The Viking's Captive

by Julia Byrne

  Or it could make him more vicious. Perhaps she’d be wiser to keep a solid object between them.

  Wild visions of being chased around the tub until someone came to her rescue flashed through her mind. She took another step—and felt ice spill through her veins as her foot came up hard against another solid object. She was trapped.

  She glanced down. Three wooden steps, obviously intended to facilitate climbing into the tub, barred her path. On the other side of the steps, a wide conduit led from the tub to a hole in the wall.

  ‘Don’t bother trying to jump the steps and the drain in those long skirts,’ Othar advised. ‘You might hurt yourself.’

  ‘You’ll be the one hurt if you don’t get out of here,’ Yvaine warned. ‘Anna and a couple of slaves are on their way.’

  His smile was enough to make her doubt that last statement. She immediately seized the more likely threat. ‘Then what of Rorik? You’re mad if you think—’

  ‘Don’t you say that!’ he yelled. ‘Don’t you ever say that!’

  He sprang forward, anticipation turning to rage so swiftly, Yvaine had no time to dodge before Othar seized her arm. At the same moment, a branch in the firepit burst into flames, lighting his face from below with a reddish glow that turned his expression demonic.

  She screamed as he yanked her against him. ‘I’ll show you,’ he snarled. ‘I’ll show you I’m a man and not the boy everyone thinks me.’

  Her stomach roiled as the stench of sour ale struck her face, but his words restored reason. She was facing a human fiend, not a supernatural one. It was human force trying to turn her, to pin her against the tub. She screamed again, this time more in rage than fear. She got her hands up, wedged her fists against his chest, and was just drawing breath for another scream, when the door slammed open.

  Rorik strode into the boathouse, seized Othar by the collar of his tunic and seemingly with nothing more than a flick of his wrist hurled his brother through the open doorway.

  Yvaine watched in awe as Othar skidded on his side through a carpet of pine needles and crashed into a tree. She’d known Rorik was powerful, but the strength needed to send a man almost as tall as himself tumbling and threshing helplessly across the ground was terrifying. She gazed up at him, unable to control the fine shivering that seized her limbs.

  ‘Did Othar touch you?’ he demanded, every word edged with ice.

  ‘Not…not the way you mean.’

  ‘But he was going to.’

  When she didn’t answer, he turned and advanced on his brother.

  Yvaine got one brief glimpse of the murderous fury on his face and dashed after him. ‘No! Don’t kill him. He’s drunk, I think.’

  ‘Drunk or sober, he knows better than to intrude on my wife in the bathhouse.’

  ‘She asked me to meet her here,’ Othar yelled, stumbling to his feet. ‘She planned it. To escape from you.’

  Yvaine gaped at him in horror. She’d all but forgotten the vague plans she’d made on the ship to enlist Othar’s help. Now she felt memory stamp itself on her face in a rush of guilty colour. ‘No! Gunhild locked me in.’ She turned to Rorik, knowing she was babbling but terrified he wouldn’t believe her. ‘I don’t know how Othar got the key…mayhap they’re scattered all over the place, but…’

  A sharp movement of his hand cut her off.

  ‘I know enough of my wife to know you’re lying, Othar,’ he said still in that chillingly level tone. ‘I’ll have no man here I can’t trust. Drunk or not, you’ve run wild long enough. After the funeral tomorrow, you will leave Einervik until you learn how to behave.’

  ‘Leave?’ Othar’s eyes widened. ‘You’re banishing me? You can’t do that.’

  ‘I have done it. Now get out of my sight, before I forget you’re my younger brother and give you the thrashing you deserve.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Move!’

  Othar staggered back, his mouth opening and closing. ‘We’ll see about this,’ he got out before lurching away through the forest.

  Yvaine didn’t watch him go. Her entire attention was on Rorik. He turned, pinned her gaze with his, and started forward.

  The implacable purpose in his eyes had the strength draining from her limbs in a heartbeat. ‘Rorik…’

  ‘Don’t stop me.’

  Her eyes went wide. Her heart bounded into her throat, its frantic beat racing faster with every step he took. He reached her, wrapped his big hands around her shoulders and drew her against him. She gasped as their bodies touched. He was rigid, hard all over. Sensation after sensation rioted through her. Before she could sort them out, his mouth came down on hers.

  He kissed her as if he hungered, as if he craved. Every instinct she possessed longed to satisfy that hunger, appease his craving.

  ‘I have to do this,’ he said hoarsely between kisses. ‘I can’t stand to see another man’s hands on you, when I—’ He shuddered, held her tighter. ‘I have to know you’re mine. Mine. Yvaine.’

  Her eyes widened in the second before he started kissing her again. Had that been desperation in his voice? How could she tell when her senses were reeling? When he was holding her locked against him so that she didn’t know who was shaking, whose heart was racing; knew only that the world could have exploded around them and his hold wouldn’t have slackened.

  ‘Release me from my promise,’ he said against her mouth. ‘I need you…need you…’

  She tried to answer, couldn’t. He was kissing her too desperately. She couldn’t even think. She made a small, frantic sound and he drew back; enough to give her air at least, to tremble at the desire blazing in his eyes. The full force of his will washed over her in a wave of fierce demand, yet she wasn’t afraid. This was right. This was the moment.

  ‘Rorik…’

  ‘Do you trust me not to hurt you?’ he asked, every word sounding as though it was torn from him.

  When she nodded, he swept her close again, his face buried in her hair. ‘Then let that be enough,’ he groaned. ‘Please let that be enough for now.’

  ‘Aye,’ she whispered. And lifted a hand to his cheek. ‘’Tis enough, Rorik.’

  He held her a moment longer, shudders racking his powerful body. Then with an almost agonized sound of yearning, he picked her up and carried her into the bathhouse.

  Firelight flickered, sending showers dancing across the walls, as he stood her beside the bench. He stepped away once, to wrench the key from the lock, slam the door and lock it. Then he was back, his hands going to the brooches holding her outer garment in place.

  Yvaine trembled as she watched him. His eyes were narrowed, wholly focused on the task of releasing the clasps, of lifting the woollen garment from her and tossing it aside. Desire drew the lines of his face taut, but she sensed the fierce control he had over himself. When he loosened the neck of her shift, it was she who pushed the sleeves down, letting the soft linen slip to the floor, she who reached to unfasten the ties of her undershift. He would not merely take. She would give.

  But shyness intruded. Her hands fumbled on the ties. She had never stood before a man, naked. And he was still fully clothed.

  She looked up, uncertain, and understanding gentled his face. Holding her gaze, he stripped off his tunic and undershirt in one swift movement and reached for her.

  Yvaine gasped as his hands encircled her waist, gasped again when he drew her against him. Her flimsy undershift was no barrier at all to the heat, the exciting friction of hair-roughened muscle against her softer flesh. The assault on her senses was almost too much. She whimpered and he held her tighter, bending his head to hers.

  ‘I went to the house,’ he said hoarsely, his mouth buried in her hair. ‘You weren’t there.’

  ‘No.’ She frowned, struggled free of the drugging pleasure of being in his arms. A strange, elusive awareness teased the back of her mind, that there was more here than mere desire.

  But the thought slipped away. Reason was impossible when he held her like this, while his
hands moved over her with barely restrained urgency, caressing, possessing. Need rose, the need to mate with him, to be one with him. Love welled, filling her heart until it eclipsed all else. She was his. It was as simple as that.

  ‘I was here,’ she answered softly. ‘I knew you’d come.’

  ‘Always.’ He drew back, his heart pounding against her breast as he lifted her off her feet, holding her with one arm while he tossed the bench furs on to the floor. For an instant the room swung dizzily, then he laid her gently on the makeshift bed, quickly stripped off his remaining garments and came down beside her.

  ‘Always,’ he repeated, and slowly drew her undershift away.

  Apprehension washed over her, just for a moment as he leant over her. He was big, incredibly powerful. The muscles beneath her hands were like tempered steel, but suddenly she realised he was shaking. His skin burned as though he was in the grip of fever. She was helpless against his much greater strength, but as his gaze followed the firelight flickering over her body, she saw that against his need of her, so too, was he. In their private world of passion, vulnerability was shared; they both held power here.

  The knowledge enthralled her, but then he made a rough sound in his throat, covered her breast with his hand, and excitement shivered through her on a ripple of heat.

  ‘I’ve ached to see you again like this,’ he said very low. ‘To touch you like this. To know you in every way there is.’

  She turned her face into his shoulder. ‘I ache, too,’ she whispered. ‘Somewhere inside. ’Tis the strangest feeling.’

  The soft confession drew a groan from him. Holding her close, he stroked his hand down her body until his fingers tangled in the honey-gold curls between her legs. ‘Here?’ he asked, and, parting the soft folds, touched her with exquisite care.

  She cried out, arching into his touch. Her head fell back, and with an almost savage sound of triumph he covered her mouth with his.

  She expected a swift possession; tried to brace herself for it. Instead he kissed her with heart-shaking tenderness, until she was responding without thought. Caressed her until she was almost insensate with need. Only when she was moving helplessly beneath him, breathless little cries breaking from her throat, did he move to cover her body with his.

  He framed her face between his hands, holding her still for his gaze as he began to enter her. Her breath caught at the blazing intensity in his eyes, at the sheer intimacy of the act. Firelight flickered, sending light and shadow chasing over him with every slow thrust of his body. There was pain; she’d expected it. Despite his promise, he was too big not to hurt her this first time. But, oh, the wonder of feeling him become part of her, the wild excitement of being held captive beneath him, the sheer delight of giving. Sweet, honeyed weakness invaded every limb, softening muscles that had tensed, easing the burning sensation as he pushed deeper, until he was seated to the hilt, until all she could feel was him, his hand clamping her lower body to his until she wondered that their very bones didn’t meld.

  She felt her inner flesh quiver around him and cried out as indescribable pleasure speared through her.

  ‘Gods,’ he groaned. ‘Don’t do that.’

  He raised himself on one forearm, easing some of his weight from her. He saw her eyes widen as the shift pressed him impossibly deeper, and possessiveness flared, warring with needs that were just this side of violent. He was almost afraid to move, afraid he’d lose control. She made him feel all powerful, yet terrifyingly vulnerable. The conqueror triumphant; a supplicant at her feet.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he asked, and barely recognised the hoarse sound of his voice.

  She nodded. At least, she thought she did. How could she tell when she was stretched on a rack of unbearable anticipation? He seemed to understand for he began to move, slowly at first, and then with a power that swept her beyond thought, beyond awareness of anything but the two of them, enveloped by firelight, moving as one.

  Trembling became tension, coiling tighter and tighter. Her heart felt like a tiny battering ram, hammering against her ribs until she wondered why it simply didn’t burst under the assault. Her body arched, wanting, needing. Oh, the need…She closed her eyes, clinging to him, unaware that the frantic sounds she was making threatened to drive him to madness. He slid his hand between their bodies, pressed his fingers to the point where they joined, and suddenly the tension exploded. Her body clenched and released, flooding her with sensations she could never have imagined. Indescribable pleasure; the sweetest madness.

  She felt him go rigid, felt the harsh groan that tore from his throat, and with a helpless little sob, yielded control of her senses to him, surrendered utterly to the waves of ecstasy washing over her. Until there was nothing but peace, and the gentle heat of the fire, and Rorik holding her as if he’d never let her go.

  Soft, trusting, she lay in his arms.

  He watched her as she dozed. She had surrendered with such sweet abandon, had rendered herself so open and vulnerable at the moment of completion, he’d all but lost his mind, had been taken to the very edge of consciousness by the force of his release.

  It should have been enough.

  It wasn’t.

  He frowned into the shadows beyond the firelight, fighting the urge to hold Yvaine closer, to wake her, as though in sleep she might drift away from him. He wanted her again, would always want her, but it was more than desire that prowled just beyond his understanding. More even than the need to protect her. It was as if some part of him was missing. And she was that part.

  She could bring him to his knees.

  He shook his head sharply, and as though she sensed the sudden tension in him, her lashes fluttered open. She looked up at him. And smiled.

  A velvet-covered fist slammed straight into his heart. Her smile held such sweet, shy, feminine knowledge that, had he been standing, he would, indeed, have fallen to his knees.

  He bent his head and buried his face in her hair. He, who had never before hidden from anything or anyone in his life. ‘Sweet sorceress,’ he growled beneath his breath. ‘What is it about you?’

  He felt her fingers touch his shoulder, a caress too swiftly gone. ‘Rorik?’

  The uncertainty in her voice brought him back. She wasn’t responsible for the turmoil within him. At least, not intentionally. After her first time with a man, she needed petting and reassurance, not a husband who was suddenly groping about in the dark cavern that had become his mind.

  He lifted his head. ‘Now you’re my wife in every way.’

  Well, that was certainly reassuring. A blunt statement of possession.

  But she made a humming sound of agreement in her throat that brought his body to instant readiness. He leashed the need to simply spread her legs and take her. The faint tell-tale stain on her inner thigh told him it was too soon for that. Oh, he’d pleasure her again, he’d bind her to him with every physical chain he could think of, but his own needs could wait until she’d healed.

  ‘I hurt you,’ he murmured, touching his fingers to the stain. ‘I’m sorry.’

  An echo of pleasure shimmered through Yvaine at his touch. ‘Only for a moment.’

  He bent to kiss the curve of her shoulder. ‘’Twill be easier next time. Elskling min.’

  The last was said so low she barely caught the words, was too distracted by the heat of his body as he leaned over her, the tender note in his voice, the nibbling little kisses that moved up her throat. Had he said ‘my darling’? She couldn’t be sure. It was all mixed up with her own feelings, with trying to fathom his. So much had happened; impressions tumbled on top of each other, overwhelming her.

  But hope was strong.

  ‘Fortunately,’ he went on in that soft murmur, ‘we have the means to ease the hurt right here to hand.’

  She blinked, trying to keep up with him. ‘We do?’

  His mouth curved against her ear. ‘The bath. I presume that’s why you came here.’

  ‘Well, aye, but…’ She shivere
d as he tasted the tip of her ear, then memory rushed back. ‘Rorik, you don’t believe—?’

  ‘No, never.’ He lifted his head, suddenly intent, and framed her face between his hands. ‘I would never doubt your honour, Yvaine. But…for your own safety, don’t come here alone. At least, not until Othar has left Einervik.’

  ‘I won’t, but, Rorik, Gunhild was with me.’

  ‘Gunhild?’ His eyes narrowed, and she realised his rage at finding Othar in the bathhouse with her had deafened him to her earlier explanation.

  ‘Aye. She promised to send Anna and some slaves, then locked me in. Mayhap Othar has another key, but…’

  ‘He’d have no need for one,’ he interrupted. ‘The place is never locked. There’s a key for privacy if needed, but it hangs on a hook beside the door.’

  ‘Oh.’ She frowned, not wishing to be the bearer of tales, but puzzled. ‘Gunhild told me ’twas always kept locked to prevent the slaves from using it as, uh, a trysting place.’

  That brought his smile back. ‘Aye, she may have caught a couple here when they should have been about their work. I’ll question her about it. However—’ He glanced over at the wisps of steam rising from the cauldrons hanging over the fire, then looked back at her. His smile turned wicked. ‘Since we’re here, and since the water is now warm…’

  Yvaine had to laugh, happiness bubbling up inside her at his quick change of mood even as she measured the cauldrons with a doubtful eye. ‘If you mean for us to bathe, I think we’ll need more than three loads to fill that tub.’

  The gleam in his eyes was suddenly very male, and utterly sure. ‘Trust me,’ he murmured, bending to brush her lips with his. ‘There’ll be plenty for what I have in mind.’

  Chapter Eleven

  Gunhild claimed to have passed the key to Othar when she’d met him on her way back to the house, with instructions to give it to Anna, because a minor accident, requiring her presence, had occurred in the dairy. She had been all polite apologies for the trouble Othar had caused. Aye, he certainly needed to realise that boyish mischief, fuelled by too much ale, would not be tolerated.