Arne’s close relationship with Rurik bordered upon that between father and son. If the story about him saving Rurik’s life in the trading camp was true, Zora imagined that Arne had made it his task to watch out for Rurik, his loyalty fierce and as unquestioning as Leif’s.
Kjell was the only one who didn’t seem to fit into the group. Physically a warrior and appearing more than strong enough to do battle, it nonetheless seemed that his heart was not in his duties. Kjell rarely joined in the laughter after one of Arne’s vulgar boasts about his exploits with lusty, big-breasted women, or how much ale the crusty Varangian could consume at one sitting. Sometimes Kjell seemed so detached, Zora wondered how he had been included on what she assumed had been a very important mission.
Kjell seemed most enlivened late in the evening when he recited poetry for his compatriots’ entertainment. He told strange mythic tales of long ago battles and heroic deeds that Rurik and the others obviously enjoyed. Kjell’s impassioned voice would carry to her inside the tent where she lay abed, and to her amazement, Rurik occasionally joined him, reciting verses commemorating a danger or triumph in battle.
Once, Rurik’s eight-line stanza had been a lamentation for a slain friend, Sveinald, who had lost his life because of his love for a woman. The haunting words had moved her more than she wished to admit and shown her a heretofore unknown side of him…a sensitive, personal side upon which she had no desire to dwell.
But even though Kjell lacked enthusiasm, she had not discovered his weaknesses, at least until the following evening when she spied him staring at her quite openly. His platter of salted fish and black bread sat in his lap, untouched. Rurik’s response was swift and harsh.
“Look to your food, man, and quit gaping at the wench like a besotted pup!”
After that, Zora noticed a dark scowl thrown in Kjell’s direction whenever Rurik caught him watching her, and she realized that he must resent the young warrior’s obvious infatuation. Was it simply because Kjell seemed more inclined to staring at her then going about his duties? Such disregard for orders would certainly anger any commander. Or did Rurik’s reaction have something to do with his promise to protect her? Did he think Kjell might overstep his bounds?
Well, whatever the insufferable lout’s reasons, Zora had found her chance. She even went as far as to hope that any discord she fomented between the two men might somehow aid her escape. She couldn’t wait to put her latest scheme to the test!
The next morning dawned beautiful and sunny, which lightened her mood all the more. Taking care to avoid Rurik, whom she spared no more than a casual glance when she left the tent, she gave Kjell a surreptitious smile. To her delight, he beamed back at her. He must be attracted to her, she realized. She tried to quell a flash of guilt over using the young man. After all, she was a prisoner. Exchanging such smiles the rest of the day convinced her to step up her plan. It would mean forgoing her vow not to wash, but the more appealing the young Varangian found her, the better.
With supper finished, she fetched the bucket that Rurik had given her to use for bathing—one that had remained empty since she’d thrown the soap overboard four days ago!—and humming to herself, she made straight for Kjell, who stood in the bow with his back to her. He seemed so rapt in watching the glorious sunset that she doubted he had even heard her approach.
“Excuse me.”
Kjell spun in surprise, almost dropping his mug of ale. Some of the dark, pungent-smelling liquid splashed upon her trousers and his expression became stricken, his youthful face burning.
“Forgive me, my lady!”
“It’s nothing,” she said lightly, acutely aware that Leif, Arne, and Rurik had grown silent in the stern, no doubt listening to their exchange. She could almost feel Rurik’s gaze boring into her back, and it made her smile at Kjell all the wider. “Lord Rurik said that I might ask you for assistance if I needed some water drawn from the river. Could you help me?”
“Of—of course.” For a moment Kjell didn’t seem to know what to do with his ale, but finally he set the mug upon a nearby chest and took the bucket from her. “How much would you like?”
“Oh, you can fill it to the top. I want to have enough to wash my clothes when I’m finished bathing.” As she looked up at him through her thick lashes, Zora ran the back of her hand across her cheek, all the while thinking how strange it felt to be flirting with a man, well, toying with him really. It felt awkward. She had never done it before. She sighed plaintively. “I must look disgraceful—”
“Oh, no, my lady, you look beautiful to me! Like a golden goddess!” Kjell blurted, then he glanced nervously above her head to the stern. What he saw must have made him more anxious, for his eager-to-please smile vanished. He quickly dunked the bucket into the river and then set it with a dull thud at her feet.
Zora gazed at him with feigned confusion. “Surely you don’t expect me to carry that bucket, Kjell. It looks far too heavy.” From his astonished expression, she knew that she had startled him by using his given name. Yet he was pleased, too, despite his concerted attempt not to show it. His hazel eyes gave him away. “I’m sure Lord Rurik wouldn’t mind if you helped me.” She smiled at him prettily. “Just to the tent.”
Again he looked past her, and she surmised that he had been granted some sort of permission for he obliged her, even going so far as to place the bucket just inside the tent. Then he was gone before she could thank him, almost tripping on a pile of rope in his haste to attend to some rigging. Zora could well imagine the black scowl Rurik had hurled at Kjell.
“The filthy idol-worshiper,” she muttered as she swept into the tent. She hoped it was loud enough for Rurik to hear.
It was, but he made no reply, his jaw clenched tightly.
Arne, meanwhile, shifted on the bench, his prolonged belch breaking the tense silence. “It seems she thinks you’re a pagan, my lord. Are you going to set her to rights?”
Rurik shook his head grimly, wondering what little game Zora was playing now. After looking like a bedraggled ragamuffin for days, why the sudden concern for her appearance? He imagined it was for spite. “She’ll get no more explanations from me, my friend. I tried once already.”
“Aye, you’re right about that,” Arne said dryly. “Whatever you said to her, she didn’t like it, no, not a bit. I can still see her dumping all those things into the river—”
“Enough, Arne.” Rurik’s frown deepened. “I was a fool to think she’d appreciate a kindness.”
The burly warrior heaved a sigh, then after taking a deep swig of ale, he said, “That wench is a hard one to understand and I pity the man who ever accepts the thankless task! One moment she avoids the whole lot of us, then the next she’s talking as sweetly as can be to Kjell, and smiling at him, too.”
“You don’t have to tell me what she’s been doing,” Rurik muttered, angered as much by her overtly flirtatious behavior as at himself for the unreasoning jealousy that was churning inside him again.
Why in Odin’s name couldn’t he control his emotions? What did he care if Zora found another man to her liking? He had seen the stolen smiles and furtive looks passing all day between her and Kjell. Well, what of it? She meant nothing to him, other than as a valuable pawn, and Kjell was only reacting naturally to a beautiful woman’s attention. What man wouldn’t?
The cunning vixen! It couldn’t be purely attraction that was making Zora act this way. She hadn’t paid Kjell any special notice until this morning. She was scheming, that much was plain. But if she was thinking she could pit him and Kjell against each other, or somehow influence the young man to do something rash, she was mistaken.
Kjell might be an unseasoned fighter, but he was no fool. He had sworn allegiance to Rurik for the journey, an inviolable oath that was sacred among Varangians. To break it would bring grave dishonor upon himself and his father’s house. He might as well plunge his own sword into his breast, for to his own kind, he would be a man as if dead.
“Kjell!” His
shout startled the warrior.
“My lord?”
Rurik lowered his voice, for he didn’t want Zora to hear him. “I’ve noticed lately that you’ve been paying far too much attention to our prisoner. What say you to this charge?”
Kjell swallowed hard, but he looked Rurik squarely in the eyes, which secretly amazed him. It seemed their reticent poet was finally becoming a man.
“Only that you are too harsh with her, my lord.”
“Too harsh?” Rurik quelled his sudden irritation at this unexpected criticism as best he could. “I say you are proving too gullible. Do you truly believe she favors you? She is using you to irritate me, Kjell, to spite me.”
“How could she possibly irritate you, my lord?” There was an undeniable spark of challenge in Kjell’s eyes. “Unless there is a chance you might care if she smiles at me or not. If so, perhaps you would rather she share her smiles only with you.”
Rurik lunged to his feet so abruptly that the young man, despite his height and warrior’s build, stepped back in surprise.
“What are you saying?” he demanded, his voice low and threatening. “Speak up now for after this, you will hold your reckless tongue until we reach Novgorod.”
“I’m saying that it’s clear you have an eye for the princess yourself,” Kjell said, moving so close that they were standing within inches of each other. “Why else would you glare at me every time you catch me looking at her? Perhaps since you already took her to your bed, you feel you’ve made some claim—”
“By Thor, what madness is this?” Arne interrupted with a bellow, hauling his bulk from the bench to push his way between them while Leif looked on, his mouth agape. “You’re growling at each other like two mongrels that’ve stumbled upon a bitch in heat…arguing about the wench as if it made a damned bit of difference!”
“It does when one of my own men denounces me with such a charge.” Rurik was so enraged that he could feel the blood pounding in the vein at his temple.
“No, it doesn’t, I tell you!” Arne insisted. “Must I remind you that this woman is a royal captive, not some war booty to be fought over? Grand Prince Yaroslav will most likely lock her in some chamber until he wins whatever ransom he asks and then he’ll send her back to her father. So what if she smiles at you”—he frowned at Kjell, then fixed a cautioning gaze upon Rurik— “or at you, my lord? Within another week’s time, she’ll no longer be any of our concern!”
When neither replied and still stood rigidly opposite him, Arne snorted in disgust and hurled a muttered curse at the tent.
“Do not forget that the beauteous Princess Zora is sworn to another man, Lord Ivan of Tmutorokan, her dreams each night no doubt full of him. If she smiles, surely it is only to deceive. Do not allow yourselves to be fooled.” Arne turned to Kjell, his voice filled with somber warning. “Go back to your work, youngest son of Thordar. You’ve tread in dangerous waters this night. If you value your oath and your life, think well before you seek again to challenge your lord.”
As Kjell stalked away without a word, Arne met Rurik’s furious gaze.
“Grant him this one error of judgment, my lord, if only for your friend his father’s sake. You know that Kjell’s sword would be no match for yours, like a cub attacking a rabid bear. If blame should fall upon anyone’s head for this night’s devilry, condemn the wench. Her false smiles have bewitched him. But I vow, if Kjell defies you again, I will not come between you.”
Rurik made to answer, but his words jammed in his throat as Zora suddenly emerged from the tent wrapped in nothing more than a blanket, her long wet hair swept back from her forehead and her dripping clothes slung over one arm. Arching a fine tawny brow at him, her expression smug, he knew then that she must have heard enough to believe that her devious scheme had triumphed.
“I thought I would hang my clothes on the railing,” Zora said, actually astonished and a little nervous that things had so quickly reached this stage. She had hardly done more than smile at Kjell, but already he and Rurik were at each other’s throat. “They should be dry by morn—”
“Get back in the tent.”
Zora shivered, and it wasn’t because the early evening air was chill. Rurik’s tone was ice-cold and furious.
“But, Lord Rurik, it will only take me a moment—”
“Damn your clothes, woman! You can wear them wet for all I care. Turn around and get back in the tent or I’ll…”
She retreated into the tent before he finished, her hands shaking as she dropped her sodden clothes at the foot of the fur pallet. Then she took refuge near the back tent wall, almost tripping over the water bucket in her haste to get as far away from the entrance as possible. Her heart pounding in her ears like a battle drum, she jumped when the oil lamp near her feet sputtered and hissed.
Holy Mother Mary, perhaps she had played her part too well…
Zora gasped as Rurik suddenly ducked inside the tent and straightened to his full height, his blond head touching the canvas ceiling. He had never entered her sanctuary before, and she was amazed at how small the space suddenly appeared. He was so massive, so broad, that his body blocked out all view of the entrance, making her feel as if there were no escape. From the dangerous look in his eyes, the strong lines of his face set as in stone in the flickering light, she imagined he would prevent her from leaving at all cost.
“What is your scheme, Zora?” The terse question was spoken in such a low voice, it was almost a whisper.
She clutched the blanket more tightly to her breasts. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Then let me help you,” he said, advancing toward her.
As the distance between them narrowed, Zora’s heart beat all the harder and she tried to take a step backward, but she was pinned in place. Already she was standing flush against the tent. She could only stare at him, his angry eyes searing into hers.
“Your little displays of defiance are annoying, though understandable, but this time you’ve gone too far. You are deliberately trying to turn my men against me, and I tell you now, Princess, that I will not tolerate it.”
“If…if you mean Kjell, I only asked him to fill the water bucket and then carry it for me,” she said desperately. Rurik was standing so close to her now that she had to tilt her head to look up at him, his scent of wind and sun and sweat disconcerting her all the more. “You said yourself that I could do that!”
“I haven’t forgotten.” Suddenly Rurik reached out and caught her by the upper arms, his touch like a grasp of iron. “But what of all those smiles, Zora, and those teasing glances of yours? Do you think I hadn’t noticed? It seems you are quite adept at playing the wanton, but I should have known that from the kisses we shared.”
“Kisses?” she rasped as he pulled her closer, so roughly that she lost her hold upon the blanket. To her horror, the covering slid from her body to the floor, leaving her standing naked within his arms. “Let me go!” she demanded, panicking. “I remember no kisses!”
“I do,” Rurik said huskily. Splaying one large hand over the small of her back, his fingers caressing her bottom, he drew her so close that her breasts swelled against his chest. “Warm, eager kisses that fooled me into thinking you were well accustomed to a man’s touch. I remember how you parted your soft lips for me, Zora, and how your tongue swirled around mine—”
“I would never have done that! I’m no wanton!” she cried, trying to twist free and realizing all too quickly that it was hopeless. Her skin puckered into goose bumps as his hand slid slowly up her back, a strange unsettling warmth radiating from some deep, mysterious place inside her to the ends of her toes and the tips of her fingers. Her hardened nipples were rigid pinpoints of sensation, his rough woolen tunic chafing her. Every time she moved against him, she felt a catch in her throat. To her dismay, she realized she was trembling.
“See how your body betrays you, Princess?” he taunted. “You don’t have to be a wanton to possess the passion of one. But why try
to convince you of this with words when actions speak so much more clearly?”
Zora gasped aloud as his mouth came down hard upon hers. She was so shocked that she tensed from head to toe.
Her worst fears were coming true! Rurik’s promises of protection were meaningless! But this thought quickly left her. The warm, demanding pressure of his lips overwhelmed her, like molten heat filling her completely, and when his tongue swept into her mouth, sweet with the taste of honey mead, she felt that she was melting against him.
Sweet Jesus, she remembered this! Suddenly she recalled hungry kisses devouring her…the hard, powerful weight of flesh, bone, and muscle covering her body…wild, urgent embraces, panting breaths and sighing moans…then the sweetest, most agonized ecstasy she had ever known…
Her arms snaked around his neck when his kiss grew dizzyingly possessive, her tongue as with a will of its own mating with his, playing and teasing. She felt his hand cradle her breast, his callused palm rubbing slowly against her nipple, and a strange giddiness swelled deep in her belly. She pressed closer, her senses craving more of him…She felt drunk from the intoxicating taste of him, light-headed from his touch, the world spinning around her—
“You see, Zora?” came Rurik’s ragged whisper against her wet parted lips, his words shattering her passionate vision. “You’re a true wanton at heart. I wasn’t lying when I said you came to me willingly that night, and by Odin, if I had not vowed to protect you, I would take you again now and you would submit to me just as eagerly.”
He released her so abruptly that Zora had no time to regain her balance and she fell backward, slumping to her knees. She was so stunned that for a moment she could not find the words to speak, nor did she think to hide her nakedness.
“Allow me to recall the words for you…how does heathen sound?” he mocked her, his breathing hard. “Filthy pagan? Idol-worshiper? Barbarian?”
Suddenly Rurik went down on one knee in front of her, gripping her chin so tightly that she winced. “You’ll have far worse things to say about me, Princess, if you ever cause turmoil between myself and my men again. That I swear! And don’t think your uncle would fault me. My mission is of utmost importance to him, and he would not be pleased to know how you had attempted to thwart it.”
The Pagan's Prize (Captive Brides Collection) Page 11
