“I’m not keeping this wench for myself, Arne.”
The warrior glanced at him in astonishment. “No?”
Shaking his head, Rurik felt keen regret.
“Come,” he said, shrugging off the strange feeling. “We will talk once we set sail. Kjell and Leif must also know my plans.”
Chapter 4
“So you think whoever owns this wench might be willing to part with military information for her return?” Leif asked, his hand firmly on the helm as he kept the thirty-foot riverboat straight upon its course.
“There’s a good chance of it.” Rurik’s gaze shifted from the red-bearded Leif to Arne and then to the youngest warrior, Kjell Thordarson. Each face, illuminated in the pale light of the waning moon, was somber yet thoughtful, each man weighing for himself the decision Rurik had already made. “Once she wakens, we’ll find out the name of her master, then when we reach Chernigov, we’ll send a message to the man with our demands. Either he gives us what we want, or his favorite concubine will disappear forever.”
“You don’t mean to kill her!” came Kjell’s incredulous response. “I’ve never seen a prettier—”
“Are you going daft, man?” Arne interjected, exasperated. “We’re not blasted murderers!” Softening his tone, he leaned over and elbowed the nineteen-year-old Varangian sharply in the ribs. “I’m sure Lord Rurik will find some use for the wench if Mstislav’s man doesn’t want her, never you fear.”
Rurik made no comment, thinking as his gaze strayed again to the makeshift tent they had erected near the mast that he would decide that issue later. For now, he waited to see that first movement, or hear that first moan, some sign that the woman was regaining her senses.
Other than some purplish bruises on her body, the worst on her left cheek, she seemed whole. He had felt no broken bones. Yet an hour into their journey her eyes still remained closed, her breathing slow as if she was locked in deep slumber. Even when he had discarded the cloak in which she had been wrapped and then exchanged her torn tunic for one of his own, the garment engulfing her slender body, she had not stirred…although he could not say as much for himself.
He had seen perfection in women before, but never a form that seemed to tempt his very soul: honeyed limbs of delicate yet shapely proportion, a trim waist so narrow and hips so beautifully curved that he ached to caress them, a taut abdomen with the gentlest rounding, and ripe, upturned breasts he defied the gods to describe. The swiftness of his arousal had stunned him, its near painful intensity disgusting him. Was he no better than that swine Halfdan Snakeeye to lust after an unconscious woman?
Covering her with a blanket, he had quickly left the tent, but his lingering erection had been a powerful reminder that few had so fired his blood. Thank Odin the work of setting sail had finally fixed his mind on other matters.
“I’ve a demand to add to that message,” said Leif, drawing Rurik’s attention back to his men. “Now that we know the Severians have been swayed by Prince Mstislav’s promises of sharing the spoils of victory, we should ask this boyar how many other Slavic tribes have sworn their allegiance to the usurper.”
“None, I hope. Mstislav’s armed strength is mighty enough with the Khazar and Kosogian warriors he brought with him from Tmutorokan. The bastard must be gloating to have wooed those Slavs to his banner.” After a moment’s grim silence, Rurik nodded at Leif. “Your demand is a good one, especially since we cannot traverse the entire southern realm and spy upon each tribe. Not if we’re to be back in Novgorod by June, three weeks hence.”
As Arne leaned forward and rested his thick forearms on his legs, the narrow rowing bench squeaked beneath his weight.
“Mstislav’s battle plans might be in our grasp now as well, my lord!” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “That would be a fine coup for Grand Prince Yaroslav, and all because some jealous she-bitch hated the sight of her husband’s concubine.”
“My lord, look to the prow!” Leif cried suddenly. “The wench has climbed onto the railing!”
“What…?”
Rurik was on his feet in an instant. The damned wench must have evaded them by crawling under the back of the tent. He raced to the front of the boat, but he had barely ducked beneath the sail when he heard a loud splash near the starboard side. Throwing off his fur mantle, he shouted, “Bring the boat hard about!” then he vaulted over the railing, the frigid ink-black water of the Desna River closing over his head.
He gasped as he resurfaced, the water’s chill so intense it had sapped the breath from his lungs. He looked around him, but he did not immediately spy the woman. Thor help him, if she had gone under he would never find her, not with these demon currents!
Clenching his teeth against the cold, Rurik swam with long, powerful strokes into the boat’s wake, his gaze cutting to the right and left. Only then did he see two slim arms flailing wildly some twenty feet away, and he swam as he never had before in his twenty-eight years.
It was not fast enough. When he drew within four strokes of catching her, she went under, her hands eerily clawlike as she disappeared beneath the waves.
“No, damn you…you will not have her!” Rurik shouted, spitting water as he cursed the evil river spirits who were dragging her down to her death.
Sucking in a great breath, he dived, his lungs aching as he descended into the midnight depths and groped for an arm, a leg…anything. His chest was ready to explode when he suddenly felt something curl around his hand. He clutched at it, realizing he had caught her by the hair.
Rurik yanked the woman up until he held her beneath the arms, then he kicked furiously to the surface, his chest on fire as they burst above the waves. Dragging in huge lungfuls of air, he could not remember a time when it had smelled or tasted so sweet.
“Leif! Arne! Over here!” he shouted hoarsely. Relief flooded him as the woman suddenly coughed and sputtered in his arms, her ragged gasps for breath assuring him that she was alive. Though she clung to him limply, she began to kick her legs. He was astounded that she still had the strength to swim.
“Let me go…must escape!” she gasped, trying weakly to push away from him. “Halfdan…must escape…”
Rurik had no time to reply for the boat was coming alongside them, the woman soon hauled aboard, followed by himself. As Arne released him, he leaned heavily against the railing, fighting to catch his breath.
“By the gods, Lord Rurik, you’ve turned my beard a lighter shade of gray twice this day! When I saw you dive for the wench—”
“Surely you didn’t think you’d seen the last of me.” Rurik wiped the moisture from his eyes and gave Arne a wry half smile. “You were the one who taught me to swim, remember?”
“Aye, thank Odin, like a dolphin.” The burly warrior jerked his head toward Kjell, who stood in a widening puddle of water, the dripping, exhausted woman in his arms. “Mayhap we should tie the wench to the mast for the rest of the journey, what do you think? She’s proving as much trouble as she’s worth.”
“I’ll take her,” was Rurik’s only reply, sobering as Kjell brought the woman to him. By the light of an oil lamp set upon a nearby rowing bench, he noted with concern that her face was ashen, her teeth chattering, her lips and closed eyelids tinged with blue. If she wasn’t warmed and soon, they still might lose her…and their best chance to gain some information.
“Set her down, but hold her so she doesn’t fall,” Rurik ordered. Without ceremony he drew the sodden tunic over her head and threw it on the deck. Ignoring his men’s sidelong glances, he lifted her into his arms, grabbed the lamp, and strode with his nude charge to the tent, ducking inside.
“No…Halfdan,” came a small whimper, the woman burying her face against Rurik’s chest as he placed the lamp near the tent’s back wall. “Must get away…please—”
“Halfdan is dead.” Rurik hoped the finality in his tone would reassure her. “He cannot hurt you anymore.”
Kneeling, he laid her upon the fur pallet, attempting to ig
nore her nakedness—impossible task! Hastily he brought the blanket up to her chin. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her eyes the most stunning shade of blue in a face hauntingly pale and marred only by the ugly bruise on her cheek.
“Dead?”
He nodded. She looked so vulnerable, the quality in her voice almost childlike, arousing in him a powerful surge of protectiveness. Or perhaps it was simply his own exhaustion. He sat back upon his haunches, determined to get some answers now that she had finally regained her senses.
“The Slav merchant was also killed. You no longer have anything to fear from them.”
Rurik was greeted with a blank stare, then a soft query, “Merchant?”
“The one who stole you from your master’s caravan.” This time he was answered with silence, and she seemed confused. Wondering if Halfdan’s blow or her ensuing fall might have done more damage than he had thought, Rurik tried another, more direct tact. “Tell me your name, little one.”
Oddly, she opened her mouth as if to say something, then her brow creased in consternation.
“Your name,” he tried again. “Think hard.”
An interminable moment later, she murmured almost to herself, “I…I don’t know.”
“Damn that swine!” Rurik cursed under his breath, wishing it had been his sword that had ended Halfdan’s miserable life. The terrible shock must have robbed her memory. Only the image of the Varangian’s brutality remained.
“Surely you remember your master,” Rurik pressed. “He’s one of Prince Mstislav’s boyars, isn’t he? A member of his senior druzhina? You were on your way to Chernigov to meet him when you were abducted.”
“Master? I don’t know…” Suddenly she grimaced. “My head…it hurts so.”
“Easy, wench, easy,” Rurik said soothingly. It was clear he would discover no information tonight. Perhaps she would remember more tomorrow after a comfortable sleep, at the very least recall her name and that of her master by the time they reached Chernigov, three days hard journey from here.
If that failed…the thought of taking her home to Novgorod was enticing. Yet he hoped, for the sake of his liege lord and the critical battle to come, that she did remember who she was. There was too much at stake for him to indulge his own selfish desires. She was only a woman, after all, and the world was full of those who could please him.
Rurik ran his palm across her forehead, marveling despite his resolve at the smoothness of her skin. He was pleased to see that some color had returned to her cheeks, and her shivering had ceased. “Sleep now,” he bade her as he tucked the blanket once more beneath her chin.
“Yes…sleep,” she said drowsily, closing her eyes.
“You are safe here. No one will harm you.”
“Safe,” came her reply, a whispered echo, then suddenly her eyes flew open and she clutched at Rurik’s hand. Her gaze was wide and fearful. “You will not leave me?”
“No, little one. I will not leave you.”
But he did exit the tent a short while later when he knew from her steady breathing that she was fast asleep and probably would not wake again until the morning. In the night air, his tunic felt cold and clammy, the fabric clinging to his body. Moments before he had barely noticed his sodden state.
Staring at the woman’s face—the soft curve of her cheek, thick, sooty lashes so long it was easy to imagine them playing like the finest silk against his skin, graceful gull-winged brows, a patrician nose saucily tipped at the end, and rosy lips so lush and full he longed to press his own against them and tease them open with his tongue—was enough to make him wish she were nothing but a common slave possessing no ties that bound her to another man…
“Is she well, my lord?” asked Kjell, interrupting the sensual turn of Rurik’s thoughts.
“She sleeps.” Deciding the untested warrior was displaying too much interest, Rurik looked at him sharply. He had brought Kjell along on the journey only at the special request of the man’s father, another member of Yaroslav’s senior druzhina, who believed his son needed toughening. Now Rurik could see why. “And sleeping is what you should be doing. The hour will come soon enough when you must take the helm from Leif.”
With that, he strode to the prow and stripped out of his wet clothes, his mood growing dark indeed. But he wasn’t so much angry at Kjell as he was at himself. He dug in his sea chest for another tunic and a pair of trousers and yanked them on, then throwing his heavy fur mantle around his shoulders, he sat down and stared out across the black water.
By Odin, had madness seized him? He had six concubines in Novgorod, each one a beauty in her own right. There was nothing special about this wench…
“You were a bit harsh with the lad,” came Arne’s reproachful voice behind him.
“He has the look about him of a lovelorn pup,” Rurik said caustically. Running his hand through his damp hair, he did not turn as the warrior took a seat across from him. “Kjell would be wise to keep his thoughts to his duties and not upon fantasies that cannot come true.”
“He is young, my lord. Wenches to him are still creatures of fascination and awe, worthy of adoration. He has not yet learned that their fickle hearts are not to be trusted…as have some of us.”
“It is not only women’s hearts that cannot be trusted, old friend. As for the wench, she remembers nothing thanks to her mistreatment at the trading camp, not her name, not her master’s name. She’s taken on the manner of a child. Only the gods can say when she may recover.”
“Yet that is not what’s troubling you.”
Frowning, Rurik could not see the warrior’s expression in the dark, yet he knew Arne looked in sympathy. The grizzled bear could read him as few could; not even Rurik’s own father understood him as well. Yet he’d be damned to admit that the woman was behind his irritation. He would be a fool to change his plans and keep her. It would be akin to treason, and let him never, never forget that wanting a woman too much held its own dangers.
“Dawn will come soon, Arne. I’ll stay on watch while you get some rest.”
“As you wish, my lord.” He gave a grunt as he hauled himself to his feet. “But rouse me if you decide to go for another moonlit swim. The wench may yet surprise us.”
Chapter 5
But there were no surprises during the next three days. To Rurik’s annoyance, the woman’s state did not improve. Sleeping much of the time, she ventured from the tent only to attend to her private needs behind a blanket while he made sure that all eyes were averted. To him, it seemed as if she were ensnared in a strange dreamlike daze, for she showed little interest in anything around her and cared not if she ate or drank. She still remembered nothing when questioned about her identity, and the one time he had raised his voice at her to see if she might for some reason be feigning her malady, he brought on such a fit of tears that he no longer doubted her loss of memory.
She also made no further references to Halfdan, seemingly content with Rurik’s explanation that the Varangian trader had been killed. Nor did she ask any questions about Rurik or his men or why she might be with them. In fact, she had spoken very little since that first night. Whenever Rurik questioned her about the name of her master, he had been greeted with the same blank stare.
“Slap her, my lord! That will bring the wench out of it quick enough!” Arne had urged impatiently on more than one occasion, but Rurik had decided that remedy was too severe.
Instead, he hoped that the simple trust she displayed in him would encourage her memory. She clearly viewed him as her protector, a role he knew was useful. Yet they were nearing Chernigov, and she seemed no closer to recalling her name than the first night of their journey.
“The trousers, my lord.” Kjell handed over the linen garment as well as a rope belt and a wide cloth sash. “They only reached to my knees, so the wench won’t be swallowed up by them.”
“They’ll do.” Rurik strode to the tent, glad for the concealing gray light of dusk. He had purposely adjusted the sail earlie
r, slowing the boat’s pace. He wanted to arrive at the fortified city at nightfall, no sooner.
The men would easily pass as fur traders, but the wench might attract attention, even disguised as a male slave. In the light of day a sharp-eyed individual might discern a female’s form so he would take the cautious path, especially since the caravan’s searching guards might have reached the city before them.
Inside the tent, Rurik was displeased to see that the woman was resting again, one small hand curled beneath her chin as she lay on her side. He had never seen anyone sleep so much, ill or no! But he supposed it was a form of healing and it had kept her from trying any tricks. The past days she had been as docile as a newborn lamb.
Usually, he preferred women with fire and passion like his tempestuous Semirah, although this woman’s tawny beauty more than compensated for her lack of spirit. Looking at her now, the seductive curves of her body outlined beneath the woolen blanket, was enough to rekindle the wanton thoughts he had done his best to repress these past few days—
Thor’s blood, man, do not forget she may still remember her name! Rurik berated himself, angered by his wavering self-control. He went down on one knee and shook her by the shoulder.
“Time to wake, little one.”
His breath caught as she opened her eyes, huge liquid pools of cobalt-blue that inexplicably fascinated him. Their unusual hue reminded him of the faraway Sea of Marmara on a cloudless, sunlit morning. She yawned prettily and stretched, kittenlike, her slim arms extended in front of her and her bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket. Then she looked up and gifted him with a smile as open and guileless as a child’s, a becoming dimple in each cheek.
For a fleeting moment, Rurik could not remember why he had come to the tent. She made such a fetching picture with her wild tousled hair, hanging almost to her waist, framing her face, the oversize wool tunic she wore fallen from one delicately boned shoulder to reveal the soft curve of a breast. Only the sharp scraping of oars outside focused his attention back to his purpose. Cursing himself, he laid the trousers beside her.
The Pagan's Prize (Captive Brides Collection) Page 5
