The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  She lifted her chin. ‘I suppose you expected to find me waiting dutifully in bed, but I have no intention of lying here like a sacrifice on some pagan altar.’

  He smiled faintly. ‘I’ve never been particular interested in sacrifices,’ he said. And began to unfasten his belt.

  Yvaine’s gaze flashed to his hands. For some reason her legs went weak. She sank back on her heels, watching with a sort of alarmed fascination as he removed the belt and his dagger and tossed them on to the bed. He whipped his tunic and undershirt over his head and sent them into a corner.

  ‘However,’ he continued, ‘you might be warmer under the covers.’

  ‘No, thank you,’ she squeaked, her gaze now on his chest. Holy saints, he was big. Despite her nervousness, her fingers flexed, as though they wanted to curl around those broad shoulders, to probe the muscles rippling under warmly tanned skin. A pelt of gold-tipped hair spread over his chest and arrowed downwards. She followed its direction, and blushed wildly. He still wore his trousers, but unlike the loose-fitting chausses of her countrymen, these left little to the imagination. He was decidedly large all over. And already aroused.

  Swallowing, she jerked her gaze upward and tried to remember her plan. She didn’t have a plan. He hadn’t given her time to think of one.

  ‘If you’re this nervous with me,’ he said, a rueful smile curving his lips, ‘what were you like with Selsey before you knew the truth about him?’

  ‘Who?’

  He laughed. Taking a step closer, he propped an arm on one of the carved bedposts, and leaned against it. She wondered if he thought the casual pose made him look less threatening.

  ‘You surprise me, little cat. Is this the woman who tried to escape when she could scarcely stand? Who risked capture and rape by the Danes rather than remain under my protection?’

  ‘Fine protection,’ she managed. ‘You kidnapped me in the first place.’

  ‘True.’ He was silent a moment, lashes half-lowered as though in thought. Then his gaze lifted to hers. ‘But ’tis over and done. Can’t we put that behind us, Yvaine, and go on from here? ’Tis not as if I took you from a gentle home, a doting husband.’

  ‘That’s no excuse.’

  ‘No, it isn’t. But tell me, if I hadn’t killed Selsey, if I’d left you there, what would you have done? You said he hadn’t mistreated you until that day. Why were you trying to leave him?’

  She eyed him warily, wondering why he’d asked the question. It was difficult to concentrate. His very presence, overwhelmingly male, had every nerve braced and quivering; the gentle tone of his voice was in such stark contrast to the physical threat, she felt dizzy, as if her senses were being tugged in several directions at once.

  For the first time, defiance was having to be forced. The oddly serious note in his voice confused her further, and yet wasn’t this what she wanted? To talk, to gain some time, so she could decide what to do.

  ‘Ceawlin didn’t beat me,’ she said at last. ‘But ’twas a miracle I survived the winters. He gave me nought but the thinnest cloth for my gowns. He never allowed a fire in the solar—and I had privacy there only because he didn’t want me. The food I was served was more suited to swine. Indeed, I was ill several times this past year, until I learned to eat nothing that hadn’t been cooked in the communal pot.’ She gestured slightly. ‘Is that reason enough?’

  He nodded. ‘You were unfortunate in your marriage, I grant you, but not all men are the same.’

  ‘Are they not?’ she retorted. ‘When men see women as nothing more than objects, to be moved this way and that at the whim of their desires and ambitions? Me, my cousins—’ her voice hitched as a memory of childhood grief stabbed through her ‘—my mother.’

  Rorik’s eyes narrowed. ‘Your mother? What of her?’

  ‘She was killed by one of our neighbours, for no other reason than that he was feuding with my father and seized the opportunity to strike when he came across her in the woods one day. To him she was nothing more than a…thing he could steal from his enemy. Not that my father grieved overmuch,’ she added bitterly. ‘He didn’t even bother to avenge her. In his ambition to get a son, he was too busy picking out another bride.’

  ‘But you grieved.’ His gaze sharpened. ‘You have a father? When you mentioned ransom, you spoke only of Edward.’

  ‘My father died of a fever before he could wed again. I was taken into the King’s household.’

  ‘To be married, in turn, for political gain.’ When silence was her only answer, he nodded. ‘And had you stayed in England as a widow, Yvaine? Indeed, if you’d escaped and been granted an annulment, which I presume was your goal, what would your cousin have done with you?’

  ‘Probably married me off ag—’

  She stopped short, finally realising his purpose. ‘He might,’ she amended pointedly, ‘have given me some choice in my own future.’ And if she believed that, she believed every monk in the land would abandon his vows and turn to a life of debauchery. Of course Edward would have married her off again. Given his present single-minded determination to unite England, he probably would have married her off to a Dane.

  And judging by the look in Rorik’s eyes, he knew exactly what she was thinking.

  ‘What Edward would do no longer matters,’ she pointed out. ‘’Tis your actions we’re discussing. You saw, you wanted, you took. And now—’

  ‘Now I’ve protected you, given you your proper position at Einervik. Isn’t that what you were talking about on the ship?’

  ‘No! I thought you’d take me to live somewhere else. I didn’t think you’d marry me.’

  His brows shot up. ‘You’d prefer to be my mistress?’

  ‘Aye—no!’ Oh, how could she explain without leaving herself vulnerable? ‘Don’t you see? ’Tis being given no choice in the matter that strikes at me so. How would you feel,’ she demanded suddenly, ‘if you had no control over your own life?’

  He frowned. ‘As furious and frustrated as you are, I expect. But, sweetheart, we’re back where we started. ’Tis done. I understand how you must feel, but—’

  ‘Then give me time,’ she interrupted, coming up on her knees as hope surged within her. ‘Time to know you better. Time to settle.’ Time for you to fall in love with me.

  ‘Yvaine…’

  ‘You promised.’

  ‘I didn’t swear a vow on it,’ he murmured. ‘And ’tis just as well, because whatever time I intended to give you ran out the instant we were wed.’

  ‘Ran out!’ She glared at him. ‘Ran out?’

  Rage slammed through her; fury like nothing she’d known. So he knew what she was feeling, did he? He knew she was furious. He knew she was frustrated. How observant of him. How very clever. How kind of him to mention it. Furious? He hadn’t seen the half of it.

  ‘As far as I’m concerned the sands haven’t even started,’ she yelled. ‘What’s more—’

  Before she could enlighten him, he straightened, planted his hands on the crossed boards at the foot of the bed and leaned forward. His expression was stern, and utterly determined.

  ‘Yvaine, we’re married. Accept it. And while you’re doing so, think on this. If there’s no proof of your virginity in this bed come morning, your position in this household will be intolerable whenever my back’s turned. I can’t be here every minute so—’

  ‘Women’s spite? Why should that worry me? I’ve had five years of practice at ignoring it.’

  His hands flexed around the boards. ‘I know you’re angry and upset. But if your response to me the last time I kissed you is any indication, you know damn well that sharing this bed with me isn’t the worst fate in the world.’ He paused, the implacable expression in his eyes replaced by a wicked gleam. ‘In fact, ’twill be my pleasure to make sure you enjoy our wedding night as much I intend to.’

  She didn’t think; she didn’t plan it. Rage had her hand whipping out as if it had a mind of its own. She snatched up the dagger lying a few inches away an
d sprang to her feet, staggering slightly as the plump mattress gave unexpectedly beneath her weight.

  ‘You might wish to change your mind about that,’ she said, whipping the leather sheath away and sweeping the blade in a reckless arc.

  Every trace of devilment vanished from Rorik’s eyes. He straightened, his narrowed gaze never leaving her face. ‘What in Hel do you think you’re going to do with that dagger?’ he demanded with soft menace.

  Yvaine didn’t answer; she was too intent on keeping her balance. No wonder the bed had felt soft. What fool had thought to stuff a mattress with feathers? In England it would have been straw; a sturdier base from which to wave a dagger about.

  ‘Put the knife down, Yvaine.’ Rorik still spoke softly, but he took a step to the side which brought him to the corner of the bed.

  Yvaine took a corresponding step back, aware that if he moved again the bedpost would no longer hinder him. ‘When you promise me some time,’ she countered.

  ‘And if I don’t?’ He took the step that brought him to the side of the bed. ‘Are you going to take a slice out of me with that dagger?’

  ‘No.’ She hesitated as the glimmer of an idea came to her. ‘I’m going to—Stay back!’ She waved the knife wildly and almost overbalanced when she saw the muscles in his shoulders flex.

  ‘Jesu!’ he exploded. ‘Put the bloody thing down before you hurt yourself.’

  ‘What?’ She blinked at him. ‘What did you say?’

  And in that moment he moved.

  Too late, Yvaine jerked back to avoid his lightning swift grab for her hand. Her heel caught the turned back edge of the bearskin. She stumbled, the blade in her fist swooping downwards as her feet went out from under her. Ice sliced across her knee. With a startled squeak, she tumbled into the depths of the mattress.

  Chapter Nine

  ‘You little idiot!’

  Rorik ground out the words between his teeth as he grabbed Yvaine’s wrist, braced a knee on the bed and wrenched the dagger from her grasp. He sent the blade into the floor with a savage flick of his wrist. It stayed there, quivering.

  He pulled Yvaine upright. ‘Who were you trying to kill? Me or yourself?’

  ‘Neither,’ she said. ‘And if you’ll stop breaking my arm, I’ll tell you what I intended to do. To my finger, that is, not my knee.’

  She wasn’t even contrite. Rorik ground his teeth again as another wave of fury roared through him. The little wretch had taken ten years off his life and she didn’t even realise it. If it wasn’t for the blood he could see—

  He jerked his gaze down. ‘Odin curse it.’

  ‘That wasn’t what you said a minute ago.’

  ‘Never mind what I said a minute ago.’ He hauled her closer, glaring straight into her eyes. ‘’Tis what I’m going to do that should worry you.’

  ‘Well, I meant to cut my finger.’ Her lashes flickered; whether in wariness or defiance he wasn’t sure. ‘But this will do as well.’

  Defiance, then. What had he expected? Gods, he didn’t know whether to yell at her or pull her into his arms. Both impulses hammered at his brain; both would probably drive him mad with frustration. And in the meantime, she was bleeding all over the bed.

  Biting off another curse, Rorik released Yvaine’s wrist, took the hem of her shift between his hands and ripped.

  The force of his action almost sent her toppling backwards again.

  ‘What do you think you’re doing?’ she began, shoving at his hands as he tore a strip of fabric away. Then yelped indignantly when he clamped the wadded-up strip down on her knee. ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Be still,’ he growled. ‘We have to stop this bleeding, unless you want everyone to think I took to you with the finesse of a rutting bull.’

  She studied the thin trickle of blood that had run down the side of her knee onto the sheet. ‘’Tis only a few drops. I should think you’d be content. There’s your family’s proof that I’m virtuous.’

  He reached out, captured her chin in his hand and forced her face up to his. It was a mistake. The softness of her skin, the faint trembling he could feel, pierced frustration and anger as if she’d taken the point of the dagger to his own flesh.

  What chance did rage have, he asked himself, fuming, against soft vulnerability combined with fierce pride? Her courage, her sheer determination to fight him when they both knew he could have vanquished her easily by force, or even by seduction, had struck more truly than any sword or spear. And totally disarmed him.

  But, by the Runes, he ached. Her softness, her sweetness, were here for the taking. His entire body was throbbing with the need to cover her, to take, to push himself into her again and again, until she could no longer deny she was his. Until she cried out in surrender, and yielded, everything.

  It would happen, he swore silently. By Thor, it would happen if he had to wait for the Doom of the Gods to achieve it.

  But it wasn’t going to happen tonight.

  Wrenching his hand away, he stamped down on needs that were edging past violent, and wondered if he’d lost his mind when he’d first touched Yvaine.

  ‘Don’t move,’ he snarled. ‘Don’t speak. Don’t even blink if you want the time you risked my temper to obtain.’

  Yvaine swallowed and decided Rorik’s temper had little to do with the terrifying restraint in his voice. A man on the knife-edge of control glared back at her. If he granted her five minutes ’twould be a wonder.

  She barely refrained from flinching when he moved back, lifted the cloth from her knee and started bandaging the small wound. He didn’t hurt her, but his movements were abrupt and jerky, completely unlike the powerful masculine fluidity he commanded at will.

  He tied a knot at the side of her leg and got to his feet. ‘You’d better not bend that knee for a day or two,’ he said curtly, and turned his back on her. ‘Get under the covers.’

  Yvaine obeyed, eyeing him as if he might change his mind at any moment. Every muscle in his back was rigid, his shoulders braced, his fists clenched. She was torn between diving under the bearskin until she was out of sight and reaching out to touch him, to ease the brutal tension pulling his entire body taut.

  ‘What now?’ she ventured, sitting up in the far corner of the bed and pulling the bearskin to her shoulders.

  He turned, swept her with one coruscating glance and bent to pull his dagger from the floor. ‘You tell me, lady. Perhaps another conversation will enliven the rest of the night. Who knows, by morning, you might know me well enough to refrain from holding me off with my own dagger as if I’d intended to tear you apart.’

  ‘From what I saw,’ she muttered, ‘that was a distinct possibility.’

  He said something under his breath, turned to thump the weapon down on the chest, then wheeled back so suddenly, she jumped. He planted both fists on the bed and leaned forward. ‘Don’t worry,’ he purred. ‘When I take you, lady, we’ll fit together like that dagger to its sheath.’

  Yvaine didn’t answer. Something else had just occurred to her: the problem of where this first fitting of daggers and sheaths was to take place now that she’d removed the bed as a possibility. She decided not to ask; glanced around the small chamber instead in a frantic search for a change of subject. The light from the oil-lamp flickered on the pelt bunched between her fingers, turning the tips of the creamy fur to silver, and inspiration struck.

  ‘I’ve…uh…never seen a pelt this colour before. What manner of creature was it?’

  Rorik’s eyes narrowed. He continued to watch her for a moment with unblinking intensity, then he straightened. ‘’Tis the fur of the great ice-bear,’ he said shortly. ‘They live far to the north.’

  ‘Then you really killed such a creature?’

  ‘He didn’t give me much choice.’ A sardonic smile twisted his mouth. ‘In that instance, lady, I had more success with the dagger than you did.’

  ‘I had no intention of attacking you,’ she retorted. Her gaze went to the curved tooth still hanging around
his neck. It nestled in a whorl of hair. She felt a sudden longing to twirl her finger in the small curl, and clenched her hand around the bearskin. She wished Rorik would put his shirt back on. The longer he was half-naked, the stronger her need to touch him, to run her hands over the powerful contours of his chest and shoulders, to press her cheek to his warm flesh.

  Doubt welled. Confusion and a strange, yearning ache warred with caution. Was she doing the right thing?

  ‘Tell me something,’ he said, and raised his brows when she jumped at the sound of his voice. ‘How long will it take you to know me better, Yvaine?’

  ‘I…hadn’t thought that far.’

  ‘You expect me to wait indefinitely?’

  ‘No. Of course not. I just need to know…to know that you see me, not—’

  ‘You think I don’t see you?’ he demanded, leaning forward again to plant his fists on the bed. ‘You think I haven’t seen only you these past few days?’

  ‘That isn’t what I meant.’

  ‘I don’t think you know what you mean. Unless you’re seeking revenge for being given no choice.’

  ‘No!’ Dismay washed over her that he’d attribute such a motive to her. ‘I just want some time. A few weeks, even a—’

  ‘Very well. You have it.’ The words were clipped. He straightened, turned, and snuffed out the oil lamp with a savage swipe of his hand.

  Yvaine blinked in the sudden darkness. She couldn’t believe she’d won.

  Or had she?

  Two thumps told her Rorik had taken his boots off and tossed them on to the floor. She slid down in the bed and lay still, barely breathing, as he climbed in next to her.

  A minute passed in absolute silence. She racked her brain for something to say that might melt the chill all but forming icicles in the air between them. Remarking on the fact that Rorik still wore his trousers probably wouldn’t be wise. Nor was she inclined to ask how long a reprieve he intended to give her.