The Viking's Captive

by Lily Harlem

  Briefly he wondered how other masters managed their slaves. Did they keep them tethered, like a horse? Perhaps they held the threat of death over them.

  Halvor didn’t want to do any of that. She wasn’t an animal, even if she did perform like one at times, nor did he want her to think he’d kill her. He wouldn’t, ever. His role was to protect her, and as such he needed her near. How could he fend off other men, wolves, and wild boars if she wasn’t in his sights or her whereabouts known?

  He grabbed a fishing line from the barn, and retraced his way to the lake. This time of year it didn’t usually take long to make a catch and then they’d both have full stomachs at nightfall.

  He ran his hand over the wispy grass at the side of the path, enjoying the delicate, feathery seed heads on his palms. Rowing for weeks on end had made his skin rough and callused. A skylark rose upward, delivering a sharp series of reprimands at him traveling too close to her nest.

  Reaching for the base of his woolen tunic, he stripped it off, wanting to feel the sun on his back. It would make a change from chilled sea spray. He abandoned the tunic on a juniper bush, with a plan to collect it upon his return. There was no one around for miles, so he didn’t worry about it being taken. The only other person he ever saw was the elderly farmer who cared for his animals, for a price, when Halvor was sailing and trading.

  The lake glistened as if inviting an unknowing visitor for a swim. But Halvor had made that mistake before; this time of year it was ice cold. It would be a few months before he’d even dip his toe in it.

  After settling on his usual fishing rock, Halvor cast his line.

  It was good to be home. And with no plans to go anywhere, he should feel doubly content.

  But he didn’t and he knew why.

  Her.

  “Damn it. I don’t even know her name.” He frowned and let his gaze follow a line of bubbles popping on the surface of the water.

  He made a decision to find that out. It was only fair; after all, she knew his. Thanks to Gustav.

  As he waited patiently, for that was the only way to fish, he wondered if he’d been wise to bring her. Maybe the barrel of mead from the Jarl would have been a better payment, despite it being awkward to maneuver on his horse.

  He sighed. No, he’d wanted her, from the minute he’d seen the defiance in her eyes. She was like a wild stallion who needed taming. He shook his head. No, that wasn’t right, she was a feral cat. Much like the ones at the port who would hiss and spit until fed and stroked and they began to trust. Then they would slink around legs, jump onto laps, and seduce whoever had been foolish enough to care into providing more.

  “As if.” He tutted. This woman of his would never trust or slink… would she?

  His line tugged. Carefully he checked the tension, then believing his luck to be in, lifted it.

  The sun glinted off silver scales, creating a stunning rainbow effect and telling him he’d be eating well that evening.

  It was a big catch too, and as he unhooked it, then gutted it, he found himself hoping she would enjoy the tender white meat it would provide. He was intending to put some weight on her; she’d need strength to work. Right now she looked as if she might snap, and he could testify she weighed no more than a feather.

  After carefully rolling up his line, he slipped his fingers into the gills of the fish, and strolled back toward the homestead. He couldn’t help glancing around the surrounding hills, wondering if he’d see her small figure rushing and stumbling into the distance, desperate to get away from him.

  When he reached the longhouse, and after checking Ivan had water, he entered the dimly lit doorway. The fire was still going strong, the window open allowing a gentle, flowery breeze to slip through the air, and on the bed, furthest from the door, his woman slept.

  He placed the fish on a slab of stone, ready for cooking, then walked over to the bed.

  With her eyes closed, her dark lashes cast small shadows on her white cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, and shone, as though she’d just licked them. And her jawline was so smooth and delicate, he wondered if she were made of the fine porcelain he’d come across once.

  He glanced lower and spotted a brooch holding her woolen clothing together. It was steel, held a cross in the center, and had ornate detail around the outer edge, which reminded him of petals.

  She had her arms folded, gripping her elbows, as though hugging herself, and her legs were drawn up. He worried her belly hurt and that was why she slept like that. If it did, it was likely due to hunger more than anything else.

  An ache grew in his chest. He didn’t want her to be in pain, or hungry. He could do nothing about her being scared, for now at least. But her hunger he could fix.

  A sudden worry reared up. Would she eat if he cooked? She’d thrown everything he’d offered her on the boat over the side. Was she suspicious of anything he gave her, fearing it poisoned?

  There was only one thing for it; she’d have to cook the fish herself, he wouldn’t get involved, then there would be no way she could refuse the food she clearly needed.

  Resisting the urge to move a strand of her hair, which had fallen over her left eye, he turned.

  Now it was time to do what he’d been longing to do… bathe.

  He retrieved the tin bath and set it on the stone floor in front of the fire, surprised when she didn’t wake with the clang it made.

  Then he set to filling pails of water from the spring and heating them over the flames. He threw several more logs on, not bothering to keep the noise down, for he wanted her to stir so she could cook and they could eat.

  But it seemed exhaustion had rendered her deaf in sleep.

  After filling his bath, checking on her once more to make sure she was breathing—because how could anyone sleep through the commotion of filling a tub?—he began to strip.

  As he peeled off his layers, he reminded himself where his others were, and hoped he’d washed them before setting off on his journey. These had been his only items of clothing for weeks, and although his breeches and undergarments weren’t at the burning stage yet, they weren’t far off. Salt did that to clothes, it ate away at them, seeming to gnaw at the fibers.

  The water was steaming as he lowered into it and the sensation of heat sliding around his cock and balls was wholly pleasant. He kept on going, until he was resting back, the water covering his chest and only his knees and head sticking out from it.

  The fire crackled, outside an owl hooted, and he was sure a mouse was nibbling on the grain again. He sighed and closed his eyes. He’d have to get a cat. Finally, his body was enjoying a pleasant sensation, and not one that required effort, for him to defend himself, or to shiver as he became chilled to the bones.

  After several minutes it became a struggle not to fall into the same deep slumber his slave had. So he reached for a bar of the soap he’d made the year before, and began to lather his hair and body.

  He reached for the pail, filled it, and sloshed it over his head. Again the sensation was nice, and he repeated it several times.

  When he’d finished, he swiped the water from his face and turned to check on her.

  She was awake and her expression seemed one of shock at seeing him bathing.

  “You’re awake. Good. I’m hungry,” he said.

  She flipped over, turning her back on him and sending a flurry of straw from the bed.

  He frowned. Her disrespect for her master was really starting to grate on his nerves. He’d have to start demanding it. Now that they were here, there was no excuse. And if they were going to live as man and slave, she would have to conform.

  “Get up and start cooking the fish,” he said, rising from the water. It sluiced down his body, the cool air attacking his skin. “There is a pan next to the fire.”

  He grabbed a blanket and rubbed it over his body. Finally, he was without the scent of the ocean, or stale clothes. He glanced over his shoulder, to see if his slave was doing her duty as instructed.


  Irritation swarmed through him. She was unmoved. She’d remained on her side, facing away from him.

  “Get up and cook.” His tone was sharp.

  Still nothing.

  “If I have to come over there and shake obedience into you, I promise, woman, you will have red raw bottom cheeks and there will be tears. So get up from your lazy bed. You will do my bidding.” He paused, then raised his voice to a roar. “Get up. Now!”

  Her body jerked as though he’d made her jump. But then finally she sat, turned, and rose.

  He discarded the blanket and stood naked by the fire, allowing it to dry the last of the drips on his back.

  “Oh,” she said, her gaze sliding down his body. “I…”

  The expression on her face was worth ten gold coins. She now appeared stitched to the ground, unable to look away, and it was his cock she was staring at.

  He tipped his head and placed his hands on his hips. He was a fine specimen of a Viking, young, strong, virile, and he didn’t mind being admired as such.

  And there was something about this female… a delicateness that combined with her feisty nature made her particularly appealing.

  “You’ve never seen a man without his clothes before?” Halvor asked. As he’d spoken he wondered if that was the truth; she certainly appeared shocked. Or perhaps she’d only ever seen weak, pale island-village men who were unimpressive in the nude.

  “You… I… where is the fish?” There was a trembling quality to her words.

  “Over there.” He pointed to her right.

  She swiped her tongue over her bottom lip and made no move to start on their meal.

  “Is it not fish you are hungry for, wench?” he asked, taking hold of his cock. “Perhaps you want this.”

  “What? No!” Quickly she looked away, then scurried toward the fish. “I do not want you or your…”

  “Master.”

  She said nothing.

  “I do not want you or your cock, Master.” He reached for his clean undergarments. “You are to address me as Master, for that’s what I am to you.”

  She placed the fish in a pan, the tail overhanging the edge.

  He frowned and pulled on a woolen tunic, then breeches. This really was becoming tiresome.

  “Woman,” he said, stepping up beside her as she set the fish over the fire. “Do you not hear me? Do you have wax in your ears?”

  “I have no wax in my ears.” She tilted her chin and gripped the handle.

  “So obey me.” He caught her jawline in his palm and turned her to face him.

  She wrinkled her nose. Defiance flashed in her eyes.

  He knew he didn’t smell, not after bathing. And that defiance… well, he just wouldn’t tolerate it. “Don’t think I won’t punish you for your insolence, because I will.”

  Some of the defiance in her face switched to apprehension.

  Briefly he wondered how she would react if he tipped her over his knee and pinked her buttocks. Would she squeal and wriggle? Scream or cry? Maybe stoicism was the way she’d handle it.

  “You’re a brute,” she said, venom in her tone. “And I’m sure your punishments would be wholly evil.”

  Halvor didn’t especially enjoy being called a brute; at least not in his own home. “That’s for me to know and you to find out.” He paused. “Now you will obey me, in all matters, starting with calling me Master.” He held her chin tighter. “Do it… now.”

  She gritted her teeth and glared at him. “Master.”

  “See, that wasn’t so hard.” He lowered his face to hers. “I have no wish to punish you, but mark me, I will, my little Celt.”

  She tried to turn her head, but he kept her secure. She needed to know the position she’d found herself in, and that there was no point in fighting it, or him.

  “As your master, you are mine, in every sense of the word. I have never sought a slave before, but I can assure you I will be fair. If you work hard, do not give me cause to worry or chase you up on your duties, you will always have food, shelter, and my protection.”

  “I can look after myself.”

  He raised his eyebrows.

  “I can, Master.” She’d hissed the last word. It was worthy of a few swift spanks. But he’d let that go… for now.

  “That is of no consequence, and besides you are ill equipped to keep yourself safe from the wolves, boars, and marauders who frequent these hills.”

  She swallowed and uncertainty flared in her eyes.

  “So you see,” he said. “You need me.”

  Chapter Seven

  Duna didn’t want to need the huge Viking who stared at her with such an intensity his gaze was as hot as the flames at her side.

  But what he’d said was true. She had no weapon, no way to defend herself from the animals he spoke of, or other Vikings. And if she had to call him Master to keep herself alive until there was an opportunity to escape safely, then she’d conform.

  “You should let me cook, Master,” she said.

  Finally he released her chin. “Aye, do that.” He smiled. “For we are both in need of food.”

  He stepped away, and she tended the fish, which had already seared.

  “I will travel east at first light, to the farm yonder,” he said.

  Duna didn’t answer.

  “My friend, an elderly farmer lives there. I will retrieve my animals, and buy some new clothes for you. His wife is a seamstress.”

  Duna remained quiet. The fish was cooking quickly and she jiggled it in the pan.

  “I will tell her that you are here,” Halvor went on. “Though I must know your name.”

  “You seem to be comfortable with slave or wench, Master.”

  He was silent for a moment and she wondered if she’d angered him. Not that she cared much about that. She didn’t want to be a convenience. She wanted to be a thorn in his side. Then maybe he’d take her back to the port, throw her on a longboat heading west and she’d get passage home.

  “I’d prefer to know your name.”

  Duna flipped the fish. It had blackened; the pan was too hot.

  “Tell me,” he said, “before I spank it out of you.”

  “Duna, Duna Terin.”

  “Duna,” he repeated. “It’s a strong name for a waif of a creature.” He sniffed the air. “What’s happening to the fish?”

  She glanced over her shoulder at him. He was putting on woolen socks and leather shoes.

  “It’s cooking.”

  “It smells as if it’s burning.”

  “No, Master.” It was. So much that another minute and it would be inedible. Not that she cared. Her appetite had vanished when she’d been hauled into the air, stolen from her village, and set upon a life of slavery to an ogre of a man.

  She stooped and put another log on the fire, then stoked the flames with a long poker. They licked into the pan, the fish becoming an ashen mess.

  “What in Odin’s name have you done?”

  Halvor was by her side, staring at the ruined meal. His upper arm brushed her shoulder.

  “I’m a poor cook, Master.”

  “How can that be the case? You lived with your father, you must have prepared meals for him, fish meals, you were only a short distance from the ocean.”

  Duna silently congratulated herself when she heard the anger in his voice. She could happily go to bed hungry, she was used to that, but it was clear Halvor wasn’t and he was particularly displeased about it.

  “I will try and learn,” she said, moving the pan and its contents to one side.

  “Learn! Learn! Aye, you will. And not just how to cook fish. You will learn that I was serious about punishing you for bad behavior.”

  “Bad behavior? I was doing my best to cook us a meal. You should have given me clearer instructions.”

  His brow creased into three neat lines, distorting some of the ink that flowed from his cheekbone to above his right eye. His mouth was a thin, straight line and his shoulders were bunched up around his nec
k. “You’re a fool to think me a fool.” He sat on one of the chairs, lifted his foot, and began to remove one of the shoes he’d only just put on. “And you will learn now, this moment, not to do it again.”

  A tremble of anxiety gripped Duna’s stomach, flowing outward to her limbs and making her knees weak. “What are you doing?”

  “Master. What are you doing, Master.” He looked at her. “Do not make it worse for yourself than it already is, Duna.”

  She swallowed. Her throat had become dry. There was an iron strength to his tone. He would not be dissuaded from whatever it was he planned.

  After removing his shoe and setting it on the table at his side, he beckoned her by crooking his finger. “Come hither.”

  “Why… Master?”

  “Because by willfully burning the fish I caught for our dinner, you have earned yourself a punishment. I need you here to do that.”

  “Do what, Master?”

  “You are soon to find out.” He paused. “And if I have to stand to get you, that will double your pain.”

  Pain. She didn’t like the sound of that.

  “Duna.” He flattened his palm as if offering her to take his hand. “We must live together, and understand each other. It’s clear you need training in this. Consider what’s about to happen just that… training.”

  She gulped and took his hand.

  His palm was callused, and his big fingers wrapped around hers.

  He tugged her close, her bare feet slapping on the hard ground as she took a couple of fast steps.

  “Over,” he said, nodding at his lap. “Bend over my legs.”

  She stared at his thick thighs encased in dark breeches. She had no idea what he meant to do to her for this punishment. Was he going to rape her, as she’d heard many Vikings did? Was he going to bind her, shackle her so she couldn’t move and was rendered helpless?

  “This first lesson is important, and you have to remind yourself that it’s all your doing. I have no wish to punish you, Duna. It’s you who’s made it this way. You have as good as asked for it.”

  As he’d spoken he’d drawn her closer still, so her legs pressed up against the side of his left one.