Heart of a Viking

by Samantha Holt

  Using the grasp on her wrist and his hand still digging into her face, he backed her up against the tree. The rough wood pressed even through her coarse tunic. She released a tiny sound and he tweaked her wrist in warning.

  If she could have bitten on her lip, she would have, but his fingers digging firmly into her cheeks and lips prevented it. He kept her mouth puckered, as though ready for a brutal kiss while preventing her from forming words. Not that she would, she couldn’t have a broken arm or wrist. There would be no sympathy for her. Keita would have to continue her duties as usual—in agony. And likely unpure anyway.

  But she couldn’t let Fleinn take her.

  She knew he would. She saw it in his eyes, glinting in the dappled moonlight. This wasn’t desire. This was a need to show dominance, perhaps over her or more likely over his father’s property. She had seen lust many a time in all its forms recently and she had also seen women ravaged as a show of male dominance—a reminder that they were owned body and soul.

  That was what Fleinn intended for her.

  The clasp on her face eased. He put a single finger to her lips to remind her to stay quiet and gave her wrist another tug. This time she kept any sound at bay and nodded. The hand that had left burning marks in her face, trailed down her body, starting at just beneath her slave collar. He skimmed his finger across the flesh there, then dipped it beneath her tunic. Keita flinched and grew aware of her rapid breathing.

  Part of her felt as though it must be drifting up and away from her body, toward the gods and goddesses who had abandoned her so. The touch to her skin hardly registered. A numbness pervaded every inch of her and though her breathing refused to slow and her chest would not cease heaving, she was grateful for it. Perhaps her goddess had not abandoned her entirely.

  She waited, allowing Fleinn the time to stroke over her tunic, following the shape of her breasts and waist.

  He dipped his hand to pull on the low hem of her clothing but was unable to do so without releasing her wrist. This was what she had been waiting for. Silent hope flourished inside her and the amber stone around her neck felt as though it had burst to life and was warming her from head to toe. Heat and determination radiated through her. Her virginity was her value and her hope. She wouldn’t lose it.

  He eased the clasp on her wrist and held up both hands to signal to her to remain. She did. For the moment, she would still struggle to push past him. There had to be a better moment to do it and she would not waste it on foolish, rash movements. Fleinn released a slow grin and tapped her hands that were clasped at her sides. Then he tugged on the edge of her tunic and motioned for her to lift it.

  She nodded in understanding. He wished for her to offer herself to him.

  By some miracle, she kept her eyes open, aware she needed to know exactly what was happening around her. Slowly she bent to grasp the scratchy wool. There were no other barriers between her nudity and the night air. The Norse provided no chemises or extra garments to ward off the cold.

  With deliberate slowness, she eased up the fabric, feeling the night air brush her calves, then her thighs and finally her sex.

  “Higher,” he barked, motioning for her to lift more.

  She knew the command and did as she was bid. With the tunic raised up to her stomach, she was bared to his gaze. His gaze roamed over her. Bile burned up her throat and she swallowed it down. A heavy beat started up in her ears.

  Not yet. She couldn’t make her move yet. But when? When he had her pressed against the tree or laid down in the dirt? She lifted her gaze to the skies briefly, long enough to see the moon tucked beneath the canopy of leaves. A shadow passed over the glowing orb and that hope resurrected. It was a sign, surely? A message from her goddess in the form of a bird. A free animal. She would gain her freedom and she would not lose her innocence.

  Fleinn took a step forward and she met his burning gaze. His finger touched her outer thigh and her hands trembled so that she nearly dropped the hem of her tunic. His breaths were hot and heavy against her face, tinged with mead. Then he eased down to his knees and eyed her most intimate parts. A long finger started a trail up toward them and her body began to shake from the tension in her muscles.

  He glanced up at her. The wait was over. As soon as he dropped his head, she lifted her knee into his face. Fleinn released a grunt and clasped his hand over his nose. Taking advantage of his surprise, Keita pushed him hard and he toppled back. She fell into a run before he could recover.

  Branches scratched her bare arms, stones jabbed her feet. Behind her, twigs cracked. The light of the moon guided her through the forest and back to the settlement. She swore then to thank her goddess on the morrow if she survived this night. The glow of a few lit torches offered beacons of hope and though her lungs ached with exertion and her heart beat perhaps faster than it ever had, the knowledge of salvation pushed her to run faster.

  At the edge of the settlement, the moonlight waned. Clouds hid her reassuring glow and Keita stumbled over a stack of wood. She clawed to standing but too late. Heavy hands came upon her back and pushed into the ground. Dirt filled her mouth and nostrils. She fought to breathe, to fight, anything.

  Fleinn gripped her wrist so hard she feared he might break her bones from simply holding her. He yanked her arm up behind her and she wailed as a shard of pain tore through her. The painful hold on her body meant no ability to move, not without snapping her arm or wrenching her shoulder. She squirmed as much as the hold allowed her to but it did little when he was upon her, pressing apart her legs with his own while she suffocated on dirt.

  Fingers scrabbled up her bare thighs. She whimpered against the mud clogging her throat.

  Then the fingers were gone.

  The weight on her back lifted.

  Her arm wrenched and she screamed again, this time able to spit out dirt in the process. However, the clasp on her arm vanished. She rolled slowly and cradled it against her while her shoulder throbbed in protest. In the vague shimmer of milky light that was painting the settlement once again, she saw him.

  Thorarin.

  He threw Fleinn to the ground. His face was a mask of savagery, contorted with anger. Lips parted, teeth bared. Every part of him told of his strength and aggression from his widely spread legs to his lifted shoulders. Before Fleinn could push to his feet, Thorarin was upon him with one heavy blow to the face.

  Fleinn went limp though she noted he was not rendered senseless. Not quite. He muttered something to Thorarin but she could catch none of it. Whatever he had said, enraged the Viking. He gripped the man by his garments and went in to hit him again but froze as torchlight and feet surrounded them.

  Terror pounded through her once more when she recognised her master, bundled in furs and peering at them all. Would he think she was compromised? Would he cast her aside for tempting his son? She looked to Thorarin, whose expression held nothing but fury and confidence. He feared no retribution over the járl’s son. The strange thing was, she not only feared for herself but for him too. Would her rescuer also suffer from Fleinn’s actions?

  Chapter Seven

  The pulsing heat refused to abate. Thorarin did not release Fleinn, even as several of the villagers and Ragni came upon them. He kept his fist bunched and ready to send the man into the darkness. He swung a look at Keita and in the moonlight, she shone like a goddess. But the fear in those wide eyes and the way she cradled her arm did not allow him to appreciate her beauty—a beauty that was currently marred by dirt and scratches.

  He forced himself to ignore her. It would do his cause no good to be distracted by her. However, if the járl had heard the words Fleinn had uttered, that might help his plans a great deal. He lifted the man. “You have no respect. You are filth.”

  The járl stepped forward and lifted a palm. Thorarin had to force his stiff fingers to release him. Every fibre of his body begged him to pound this man until he was nothing but blood and bones, and soon the wind and rain would carry him away to be forgotten. He hat
ed Ragni. He hated Fleinn. But his thirst for blood had always been controlled. Honour overrode any desire for vengeance by violence. A quick death was too easy.

  But, by Odin’s beard, he wanted blood now. He wanted this man who had dared to hurt Keita to die in writhing agony.

  Ragni jerked his head toward his son, who was slowly easing himself from the ground. “You touched her?”

  Fleinn shook his head. “She wanted me. She is a temptress.”

  “You are weak,” Ragni spat.

  He came to his feet and brushed the dirt from his tunic. “You would believe his word over mine?” Fleinn thrust a hand in Thorarin’s direction.

  “I believe what I heard and saw. Do not play me for a fool.”

  Fleinn shook his head and released a sound of disbelief. “You are a fool for trusting this man. For letting this ambatt be anything more than a bed-slave. Any true man would have taken her into his bed long ago.”

  The járl’s gaze narrowed. Thorarin stepped back. He need not say anything. The distrust had been planted, the anger set alight. Now the two men would destroy each other without him.

  “A true man knows what is valuable and what is not. He is not ruled by his desires, be that for power or flesh. You think people do not talk of my control, of how I have a magical slave who will protect me from all foe? You think I do not know how to use something so simple as a slave girl to my advantage? You are the fool, my son. You always have been and always will be. I wish Fálki were still alive and you had never taken root in your mother’s belly for you cannot be my son.”

  “You say I am not your son?”

  “I have treated you as my own for long but I believe it not. Not now I have seen your behaviour this night. You are without honour.”

  Thorarin tried not to consider how Ragni had been without honour too. How he was still without honour. It would be too easy to let loose all his anger of the past summers, to remind him the reason his other son was dead was because of him. So he kept his mouth shut and came to Keita’s side. He eased her hand away from her arm and pushed up her sleeve to inspect it while Ragni’s attention was diverted.

  His inspection was cut short when Fleinn leaped forward to attack his father. Thorarin stepped swiftly over and laid the man out with another punch, finishing what he had started. Ragni paused to eye the man he called son at his feet and shook his head. He motioned to several of the men.

  “Carry him out to the river. Put him on a boat. Tether his wrists to it. Should he survive, let it be known that Fleinn the traitor is banished.”

  A gasp from Keita drew him back to her side. She trembled from head to toe whether from fear of retribution now or from her ordeal, he knew not. Perhaps both. The urge to put his arm around her was strong but he dare not risk Ragni’s wrath.

  Fleinn was dragged away, the járl watching until the men vanished into the woods. Not a hint of emotion revealed itself on the old man’s face. Thorarin had no idea if Fleinn really was not of Ragni’s seed—he suspected that was unlikely but the járl would never want to admit to siring a weak son. Either way, he had not realised separating father and son would be so easy. He only regretted he’d pushed Fleinn to harm Keita.

  He skimmed his gaze over her and forced down the bitter lump in his throat. Had he not told himself to expect as much? Had he not reminded himself that this was the price to pay for revenge? A thrall was nothing but an object, to be bartered and sold. Her fate should not matter to him.

  And yet it did.

  Ragni finally turned his attention to the quivering woman. He thrust a finger toward her and she jolted. “No one,” he bellowed, “touches her. Upon pain of death. Do I make myself clear?”

  A murmur of assent rippled through the men present and Thorarin had little doubt Ragni’s words would soon spread to anyone who was not there. Keita’s position as protected would hopefully remain safe.

  The járl put a hand to Thorarin’s shoulder. “You have yet again proved yourself to me. You were willing to stand against Fleinn to protect my property. You have my thanks.”

  “I merely do my duty, my járl.”

  “I will ask you one more favour for I trust not these men. Have her seen to the other slaves and cleaned and tended to. On the morrow, she shall not work.” He flicked a finger under Keita’s trembling chin. “My pure one does not look so pure at present, does she?” He tilted his head and pondered her. “You have brought me many things, Keita,” he told her. “A good warrior to my side and life and luck. I am of a mind to reward you if you can continue to prove yourself.”

  She said nothing. Uncertainty flickered in her eyes. Thorarin doubted she brought Ragni any luck. If she did, he would not have been able to infiltrate and pick apart Ragni’s life so easily already. But he would hope that Keita’s position of power remained and that she was smart enough to take advantage of it when she could.

  “Everyone to bed,” the járl ordered, clapping his hands.

  He motioned to the comely woman who had been several paces behind him. She was not Pict or Norse but perhaps Irish with pale skin and dark hair. He hadn’t noticed her before but perhaps he should have done. Her curvaceous figure was draped in nothing but furs and haunting dark eyes peered out at him. Full lips curved into a teasing smile.

  The bed-slave gave off the impression of being made for sex.

  But it was not that she appealed to him. It was that the járl offered her a smile in return. Was there a weakness there too? By the gods, he’d been too distracted by Keita to even pay attention to Ragni’s bed partners. He needed to remain focused.

  But first, he had to ensure Keita was well. As Ragni, departed, he motioned for Keita to follow. Once the járl was in his longhouse and everyone was abed, he led her into the bathhouse. He lit the torches from the embers of the fire and motioned for her to sit on a stool.

  She peered up at him, her wide eyes muddied with confusion, her lips parted. He knelt in front of her and eased her arm out of the grip she had on it. Her teeth dug into her bottom lip and tears spilled down her cheeks.

  “You should not touch me,” she said in a strangled tone.

  “The thralls will not aid you, will they?”

  She shook her head.

  “So I must.” He urged her to move her arm and noted the bruising just visible under the dirt on her skin.

  Fingerprints.

  Thorarin clenched his teeth and spoke through them. “I angered Fleinn. He would not have behaved so had I not.”

  She shook her head. “You are not responsible for another man’s actions.”

  How wrong she was.

  Aware of her cool skin beneath his hands, he felt up the fragile length of her arm. The tunic prevented him from studying her shoulder but that was where he suspected the injury was. Had it come out of its joint? He did not think so but he would have to check. With deliberately slow movements, he reached for the ties at the front of the garment and drew them away. She stiffened and her breathing grew rapid.

  “I will not harm you, remember?”

  Keita nodded rapidly. Thorarin took her uninjured arm and pressed her palm against her chest to hold the garment in place. He eased it down enough to spy the pale curve of her shoulder but reveal no more. His nostrils flared at the sight. This was not anger, not anymore. This was an aching, desperate need to taste that part of her body, then remove the hand that kept her covered and see more.

  Forcing in deep breaths, he methodically pressed into the joint, regretting that he made her wince with pain. But there was no permanent damage and no need to push the bone back into place.

  “It will heal,” he told her. “It needs rest.”

  “The slaves will not be happy about taking on my duties.”

  “Then they should speak with the járl.”

  “He cares little for the problems of slaves. My life will not be made easier for this.”

  “Was it so very easy anyway?”

  She offered a weak smile and shook her head. “I must thank
you for your aid. Many men would have left me.”

  Thorarin eased her tunic back over her shoulder and retied the neck. He did not accept her thanks. Perhaps many men would have left her. He wanted to say he was different, to remind her he had not taken what he could have done, but he was all too aware of the desirous thoughts rippling through his mind now. He might not take things by force but he was not so different to many Norseman. He desired her—another man’s property, a slave girl who had suffered because of him. And he’d been aware of that sacrifice she might have to make.

  Willing to let her make it too. For his own revenge. He was not so very different.

  That did not mean, however, he would not do his best to protect her. He’d very nearly failed then. He only thanked the gods he’d been unable to sleep and had heard her scream instantly.

  “Ragni is grateful to you. He puts much trust in you already.”

  Thorarin turned from her shrewd gaze. Why did he feel as though she saw something in him that others did not? It was impossible for her to know anything of his plans or his past yet her gaze near stripped him bare.

  He snatched a cloth from the edge of the bath and dipped it into the water before handing it to her. The fire had long burnt down to embers and had left the water only mild but it would have to do. Part of him longed to take the time to light a new fire, fill a bath of steaming water and wash her from head to toe. He would even join her perhaps, moulding her body to his chest while he scrubbed her breasts and down between her thighs.

  “Ragni is a generous járl,” he muttered when she took the cloth.

  Ragni. There was where his thoughts needed to remain. Not on Keita’s breasts or the shadows between her thighs.

  “He is generous until he is not.” Her lips tilted and she worked the cloth carefully over her face using her uninjured arm. “Be careful, Thorarin. You know not what you are becoming involved with. I have seen him turn on men faster than a wolf pouncing on its prey.”