“Do you think she is a wise woman?” Mina’s soft voice came from behind him.
Dag pulled his glance away from Fiona’s. He shrugged in response to Mina’s question. “Apparently she has some knowledge.”
“Magic?” Mina asked solemnly.
Dag regarded his sister-by-marriage with surprise. He had hinted as much to Knorri and Sigurd, but was it advisable to ascribe supernatural powers to the Irishwoman? It might force his kinsmen to hold her in higher regard, but it would also irrevocably set her apart. The Norse respected wise women, but they didn’t associate with them. He didn’t want to doom the Irishwoman to always being an outcast. He knew from personal experience what loneliness being different could bring.
“Nei, I don’t think so.”
Mina frowned. “You must beware, Dag. I think the woman is deceitful. I heard her talking with her countrywoman, Breaca, and I understood a little of what they said. It seems the Irishwoman plots to win your goodwill by sharing your bed.”
Dag opened his mouth to say he was well aware of the woman’s motivations. Mina stalled his words by continuing. “Knorri and Sigurd were also mentioned. While I care little if my husband beds a slave now and then, I would not see you hurt. If the woman is willing to offer herself to any man who gives her protection, you would be unwise to let yourself care for her too deeply.”
Dag stared at Mina. His sister-by-marriage was not given to idle suspicions. “How could you know what they said?” he asked. “I was certain the Irishwoman spoke only her own language.”
“I understand a bit of Irish,” Mina answered. “At least those kinds of words.” A slight blush spread across her cheeks. “Sigurd taught me. He likes that sort of bedplay.”
“You mean she spoke of bedding Knorri or Sigurd? What did she say?”
Mina blushed more deeply. “I believe she said something about being able to make Knorri’s old shaft rise.”
Dag sucked in his breath. The scheming wench! She had rejected him on the ship, now she prepared to offer herself to the jarl!
His gaze sought the Irishwoman. She sat dutifully spinning wool with a hand spindle a short distance from the hearth. Looking up, she gave him a shy smile. The smile changed to bewilderment as he continued to glare at her. She flushed and put the spindle aside. He stared daggers at her as she got up and hastily left the longhouse.
Dag sighed. The fact that she fled his presence only confirmed her guilt.
Mina had moved away and was adding wood to the fire. “Mina,” Dag called. “When did you overhear the Irishwoman talking to Breaca?”
“Yesterday, when they returned from the bathing hut.”
Dag looked toward the longhouse entrance, remembering how the Irishwoman had offered herself to him that very morning. Did that mean she had changed her mind about enticing Knorri? Or had she turned to him because she realized that Knorri was not a man easily manipulated by a woman—and he was?
Bitterness filled his throat. A few moments ago, he had felt a special intimacy with the Irishwoman. Now his doubts were back. Could he ever trust such a fickle, inconstant creature?
“Dag, would you mind bringing in some more firewood?” Mina asked.
He looked irritably at his sister-by-marriage. There were shadows of weariness under her eyes, and she held one hand to the small of her back, as if it pained her. He remembered suddenly she was with child, and his irritation vanished. “Of course, Mina,” he answered.
“You should have more help,” he said as he rose from the bench. “Where is Breaca?”
“I sent her to the brewhouse to aid Ingeborg. After that, she will churn the butter.”
“Shall I call back the Irishwoman?”
“You don’t care that she might mar her pretty hands?”
Dag grimaced. His sister-by-marriage was right; he had pampered Fiona too much already.
“She is a slave,” he answered fiercely. “She will do as she is bid.”
* * *
Another feast—did these gluttonous Vikings never tire of eating? Fiona sighed as she delivered a third platter of meat to the jarl’s table. It was roast pork this time, served with lingonberry sauce. She watched Knorri stuff another knifeful of greasy meat into his mouth. Fat pigs—if they didn’t curb their greed, they would soon blow up like sheep bladders and find themselves too stout to wield their weapons.
Except Dag. She noted that he ate sparingly and with an easy grace she admired. He didn’t stuff his mouth with so much that he looked like a squirrel hoarding food for the winter, nor did he wipe his greasy hands on his tunic afterwards. His decent manners were a relief, especially now that she had decided to let him bed her.
If he still wanted her. The thought sent a shaft of anxiety through her. Dag had acted strangely throughout the feast, and, indeed, the whole day. He still watched her with gleaming, lust-filled eyes, but the spark of concern, almost tenderness, which she had observed earlier had vanished. Something had happened to make him hate her again. What was it? After she saw him talking to Mina, his expression had changed. What had Sigurd’s wife said to him?
Fiona proceeded to the cooking area and filled another platter, this time with dark bread. As Fiona passed by, Mina glanced up and smiled at her. Fiona nodded stiffly and continued on her way. Mina didn’t seem to bear her any ill will. What could she have said to Dag?
Fiona took a detour to the side of the longhouse where Breaca was occupied filling endless alehorns from wooden casks. Fiona pulled the younger woman aside. “What does Mina think of me?”
Breaca gave her a startled look. “I think she is pleased for your help. I know the babe tires her. She seems paler than usual, and I often catch her rubbing her back. ‘Tis early for her to experience such discomfort.”
“When is the babe due to be born?”
“In the month of the Blood Moon. Sigurd worries because old Amir died last winter and we no longer have a wise woman at the steading. If the weather is bad when the babe comes, it will be difficult to get a midwife here in time.”
Fiona opened her mouth to say she knew something about birthing babes, having helped Siobhan deliver at least a dozen. Quickly, she closed it again. If she earned a reputation for being a “wise woman,” it might bring her trouble. People were often known to turn on a healer who failed. So far, she had not earned much goodwill among her captors.
“I’m sorry she ails,” Fiona said quietly. “I can’t help but like Mina, although I fear she has turned Dag against me.”
Breaca’s blue eyes were instantly alert. “Why do you think Dag has turned against you? He saved your life, and at some cost to his pride.”
Fiona shrugged. “ ‘Tis a feeling I have.” She glanced once more toward the jarl’s table.
Dag still watched her, his eyes a bleached, frosty blue that made her shiver.
Chapter 15
Dag watched the Irishwoman approach. As much as he despised the crude gown she wore, completely hiding her luscious curves, the way it covered her was for the best. She already attracted enough men’s attention to anger him. Brodir watched her like a hungry predator, and Kalf and Balder, also. Even old Knorri could not keep his gaze away.
Dag glanced narrowly at the jarl, well aware of the lecherous expression in the old man’s watery eyes. “ ‘Tis pleased I am that you advised me to spare the Irishwoman’s life,” Knorri announced as Fiona reached their table. “Now that I’ve seen her closely, I realize that she makes a fine serving thrall. Watching her entertains me. Tell me, Dag, are her breasts as full and high as they appear?”
Dag’s muscles went rigid. What would he do if the jarl asked him to share the Irishwoman? “Ja,” he answered gruffly.
“And her hips and thighs—are they as rounded and full as a man might desire?” Knorri probed.
“Nei, she still has a maiden’s hips—slim and narrow.” Actually, Dag thought her hips perfect, but he knew Knorri favored full-figured women. Thank the gods.
Knorri sighed softly at Dag’s r
esponse. “Mayhap after she has borne you a few babes, her hips will spread enough to accommodate my thick shaft.”
Dag saw Sigurd stifle a smile. They both knew that by the time the Irishwoman bore a couple of babes, Knorri would be dead, or fully impotent. The jarl had not taken a woman to bed in two years. He said they were too much trouble; his warriors suspected the old man didn’t want to risk failure.
Knorri beckoned to the Irishwoman. Dag stiffened as she approached. Would she insult the jarl? He couldn’t save her if she roused the old man’s wrath.
The woman stood next to Knorri. He smiled at her, showing his brownish but still healthy teeth. His gnarled hand reached out for her. Dag held his breath.
The jarl touched Fiona’s face, his weathered fingers tracing the pure lines of her queenly features. “Exquisite,” he murmured. His hand moved down, smoothing the column of the Irishwoman’s neck, then lower. His fingers splayed across her chest, groping for her breasts. He grimaced and jerked his hand away. “Damned scratchy wool! It’s like sticking your hand into a bramble bush.” He turned to Dag. “You fondle her breasts and tell me if they are as soft as an old warrior’s dreams.”
Dag’s eyes widened. Did the jarl mean for him to handle the woman before everyone? He hesitated, his gaze focused on Fiona. She stood very still, as if waiting for Knorri to grab her again. When she glanced at Dag, he saw the fear in her eyes. Why was she afraid? Did she fear his touch? Or Knorri’s?
The jarl sat back in his chair and groaned. “Cursed old bones. I can’t sit up swilling ale as I used to.”
“Tyrker promised to tell a fine story later,” Sigurd reminded him.
Knorri shook his head and rose stiffly from his chair. “I’ve heard them all before. I’d best seek my bedcloset—before I have to be carried there.”
The old warrior tottered a distance, then turned and winked. “Dag, don’t forget to ride the Irish wench one time for me, and tell me about it on the morrow.”
Dag nodded stiffly, greatly relieved that the jarl was leaving.
In the future he must contrive to keep Fiona away from the old lecher.
But was she relieved? He looked back at her. She had not moved, except to step back so the jarl could get by. Now she stared after Knorri, watching him wend his way toward the bedcloset where he slept alone. What was she thinking? Did she regret missing her chance to entice the old man?
A muscle twitched in Dag’s jaw as he looked out at the rest of the room. Brodir and Kalf both watched the jarl’s table, their gaze clearly centered on the Irishwoman. A possessive fury swept over him. The woman was his! Let every man in the room know it!
He leaned over and grabbed Fiona by the arm and wrenched her onto his lap. She squirmed. He hissed a warning and tightened his grip around her ribs. How dare she struggle! She had endured the jarl’s handling; now she would tolerate his. And by Thor’s hammer, she would act like she enjoyed it!
Fiona went still in the Viking’s arms, her heart hammering. What had come over Dag? She’d thought he meant to protect her, but it seemed he had other plans tonight. First, he let that repulsive old man grope her, now he seized her as crudely as Brodir had.
Tears sprang to Fiona’s eyes. She could feel his hand around her waist, as hard and unyielding as iron, and sensed the terrible tension in his body. His sudden anger baffled her. She thought she had done the right thing by suffering the jarl’s ineffectual caress, but obviously she hadn’t pleased Dag. She twisted to look at him and was stunned by the cold savagery in his eyes. A shudder went down her spine. What did he mean to do with her?
The longhouse quieted, and Fiona’s heartbeat slowed to normal. A thin, fair-haired man made his way to the front of the room. He bowed before Sigurd and Dag, then took a seat before the high table in a carved chair one of the Vikings had brought for him. The room went utterly still, and the man began to speak.
So this was the skald, Fiona thought. A sense of reprieve filled her. Mayhap Dag only wanted her to sit and be quiet while the man performed. That she could manage.
The skald told his story in a low and melodious voice, although in Fiona’s mind, the coarseness of the Norse language spoiled the rhythm of his phrasing. Unable to understand a word, Fiona occupied herself with examining the man’s appearance. He appeared much smaller than most of his countrymen, and his hair was so light a shade as to be almost white. His features were graceful, although fine lines etched patterns around his eyes and mouth. Occasionally, he gestured with his long-fingered, elegant hands. Fiona guessed that he described a battle or other violent scene.
Faint boredom crept over her, although the rest of the hall listened as if mesmerized. Dag shifted her on his lap, and she wondered if he, too, felt restive. His grip around her waist had relaxed. Fiona settled against him, beginning to grow comfortable. The warmth of the longhouse, the skald’s lulling voice—Fiona wondered if she would be considered rude if she fell asleep.
Her lassitude vanished instantly as she felt Dag’s hand move upwards to caress one of her breasts. The thick wool did not thwart him as it had Knorri. His palm firmly cupped her breast, then his fingers searched until they found her nipple. Fiona’s muscles went taut, and she tried to wriggle from his grasp. Dag’s other hand came up to hold her still. Even through the cloth, she could feel the heat and pressure of his hand. He toyed slowly with her nipple until warm arousal spread through her.
She felt her other nipple harden as her body reacted to his teasing touch. For a moment, she knew the urge to lean back and enjoy the provocative sensation. Nay, what if someone were to see him fondling her? She glanced at Sigurd, dreading that he might be aware of Dag’s movements. Like the rest of the room, his attention appeared focused on the skald.
Dag’s rhythm was soothing and inflaming all at once. He traced languid circles around her areola till Fiona felt aroused to the point of pain. The unrelieved tension made her fidget, and she squirmed on his lap. She heard him suck in his breath, and she was suddenly aware of something rigid pressing against her buttocks. She felt a blush fire her cheeks and tried to remain still so as not to arouse him further.
Dag had other intentions. He pushed her forward on one of his thighs, then took her left hand and brought it around to touch his groin. Even through his trews, she could feel the hard bulge of his shaft as he held her wrist and made her stroke him. Fiona felt her face flame even brighter, but a part of her enjoyed what her hand was doing. She couldn’t help but remember touching his naked shaft, silky and hot in her hand.
As she caressed him with more enthusiasm, she sensed Dag’s growing discomfort. His breathing grew harsh and quick in her ear; his arm tightened around her ribs again. With a low curse, he removed her hand from his member and pulled her body hard against his chest. A slight smile curved Fiona’s lips. Two could play this tantalizing game.
Her body felt wonderful, light and hot at the same time, and she wondered if Dag meant to take her to his bedcloset soon. Instead, he resumed touching her breast—the other one this time. In retaliation, Fiona used her hips to rub against his obvious erection, deliberately increasing his torment.
It was a mistake. Dag’s right hand slid down to tighten around her waist, while his other hand began to pull up her skirt. Fiona’s smugness faded. Handling her through her clothes was one thing, seeking out bare skin quite another. If Sigurd should look over, he would see her kirtle hiked to her knee. Fiona tried frantically to decide what to do. It didn’t seem possible Dag meant to hold her here and fondle her for all to see. Mayhap he was testing her, making certain she would not struggle if he took her to bed.
Would she struggle? Fiona wasn’t certain herself. The Viking had made her hunger for him, and Breaca had assured her that it was wisest to yield to her master. But it was such a momentous decision. Once she yielded, she would truly be his slave.
He pulled her skirt higher, until her thigh was half bare.
Fiona glanced nervously at Sigurd. He briefly looked her way, then returned his att
ention to the skald. Fiona took a shaky breath. The table blocked the view of most of those in the hall. If Sigurd did not notice, no one else would guess what Dag was doing.
Dag’s hand slid under her skirt. Fiona gasped as his warm, callused fingers touched her skin and continued their upward path. She closed her eyes as she felt him caress her inner thigh. Saint Bridget, please! Let him stop!
To her relief, Dag twisted around on his chair so Sigurd couldn’t see what he did. But he didn’t stop. Fiona began to tremble as she felt him caress her between her legs. She knew she was wet, appallingly so. He pressed his palm against her, as if calming her throbbing flesh, then he ran his finger between the outer lips of her womanhood. Fiona thought she would swoon; she leaned back against Dag, fearful that she might collapse into a quivering mass on the floor. He released her waist and adjusted her hips on his lap.
His whole hand cupped her now, his hot flesh against her wetness. She took a deep breath, then another. When would he stop this torture? His fingers parted her again. He slipped one inside her. Fiona went absolutely still. She was melting, her whole lower body turning liquid. Strange vibrations echoed through her, as though she was a harp he played. She wanted to cry out, to thrash wildly. She could do nothing or a whole feasthall of men would learn of her rapture.
He whispered something soft and tender in her ear, and his hand moved in a way that seemed to quiet the raging hunger growing within her. She suppressed a moan as he murmured her name, low and intimate. He stroked her slowly, deliberately, gliding his fingers gently across the inflamed, slippery place between her legs. Now and then, he would slide one finger into her feminine passageway. The pressure seemed to soothe her, and she couldn’t help thinking of how his shaft would feel inside her, so hot and solid. The image made her grow even wetter.
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