The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  A choked hiccup escaped her. Before she could muffle it, she was spun around and pulled into Rorik’s arms.

  ‘Oh, God, little cat, I didn’t mean to hurt you.’

  She froze; for several seconds incapable even of thought. Had she heard aright? Had a Viking just invoked her Christian God? Expressed regret? Offered comfort?

  The questions hammered at her brain until her head threatened to ache. Who was he, this man who had taken her from her home, but watched over her while she’d lain senseless? Who had cursed his desire for her, but refused to release her? Who had held her beneath him, but hadn’t forced her?

  An urgent need to know welled up inside her, so strong it almost drowned out the warnings of danger clamouring at the back of her mind. The same danger that had sent her fleeing from him; that tempted her to stay.

  ‘You didn’t hurt me,’ she said curtly, and pushed away from him. Somewhat to her surprise he let her go.

  ‘What of the man who attacked you?’ he asked, his voice as terse. ‘Did he hurt you?’

  ‘No. He had a dagger, but he didn’t use it, even when I screamed.’

  ‘Of course not, you little fool. He wants you alive, in case you hand him another opportunity.’ Suddenly he was looming over her. ‘But you won’t, will you, my lady?’

  Yvaine glared up at him, refusing to be intimidated. ‘Since we’re leaving England tomorrow, there would be little point.’

  ‘True, but the more I learn of you, lady, the less faith I place in your sense of prudence.’

  ‘Well, that will teach you to make enquiries the next time you consider kidnapping someone, won’t it.’

  His mouth curved; even in the fitful moonlight she saw it and, for some strange reason, felt fresh tears sting her eyes.

  ‘I’ll remember that,’ he said. Then, frowning. ‘Do you know who it was?’

  ‘No. And what does it matter? You’ll probably be grateful to him when you stop to think about it. He prevented my escape.’

  He moved abruptly. No, not movement, she thought, with a belated sense of caution. It was the air that stirred, as if every muscle in his body had tensed, sending icy currents flowing outwards.

  ‘Indeed,’ he said in a harder tone. ‘But console yourself with the knowledge that you wouldn’t have made it to Winchester, even if your escape wasn’t discovered ’til morning. I would’ve come after you. Now, back to the ship. We both need some sleep.’

  Easy for him to say, Yvaine thought resentfully, when she finally crept into the tent and lay down next to her sleeping companions.

  She sent up a brief prayer of thankfulness that she didn’t have to offer any explanations. The task would have been beyond her; she had too much else on her mind. With her attempt at escape in ruins, she would now have to concentrate all her energies on convincing Rorik to ransom her. And if that didn’t work…

  She shied away from the prospect. It was far too nerve-racking to contemplate. Better to plan another escape—which wouldn’t be easy, because once they left England, she’d have to recruit someone to help her.

  Hope stirred faintly, only to sink without trace. Thorolf and Orn were the only men she’d consider trusting with her safety, and they were completely loyal to Rorik. The only alternative—and she’d have to be desperate—was Othar. She didn’t trust him, but he was three years younger than her and she suspected his posturing was mainly for the benefit of his friends. Away from them, she might be able to bribe him with offers of a large ransom, especially given his present animosity towards his brother.

  Of course, before she attempted any such risky strategy, it would be wise to know more about him. And—if she was cautious about it—to know more about Rorik. After all, it was only sensible to learn all one could about one’s adversary.

  Slightly comforted by this conclusion, Yvaine turned over and settled down to sleep. She’d start tomorrow, she promised herself, with a few polite questions. She would behave with dignity. She would refuse to be drawn into argument. She would be civil, but distant.

  And she would steadfastly ignore the annoying little voice at the back of her mind, that was wondering why common sense and strategy just happened to coincide with her own curiosity.

  ‘My lady, you are not going to walk all the way to the stern alone when the man who attacked you is watching and waiting.’ Anna frowned in disapproval.

  Britta nodded in dire warning. Both girls had been horrified when Yvaine had related the tale of the previous night’s activities over their breakfast of gruel and fruit. They’d emerged from the tent a short time later to find the ship underway. The shores of England were but a memory.

  Yvaine shifted her gaze from the misty line dividing sea and sky and studied her two companions. ‘He’s not going to attack me in front of the entire crew, Anna.’

  ‘We shouldn’t even be outside,’ Britta muttered. ‘Already I hear whispered comments and furtive jests. And you may be sure the brute who attacked you is whispering and jesting with the rest so as to appear as innocent as a babe.’

  ‘Aye.’ Anna glanced nervously over her shoulder. ‘Since we don’t know who it was, ’tis best to avoid the lot of them.’

  ‘He was tall,’ Yvaine said slowly. ‘And wore a skin tunic. But that’s no help. Only Rorik and Thorolf wear chainmail, and that only on the day they sacked Selsey. ’Twas probably filched from some murdered soldier,’ she tacked on grimly.

  ‘Thorolf told me Rorik had them specially made, long before they went a-viking,’ Anna said. ‘I wonder what they did back then?’

  ‘I don’t care to know.’ Yvaine stuck her nose in the air. Then, remembering her plan, ruined the effect of this lofty attitude by adding, ‘What else did Thorolf tell you?’

  ‘Well, yesterday I asked him about the slaves on Rorik’s estate, lady, thinking to discover what sort of life you might expect. Most of the men purchase their freedom within three years by working longer hours. Imagine that. A lord who frees his slaves.’

  ‘Hmm. What of the women?’

  Anna grimaced. ‘Well, a man may buy a woman’s freedom if he wishes to marry her, but—’

  ‘An expensive way of acquiring a wife,’ put in Britta tartly. ‘I can’t see that happening to one of us. Marriage to another slave, mayhap.’

  ‘’Tis more than I hoped for in England,’ Anna pointed out. ‘My father would never have allowed me to marry. I was too useful to him.’

  Yvaine eyed her thoughtfully. ‘I suppose the freedmen are replaced by more slaves captured in England.’

  ‘No. Thorolf told me that Rorik uses the money paid by freed slaves to purchase more. He also lends money to freemen so they may buy a small farm, or set up in trade. He’s the son of a jarl and very wealthy.’

  ‘Then why does he need to plunder? I remember now, he scorned Ceawlin’s treasure as though ’twas nought. And heaven knows, he hardly needs to employ force to take a woman to his bed, so—’

  She suddenly realised her companions were staring at her as if she’d expressed a desire to join the ranks of those willing females, and felt hot colour burn her cheeks.

  ‘Well, if I’m to outwit the man, I need to know these things,’ she informed them, turning aside before her face got any redder.

  Fortunately for her dignity, her gaze fell on a Viking who was coiling rope nearby. Inspiration struck when she recognised him. She crooked an imperious finger.

  ‘You there. Orn. I would ask a favour of you.’ Ignoring the strangled sounds of protest coming from behind her, she took a step forward.

  Hooknose straightened, looking wary.

  Yvaine pinned her best lady-of-the-manor smile to her face. ‘Would you kindly escort me to your commander?’

  Orn frowned. ‘I’m ordered to stay here, lady. To keep you out of trouble.’

  Her smile froze. ‘Indeed? Consider, then, how much more trouble there’ll be if I go alone. Or if you try to stop me.’ From the corner of her eye, she saw Anna and Britta clutch each other.

 
‘Hmph. ’Tis clear Rorik didn’t administer harsh enough punishment when you tarried on the beach last night,’ muttered Orn. Then, as Yvaine glared at him, a wry smile crossed his face. ‘But ’twould be strange indeed if the Bearslayer raised his hand against a woman. Come, then, mistress.’

  With a glance at her companions, who were obviously torn between awe at her foolhardiness and the expectation of her immediate demise, Yvaine hurried after him.

  ‘Why do you say that?’ she asked. ‘When he’s taken us against our will.’

  ‘I don’t fathom his reasons for taking you, lady, but the others were taken by Ketil and Gunnar. Be grateful Rorik has forbidden them privileges denied the other men.’

  ‘Dear God,’ she whispered involuntarily, her gaze sweeping over the men until she located Othar’s friends. Ketil was watching her, but, as their eyes met briefly, she realised there was no special awareness in his unblinking stare. She knew, without any doubt, that he hadn’t attacked her last night.

  Then he shifted his attention to Orn, and as if the older man sensed the cold scrutiny, his pace slackened. He looked around, located Ketil and smiled in unmistakable anticipation. His hand went to his dagger.

  Yvaine felt the hair at her nape rise. She doubted anyone with the name Skull-splitter would balk at much, but Orn seemed like a reasonable man and was at least thirty years older than Ketil. What had happened to cause the hatred she felt emanating from him?

  She shook off the question as they walked on. She already had enough to worry about. Particularly the wild leap her heart gave when she saw Rorik standing by the steering oar, not six feet away. This time the impact of his presence was devastating. A vivid memory of how it felt to lie beneath all that heat and power and muscle threatened to rob her legs of strength.

  She clutched the side and hoped he put her unsteadiness down to the motion of the ship.

  ‘Good morning.’ He raised an interrogatory brow at Orn.

  ‘Don’t blame me,’ Hooknose grumbled. ‘She threatened to saunter past the men on her own.’

  Yvaine’s mouth fell open. ‘I did not threaten to saunter.’

  ‘Never mind.’ Rorik waved Orn away and turned a narrow-eyed look on her. ‘Well, lady, you achieved your purpose. What couldn’t wait until I came to you?’

  Yvaine clamped her lips shut on the urge to inform him she could have waited until doomsday. She was supposed to be trying good manners and diplomacy.

  ‘Thank you for sharing the fruit with us this morning,’ she began ‘’Twas a welcome change.’

  His brows lifted. A second later, a wicked gleam lit his eyes. ‘Ah, well, we like to fatten our slaves before we sell them.’

  Politeness threatened to fly over the side. ‘Indeed? I suppose you plundered somebody’s orchard for the purpose.’

  ‘Aye.’ He grinned. ‘But ’twas a Danish orchard.’

  ‘A fine thing,’ she muttered, fighting an insane urge to smile back. ‘You even steal from each other.’

  ‘Ah. You English see Vikings as one people, don’t you, but Norse and Danes are often at war. Usually over trading rights and land. We’re on the brink now.’

  ‘One would think you’d both taken enough English land without having to squabble over it,’ she retorted, but without real heat. She’d grown up with the fact. ‘The Danes rule England from the Thames to the Humber and you Norwegians further north. Everyone knows the town of York as Jorvik these days, and I wager there are many places where the old names are forgotten.’

  Rorik shrugged. ‘Are we doing any differently from you Saxons? Your ancestors drove the Britons as far west as Wales and Brittany. Not to mention annexing Mercia more recently.’

  ‘That was through marriage,’ Yvaine answered indignantly. ‘The Lady of Mercia is Edward’s sister.’

  ‘Aye,’ he agreed, and, without warning, the grim expression she’d seen yesterday descended on his face. ‘Alfred’s whelps. And together they’ll rule all England one day.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  He gestured impatiently. ‘The Danes in England are becoming weak, lady. They still hold the Danelaw, but they’re farmers and merchants now, not warriors. One day your cousin will triumph and Alfred’s dream will become reality.’

  ‘Aye…well…’ She pushed aside the intriguing question of Rorik’s sudden bitterness in the interests of grasping the opportunity he’d just handed her. ‘Speaking of Edward, when do you intend to send a request for my ransom?’

  ‘Ah,’ he murmured. ‘We arrive at the real reason for this sudden desire for my company.’

  With a monumental effort she kept the expression of polite enquiry on her face.

  His eyes narrowed. ‘I don’t recall expressing any such intention, lady.’

  ‘But…’ She gripped the planking tighter. ‘Kindly do not jest with me, my lord. I understand your pressing need to return home because of your father’s health, but I see no humour in the prospect of an unnecessary voyage for myself. You will oblige me by sending a messenger to the king at once.’

  A brow went up. ‘From the middle of the North Sea?’

  ‘Very well, when we get to Jutland you can put me ashore and—’

  ‘You don’t want to be put ashore there, little one.’ The wicked smile glinted again. ‘There’s nought but dark cliffs and caverns along that coast. Only the Gods know what lives there.’

  ‘Don’t bother to scare me with your tales of trolls and giants,’ she snapped, losing the last tattered threads of her patience. ‘Or ice-bears for that matter. I’m not so easily—’

  She broke off as he cast a quick glance downwards. A leather thong hung around his neck, threaded through the top of a silver amulet she knew represented Thor’s hammer. Hanging beside it was a long, curved tooth. It looked ominously large and deadly.

  Yvaine swallowed and decided a change of tactics was called for.

  ‘Very well,’ she said, as though frustration and apprehension weren’t chasing each other around in her stomach. ‘I’ll go to Norway with you, and when we get there you can tell everyone I’ve come for a visit, while you make arrangements to return me to England.’

  He stared at her as though she’d turned into a very small ice-bear right before his eyes. ‘Why would you come for a visit, lady?’

  ‘I shall study your Norse legends, my lord.’

  ‘Study our Norse legends,’ he repeated evenly.

  ‘Aye. I presume you have a skald in your household. I shall replace the manuscripts I was compiling—until Ceawlin fed my collection to the cooking fire. Unfortunately, he didn’t consider such learning to be useful.’

  ‘You understand Norse?’ His gaze sharpened. ‘Aye, Orn told me yesterday you spoke to him in the language. How is that?’

  She shrugged. ‘The same way you learned English, I expect. Through travellers. In times of peace there were plenty of Norse visitors at court. One was a bard who stayed a while. I learned your sagas from him.’

  ‘In that case, lady,’ he said, his voice suddenly, unnervingly gentle, ‘you know more of us than that we kill and plunder.’

  ‘You forgot abduction,’ she said tartly. ‘And the fact that you have bards and skalds and highly skilled craftsmen doesn’t excuse kill—’

  She stopped short, her heart contracting on a sudden stab of pain as a picture of Jankin flashed through her mind. Oh, how could she have forgotten? He’d been so innocent, so utterly without guile. He wouldn’t have resisted, wouldn’t even have understood. Guilt overwhelmed her as she realised that, despite all that had happened, she’d barely taken a moment to mourn that senseless loss of life.

  ‘What is it, little one?’

  She turned on him, anger igniting at his careless question, the meaningless endearment. ‘Did you kill anyone near the riverbank that day at Selsey?’

  He frowned. ‘The only person I killed was your husband, but…’

  ‘You’ve killed on other raids,’ she finished for him, and felt her eyes fill. ‘Innocent peopl
e who…’

  Rorik saw her blink rapidly as she turned her face away, and cursed silently. What could he say? He couldn’t tell Yvaine the truth. Her cousin was involved. She’d immediately assume he’d taken her to use as bait.

  Maybe he had, he thought. For a few hours after he’d learned who she was, maybe that purpose had tangled with the rest. Maybe it did still. All he knew was that he was driven by a need so fierce, a desire so urgent, it was almost…a yearning. As if there was an empty place inside him only she could fill, a hunger only she could appease.

  Gods. He was thinking like a skald, composing a maudlin saga where the hero spends his time languishing over some unattainable female. He knew what was driving him. The memory of her soft flesh against his palm, the way she’d felt as she’d lain in his arms last night. The sweet innocence that had enveloped him when he’d kissed her. He’d wanted to take that innocence into himself, to absorb her, to be himself absorbed. Only the thought of her injured back, striking him when she’d cried out, had forced him to his feet. And his blood went cold at the thought of the other damage that could have been done to her.

  He frowned suddenly, wondering how he was going to leave Yvaine at Einervik while he went off raiding. The answer was immediate…simple, unsettling, but immediate.

  ‘Set your mind at rest on one score,’ he said curtly. ‘This is the last raid I’ll be leading.’

  She turned her head at that, clearly startled. ‘What?’

  ‘You heard me. ’Tis done.’

  ‘But…why?’

  Again he hesitated. Why not tell her the reason for his raids? Why not let her assume she was bait? The tale might gentle her, make her feel less physically threatened. Yet, even through the tangled skein of needs, of desires, of reasons, he couldn’t lie. Not to her, not even by implication. ‘To please you?’ he finally suggested. And, if there was more than one question in the words, he pushed it aside. ‘If ’twould do so, little maiden.’

  She studied him for a moment before turning away again. ‘I suppose it would,’ she said coolly. ‘Since I’ve no wish to see even an enemy’s soul burn in Hell for his sins.’