’s side had spoken again.

  She glared at him, hate filling her soul. What he’d done to poor sweet Esca was unforgiveable. A sob grew in her throat, but she beat it down. She’d never see her dear friend again. Now there was no need to further contemplate his marriage proposal.

  “Celtic wench.” Halvor released her left elbow and cupped her chin. He tilted her head so she was forced to look at him, then pulled off his helmet.

  Again she studied the markings on his face. Swirling dark ink partly covered by his long strands of hair, which were whipping over his brow and temples in the wind.

  “I haven’t had a Celtic wench before.”

  She twisted from him. “And you’re not having me now.”

  To her surprise she managed to spin from his grip. She didn’t pause to enjoy her success. Instead she burst into a sprint. The sand hindered her progress, but she forged forward, toward the cliffs. She knew this land well, like the back of her hand. If only she could get away, she’d find a place to hide.

  She made it all of ten steps before a now familiar set of thick, iron-hard arms locked around her.

  “Oh, no, you don’t.” Halvor’s mouth was by her ear. “I’m not in the habit of letting go of what I want.”

  “You can’t have me, you brute.” She shoved at his forearms wrapped around her waist. When he picked her up, her back to his chest, she kicked and threw her head into his face. All she achieved was whacking the back of her head on his helmet, which he must have put back on. But even so, she did it again.

  “Stop!” He grabbed her hair, fisting it and dragging her head into the crook of his neck. “Now.”

  “Ouch!” she cried out. He’d pulled so hard, pain shot from the roots of her hair.

  He yanked harder still. She stopped kicking him. Her eyes watered. She dragged in breath. All she could smell was him; his musky skin, his leathery clothing, the salty aroma of the sea he sailed upon.

  “That’s it.” His hot breath washed over her cheek. “Stop. Keep still.” He paused. “There’s nothing to be gained in fighting me. You must accept your fate.”

  “No,” she whimpered.

  “Yes.” His helmet’s nose tip touched her face, against the corner of her right eye.

  She squeezed her eyes shut.

  “You’re mine now.” His voice was low and husky. “Your father gave you to me.”

  “Not willingly.”

  “In return for his life.”

  “You’re an immoral brute.”

  “Brute perhaps, immoral… no.” He slid his hand from her waist up to her breast and squeezed.

  She gasped. No one had touched her there before. “Get off…”

  To her surprise he did as she’d asked, running his hand up to her throat and resting over it with a mild pressure. “If I had no morals, I would let my fellow crew have you, right now, right here. A pretty little thing, feisty and in need of taking, would be a treat, get me in their good sights.”

  “No, please.” She’d rather die, right here, right now than give her virginity to a bunch of barbarians.

  Closing her eyes, she prayed for deliverance. Surely God had something else in her destiny.

  “But I’m not the monster you think I am… or not quite.” He suddenly released her. But quick as a flash he wrapped his arm around her waist and spun.

  “You’re a monster,” she managed as she half walked, was half dragged to the shoreline.

  It was then she saw it. The snake’s head. Evil beady eyes and a forked tongue, it sat high and proud on the prow of the longboat looming down at her through the darkness.

  A bolt of nausea gripped her. The snake’s head from her dreams. It was real. Now she was sure her dreams really meant something. She’d doubted in the past, because no one believed her. But this was so vivid, so real. There was nothing dreamlike about it. What she was seeing was more than imagination, fanciful thinking; it was a vision turned into reality.

  The cold waves were inching toward her as Halvor steered her to the boat. There were already people on it, cowering in the sheltered sides beneath the curved prow.

  A Viking with an extra-large horned helmet and a fur jacket shouted at them. Duna didn’t understand what he said.

  He was answered with a shout from a man to Duna’s left.

  Halvor’s friend laughed. “And the sooner the ale is drunk the better.”

  “Aye.” Halvor chuckled. “And the sooner we are home the better. These unplanned raids are pushing the boat to tipping.”

  “So leave me here.” Duna shoved at him, but it was like pushing on a stone wall, her effort had no reaction.

  “We have room for a little one.”

  Suddenly she was swung into the air again, but this time pressed up against Halvor’s chest. “I don’t want to come with you. Leave me here, so I can attend to my husband’s burial.”

  Halvor paused. “You don’t have a husband.”

  “I do.” She slammed her fist onto the side of his helmet. It hurt her hand. “Take me back to the village.”

  “No.” He waded through the ebb and flow of the waves, toward the longboat from her nightmares. “If you had a husband you wouldn’t be living alone with your father. You’re lying to me, Celtic wench.”

  “I’m not. Take me back to my home.”

  “You will soon have a new home.” He shoved her forward
and she lost the heat of his furred tunic and chest.

  She found herself plonked, without ceremony, into the longboat. There were other people all around her, soon-to-be slaves; women and men.

  “Sit. Stay.” Halvor jabbed his finger at her. “If you go overboard you’ll be going to whatever Valhalla you believe in.”

  She glared at him, her face twisted into an unattractive grimace. She didn’t care. This man had taken her as if she were worth no more than a barrel of ale or a sack of grain. “I wish a dagger for your heart.”

  He leaned over the side of the boat, which was being jostled by the waves now, and clasped his hand beneath her chin. “A dagger to my heart, eh? I guess we’ll see about that, wench.”

  Chapter Four

  Halvor stared into the defiant dark eyes that belonged to the girl who wished him dead. She was a feisty little Celt, there was no denying that. She’d wriggled and squirmed and thrown her feet and fists around as if she were some wild animal captured in a snare.

  Her hair was matted, long, and several strands plastered against her cheeks. Her clothes were tattered and of poor quality, and she had nothing on her feet.

  But there was something about her wildness that thrilled him. To tame her would be a challenge, of that he was sure. There would be nothing easy about bending her to his will, teaching her to conform. He got the feeling she’d battle him every step of the way.

  Every step of the way.

  So he was going to keep her? It had been his intention when he’d grabbed her from her home and hoisted her over his shoulder. But even so, he had thought about dumping her in the gorse and heather-strewn landscape, wondering if he could be bothered with the trouble of a slave in his home when he was quite capable of managing his farmstead himself.

  Though now, looking at her determination to hate him, to disobey him, he knew he wanted her; he wanted her submission, her compliance, and, dare he say it, her respect.

  Respect!

  He didn’t need that. He was Halvor Stein of Gorstein. Respect from women wasn’t something he required, least of all from a heathen slave woman from another land.

  He released her chin, grunted, then threw his weight into shoving the longboat back out to sea. His crew were around him, pushing with all their might and harnessing the skill of having done the task a thousand times.

  As soon as the keel was free, and the aft breached the furthest wave, he leaped on board. Landing beside Gustav, he grabbed his oar.

  “Fuck. Let’s get back to familiar shores,” Gustav said, already toiling on his oar.

  “Aye. These filthy crofts and wild Celts will be the death of me.” Halvor fell into time with his crew, the rhythm of rowing coming easily to him.

  “That one might be.” Gustav laughed and nodded forward at the slaves.

  They were huddled together. Halvor’s new wild woman had been taken into their embrace and sheltered as if she were one of them. Which she was. She wasn’t a Viking, which made her some other race. To Halvor they were all the same, whether they were from Gall, England, or the Highlands.

  But maybe she wasn’t the same? Perhaps she had different blood? Something inside her that made her wild and untamable.

  “Heave. Heave,” the Jarl shouted. “Hoist the sails.”

  Several of the crew rushed to do his bidding.

  Halvor kept his attention on his woman. Her eyes were wide, her knees bent so she was curled over them. An older female, to her right, had shared a ragged blanket with her and it draped over her shoulders.

  A sudden pang of protectiveness came over him. She might be wild, but she was scared and cold and he wanted to fix that.

  And he would, as soon as he could.

  But for now she’d have to trust him. Accept that he was her new master and within that title there would be his promise to ensure she had sustenance and shelter. He’d also warrant her safety… he’d kill any man who took it to mind to shove his cock into her.

  Kill.

  Yes, he would. That sudden knowledge came over him. She wouldn’t be raped or molested. There were brutes on this boat who’d happily do that, here now, on the waves, if they thought they could get away with it.

  He shot a glare around the other Vikings as they worked their oars. Several were looking at the slaves. Were they eyeing her up? His slave? Anger burned inside him. He wanted to smack his shield over their helmets, give them a pain in their head they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

  But he didn’t. That would be a waste of energy right now. What he needed to do was get the damn longship back to home waters. Then he could make his way, with his woman, to his land and train her to be his, and break that defiant streak he was sure burned through her.

  * * *

  The night became dawn, the weak morning sun glinting off the water. Halvor had rested for a short while, taken his fill of mutton and mead, then continued to row. He wondered if his slave was hungry; she’d refused the chunk of bread he’d thrust into her hand, tossing it over the side for the fish. There’d been no thanks, just a look that could wither a summer flower. Foolish woman. Everyone needed to eat. Even Celtic heathens.

  Finally, after two days and two nights at sea the land he loved came into view. They rowed parallel to it for some distance, were greeted with one squally shower, which tipped the mast and made the ropes around the barrels of ale strain against their weight. Other than that he enjoyed the view.

  Fjords rolled into green hills; the blue sky, dotted with frothy clouds sent shadows skittering over pastures, settlements, and farmland. He spotted sheep, horses, and crofts huddled together. It made something inside of him warm and content, despite his weariness. Soon he’d be home, and he’d be staying for a while, unless wanderlust got the better of him again.

  He looked at his slave girl. She was sleeping, so it seemed, her head resting on the shoulder of the woman at her side, and her eyes closed. Even from here her pallor was apparent. She was in need of nourishment, he could see that plainly. And she would eat; if she didn’t she’d be over his knee for a spanking.

  He briefly took his right hand from his oar and smoothed his fingers over his palm. The remembered sensation of her flesh smacking against his, even through clothing, was pleasant. Her ass was small, taut, and he’d bet it would pink up nicely.

  He shifted on his wooden strut, an ache going to his groin. It had been many months since he’d been with a woman and found release.

  The Jarl commanded the longboat be steered east.

  Within minutes a familiar landmark, a long wooden pier, came into view.

  “Praise Odin for that,” Gustav said, putting extra effort into his rowing. “Thought we’d never get here.”

  “It’s been a long trip, but fruitful.” Halvor sat up straighter, and like Gustav found the energy to row harder.

  “Aye, the Jarl is a hard taskmaster, but he trades fair.”

  “I’ll leave you to trade alone these next months,” Halvor said.

  “What?” Gustav threw him a frown.

  “I love the sea, the waves, the opportunities the longships afford us, my friend. But I need to keep my feet on dry land for a while.” He paused. “To tell the truth, I’m not good at being told what to do, and the Jarl has a habit of thinking he can do that.”

  “Halvor, it’s the way of a Jarl.” Gustav hesitated. “And…”

  “What?”

  “Have you never thought about taking a longboat for yourself? You would make a fine captain. I would be at your side, as would many of the other men on board this vessel.”

  “Aye, I have.”

  “Why will you not?”

  Halvor glanced at his slave. She was stirring. With her eyes closed she yawned and rolled her shoulders. The old woman next to her adjusted their shared blanket. His woman opened her eyes. For a moment disorientation washed over them, then she stared straight at him.

  The sea around them was cold, but the hate in her eyes was ice. Despite her precarious situation, her discomfort, sh
e still found the energy to despise him.

  “I have things to attend to,” Halvor said.

  “Like what?”

  “Land, animals, my new slave. Unlike you I don’t have family keeping the farm running smoothly. One day I’ll be an older man, no longer able to pick up my sword and shield, and then I’ll need the comfort of a home.”

  “That will never happen; you will be a man of fifty years and some and still hold your weapon high and fight for your people.”

  “That might be the case, but I need to have roots.” The pier was getting closer. “A place to enjoy the fruits of our raids and our trading.”

  “I see your sense.” Gustav huffed. “But I’ll miss you.”

  “You too, my friend.” Halvor and Gustav had been on many journeys together. They’d traversed the islands to the west of home, gone farther still taking many days to reach lands of black sand and earth. On two occasions they’d sailed south, finding warmer seas, a new native tongue, and good wine.

  The longboat drew level with the pier and was soon secured. Locals swarmed around them, keen to see what wares they’d brought.

  The Jarl shouted orders as the boat was unloaded, puffing up his chest and boasting about the goods they’d both pillaged and traded.

  Halvor set down his oar, stood and stretched his hands over his head. His spine ached, as did his shoulders. He wanted to be home, he wanted to light a fire, heat water, and bathe. He also desired soft, clean bedding, new clothing, and to walk over his pastures, inhale the scent of grass, and feel the sun of home on his face.

  He dropped his arms to his sides and looked at his slave. She’d been ushered onto the pier and stood in a huddle with the other men and women they’d gathered. They were a sorry sight. Bedraggled, shivering, tattered, with scared eyes, and arms wrapped around each other.

  Halvor clasped Gustav’s shoulder. “Take care.” He jumped up onto the pier and stood, glad of a moment to let his sea legs adjust. He knew he’d be swaying for a few days, in his head. The solidity of land took just as much getting used to again as going to sea.

  He strode up to the Jarl and spoke in his native dialect. “I will not be on your longboat again.”