The Outlaw Viking

by Sandra Hill

  Rain did turn then and ran for her life.

  Chapter Two

  Cursing angrily, Selik chased the tall woman into the forest, sprinting to catch up. Christ’s blood! He was wasting precious time on the troublesome wench.

  “Halt!”

  The giant wood sprite responded by letting a branch swing back and hit him smack in the face as she laughed shrilly, a note of hysteria edging her voice. Never stopping, she continued to dart swiftly through the thickly wooded area on long legs covered with unseemly male leggings.

  “You dare much to claim Thork as father,” he shouted with exasperation. “’Twill be a pleasure to skin you alive, you lying bitch.” When she didn’t answer and eluded him still, he threatened, “I will pull your lying tongue out of your head and eat it raw.”

  Selik heard her gasp at his last, ridiculous words and say something incoherent that sounded like “Yeech!” A slow, secret smile twitched his lips. So, the lackwit thought he was a barbarian? Hah! Well, he would show her.

  “If you stop now,” he cajoled, getting closer, “’twill be a swift death for you. Mayhap a neat lop of your head. Do you persist in this useless chase, though, you force me to prolong your pain.” That should paint the wench some vivid mind-pictures.

  “Go to hell,” the impudent vixen yelled back.

  Damn her impertinence! Didn’t the foolish maid know the danger she faced in rousing his temper? He had killed many a man for less.

  “Perchance your golden eyes would look good without eyelashes,” Selik offered smoothly, meanwhile breathing raggedly from the exertion of his pursuit and the aftermath of battle weariness.

  He furrowed his brow. Golden eyes? Holy Thor, when had he noticed the color of her eyes? He shook his head to clear the unwelcome image and lashed out ruthlessly, “Damn your eyes! Mayhap I could remove your eyeballs, as well.”

  The woman snorted in disdain, or disbelief, and another branch swung back, this time hitting him in the abdomen, opening the sword wound he had received earlier.

  Now he was really angry.

  Blood oozed from the cut, and he hurt like hell—another reason to beat the impudence out of the dull-headed troublemaker. Odin’s spit! He squandered valuable minutes pursuing the silly creature when he must needs put as much distance as possible between himself and his Saxon enemy.

  There was an additional threat here, as well. Selik had recognized the man he killed earlier, the noble thane hoisted on his standing pike. It was Elwinus, Athelstan’s own cousin. The king had put a bounty on Selik’s head before the battle; now the Saxon bastard would want him alive and kicking for the slowest torture possible.

  And worse yet, Elwinus claimed to be Steven of Gravely’s brother. Bloody hell! He and Steven had more than enough reason to kill each other on sight without this latest fuel added to their mutual hate. Had Steven been at the battle site? Selik wondered suddenly, and he considered returning to end their blood feud once and for all time.

  But then Selik looked toward the mad wench who ran in front of him. He could not disregard the sly wench’s outrageous claim. He knew she was not Saxon. Her stature, pale honey hair, and fine features told the truth of her Nordic heritage. But neither could she be daughter to his dead friend, Thork, and she would pay dearly for missaying the truth and delaying him needlessly.

  “Enough!” Selik roared finally. The witch had bedeviled him overlong. With a mighty lunge, he tackled her from behind. She hit the ground with a loud “oomph!” and he landed flat atop her.

  The fall knocked the wind out of Selik. He lay still for several moments with his face buried in the burnished gold web of the maid’s luxuriant hair, which had come loose from its braid. Its sweet, seductive fragrance, an odd mixture of flowers and spices, overwhelmed his senses, making him forget momentarily the brutality and emptiness of his life and remember a time when he had relished the leisure to appreciate the little things of life. Like a woman’s scent. Or the feel of lush feminine curves molded perfectly in the cradle of his body.

  Selik’s frozen heart thawed for a second with feelings he had long disciplined himself to disdain. Oh, Astrid, he thought suddenly, and a pain so fierce he could not stand it swelled his heart and threatened to burst the walls of his aching chest. He missed her so much. Tears welled in his eyes in memory of the last time he had seen his wife. The bloody, gruesome mind-picture tormented him endlessly. Would it ever go away?

  A gentle nudge jarred him back from his unwelcome reverie. The horse had followed him through the woods.

  Thor’s blood! he growled in silent self-disgust over his maudlin daydreams. It was years since he had allowed himself such extravagant self-indulgence over his long-dead spouse.

  Raising himself on straightened elbows, Selik realized that the woman did not move beneath him. Had she died from the force of his hitting her with his substantial weight?

  “Mumpfh!”

  “What?”

  The wench raised her head and grumbled, “Get off me, you big oaf. You must weigh as much as that horse—my horse, incidentally. Do you want to crush me to death—before you have a chance to eat my tongue?”

  With a soft, reluctant chuckle, Selik allowed her to roll over on her back but kept her pinned to the ground with his lower body.

  “Your shrewish tongue outruns your good sense, wench. Methinks ’twould be too tart for my taste.”

  Brush burns, grass and dirt covered her face and lips. Pieces of grass and twigs stuck in her disheveled hair and marred her silky shirt. She spit rudely to clear her mouth.

  Selik momentarily forgot the reason for his anger, so entranced was he by the allure of the woman who lay beneath him. He brushed several loose strands of golden hair off her shoulder. Like amber silk, it was. He rubbed the threads sensuously between his calloused fingers.

  Turning his eyes upward, he noticed a fearsome bruise high on her forehead, its purplish tones stark against her creamy skin. Selik couldn’t stop himself from touching it gently with a forefinger, and her full lips, like crushed rose petals, parted involuntarily on an indrawn breath of pain, showing off uncommonly even white teeth.

  The wench’s honey-brown eyes held his, questioning, probably wondering what he would do next, and for long moments Selik could not help himself from gazing at her with longing. The vast emptiness inside him felt suddenly full and warm. When had he last felt this way? Astrid, he realized immediately and berated himself scornfully once again.

  Suddenly, Selik saw the foolishness of his action. He was behaving like a besotted lackbrain dawdling with a maid while the Saxon hounds nipped at his heels. He pulled out the dagger at his belt and held its razor edge against her neck.

  “What do you here, wench?”

  “What would you have me do? I can’t move,” she snapped.

  “Do you deliberately mistake my words? You must needs take your situation more seriously.” He pressed the gleaming blade tighter and drew a thin line of blood like a drizzle of wine in new snow. “Your paltry life means naught to me.”

  “Oh, really! Don’t you think you’re being a bit dramatic?” the foolish witch said scornfully, as if she feared him not. “Besides, it would be a lot less messy if you didn’t cut my jugular vein. I would suggest here at the kidney, or here through the diaphragm.”

  She pointed to two places on her body that Selik knew would bring instant death, as well as the large blood-pumping spot on her neck. How did a simple female know such? And what was a die-frame?

  Rain saw the confusion on Selik’s face.

  A voice echoed in her head, Save him.

  Surprisingly unafraid then, she stared up at the hardened warrior hovering over her. “Would you really kill me, Selik?”

  “In a trice.”

  “I don’t think you would,” Rain asserted with more confidence than she felt, “and furthermore, even though you act like a bear, I’m not afraid of you.”

  “Then you are truly a halfwit, I warrant.”

  Rain shrugged, tryi
ng to ignore the words in her head that kept repeating, Save him. Save him. Save him…

  Selik frowned, seeming disturbed by her brave front. Couldn’t the fool hear her teeth chattering?

  “How dost thou know my name? Why were you at Brunanburh?”

  “I’m not sure,” Rain admitted hesitantly. “I think…I think God sent me.”

  Selik snorted rudely in disbelief. “Why would God do thus?”

  “To save you,” Rain offered weakly.

  “Me? God cares naught for such as me.” He surveyed her through slitted eyes while he sheathed his knife, then asked reluctantly, as if he couldn’t believe he was saying the words, “Save me from what?”

  “From yourself.”

  Selik slapped both hands to his head in disbelief. Still kneeling atop her, he threw his head back and hooted with laughter.

  Rain knew Selik didn’t believe her. Who would, under the circumstances? She lowered her lashes quickly to hide the disappointment, then waited patiently for Selik to recover from his infuriating fit of laughter.

  Finally, he wiped his eyes and shook his head in wonder at her arrogant claims. “’Tis too much. The maid declares herself my guardian angel. Sweet Freya! The battle today must have unhinged my mind. Mayhap the wench got hit on the head as well.” He looked pointedly at the bump on her forehead. Little did he know it had happened a thousand years from now in a Viking museum. Or was it this morning? Rain wondered with a frown.

  Selik continued to chuckle.

  Rain clucked her tongue, chafing now under his continued ridicule. Good heavens! Her words weren’t that funny.

  But Rain wasn’t really annoyed. Despite the danger of the Saxon pursuit and Selik’s threats, her troubled spirits calmed, and she felt a strange peace being with the ruthless Viking, as if she’d finally found her place in life.

  And, besides, she rationalized, Selik had been through absolute hell that day…and probably had for years. It showed in the scars and poorly healed broken bones and empty eyes. No matter how much she hated his brutality, Rain couldn’t stop herself from admiring Selik, the man, almost as she would a wounded animal with a fine pedigree that had been battered but still maintained its innate beauty.

  Save him.

  Rain almost groaned aloud at the persistent inner voice. How would she ever be able to penetrate the utter emptiness at the bottom of his desolate eyes? Would he let her get that close?

  “My mother was right about you,” Rain whispered huskily, still pinned to the ground by his body.

  Selik raised an eyebrow.

  “You’re gorgeous.”

  Selik snorted rudely. “’Tis of no importance. And do not dare try your paltry charms on me. ’Twill not work. Leastways, I lost whatever looks I had many years past.” Then he hesitated, as if pondering something. “You mentioned your mother. Do I know her?”

  “You did. Her name was Ruby…Ruby Jordan…before she married—”

  “Argh!” Selik jumped up, glaring down at Rain. Then he pulled her roughly to her feet, noticing something for the first time. His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he pointed to the brooch on her lapel and asked, “Where did you pilfer that?”

  “My mother gave it to me.”

  “’Tis impossible.” He put a hand to his brow and rubbed, obviously troubled. “Nay, not Ruby. You cannot be her daughter. Or Thork’s.”

  He searched her face then, looking for a resemblance, which Rain knew was there if he’d only see it. Suddenly, Selik seemed to remember something. Before she had a chance to react, he took her blouse by the lapels and tore it apart, uncaring of the rips or popping buttons.

  “How dare you?” Rain sputtered and tried futilely to hold the edges of the shirt together. Selik knocked her hands aside.

  He stared at her breasts incredulously, but not with lust. “For the love of Freya! You wear Ruby’s strange undergarment. Lingerie, methinks she named it.”

  “This is not my mother’s bra.” Rain clamped her jaw shut defiantly, then demanded to know, “How did you ever see my mother’s underwear?”

  “Hah! Every man in King Sigtrygg’s court saw the scandalous garment when she removed that traitorous Brass Balls shirt of hers. She even went into business making the wispy things while she lived amongst us.”

  Criminey! Selik was repeating the same ridiculous story her mother had told for years. And no one had believed Ruby, herself included. Maybe this wasn’t a dream, after all. Rain clasped both widespread hands to her mouth in horror.

  Oh, my God! Could time-travel really be possible?

  “Listen, I assure you that Ruby is my mother, and she always said Thork was my father.” Rain decided not to tell him—at least, not yet—that her mother also said Jack Jordan was her father as well. “I can give you all the explanations you want, but don’t you think we should get away from here first? If the Saxons capture us, it won’t matter who I am.”

  Selik nodded reluctantly and whistled between his closed teeth. The dumb horse came ambling toward him like a lovesick swain. How did Selik do that? It was probably a female, Rain decided with disgust, wondering if he had the same effect on women in general.

  Selik put his left hand on the saddle and vaulted onto the horse, then looked down at her expressionlessly while she scrambled to repair the damage to her blouse as best she could and rebraid her hair.

  “I will take you with me—for now—but heed me well, wench,” he said finally, “do you play me false, I will not hesitate to kill you.” Then he reached down and grabbed her by an elbow. With one rough motion, he swept her up into his arms, weightlessly, and held her snugly across his lap.

  Rain rubbed her elbow in chagrin but decided not to push her luck by complaining. Holy cow! Aside from the unnecessary roughness, Rain marveled that Selik could have lifted her so easily. She couldn’t remember the last time anyone had picked her up. She was too big. Wasn’t she?

  “And do not wiggle your arse like you did afore,” Selik ordered insolently as the horse began to move. “Your bawdy games will gain you naught. Even if I had the time, I would not rut with such as you.”

  Rain couldn’t remain silent this time. “Your arrogance revolts me. I have no interest whatsoever in making love with you.”

  “Hah! Love has naught to do with mating. When a man feels the need to relieve himself betwixt a woman’s legs, ’tis rutting, pure and simple. Ofttimes ’tis simpler to do it himself.”

  Rain’s upper lip curled with disgust, and she turned her eyes heavenward. “I pity you if you think of lovemaking as a bodily function.”

  “In truth, ’tis much like pissing,” he persisted.

  Rain detected a hint of humor in Selik’s voice and turned to look back at him as they rode. His blank face told nothing, but a slight twitch of his lips betrayed a barely suppressed grin.

  “Humph! Well, you’re certainly different from the man my mother described. To hear her tell it, you had a reputation as a great lover.”

  “What nonsense! Well, mayhap,” he admitted on second thought, “I did have wordfame as a lover once, but ’twas long ago.” He shrugged. “I no longer care.”

  In spite of herself, Rain giggled. “You have no idea what a strange conversation this is for me. With my failure rate in sexual relationships, I’m no one to criticize.”

  “What is your meaning? Failure rate? Do you not mate with your husband?”

  “I’m not married.”

  “Aaah.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means I understand now. You are an unwed woman who ruts with men.”

  “Hold it, buster. Don’t make any rash judgments. I’m not promiscuous, if that’s what you’re implying.”

  “I imply naught. ’Tis you who speak of bad ruttings with men to whom you are not wed.”

  “I wish you’d stop using that ugly word.”

  “Which word?”

  “Rutting. Animals rut. If you can’t refer to it as making love, at least call it having sex.”
/>   Selik laughed again, deep and throaty, and the sound rippled musically in Rain’s ears.

  “Just how many men have you had sex with?” he asked with a chuckle, his arms tightening around her imperceptibly like a warm cocoon.

  “That is none of your business.” Rain stiffened her back indignantly.

  “Methinks you have had no man, wench, with that waspish tongue. No man would risk his male parts with its razor edge.”

  Rain lifted her chin indignantly. “Don’t think that just because I’m—I’m tall, that no man has ever desired me.”

  The brute made a small choking sound behind her neck. “Well, now you call it to my attention, you are rather…large. In truth, some men are put off by…largeness.”

  Tell me about it.

  “So, what of these few men who desired you?”

  Geez! He had a one-track mind. Oh, what difference did it make, Rain decided. “When I was eighteen, I had a really bad sexual experience, an unfortunate one-night stand. In the past twelve years, I’ve had only two serious love affairs. They didn’t work out very well.”

  Selik remained silent for several moments, considering her words. “So, you have seen thirty winters. I did not realize you were so long in the tooth.”

  “I’m no older than you,” she retorted hotly.

  “Well, then, we must both be long in the tooth, sweetling,” he concluded with a soft laugh. He pressed her cheek against his chest, indicating an end to the conversation, and expertly put the horse into a faster pace.

  Sweetling! Rain snuggled closer and put her arms around his waist for balance. Weariness overwhelmed her. This time-travel business was exhausting.

  Before she dozed off, somehow confident that Selik would protect her from any danger, Rain wondered how she would ever be able to save this savage Norseman who referred to lovemaking as rutting, who killed men as easily as he’d stomp on ants, and who’d just as soon be dead himself. Rain vowed that she would help him, God willing, and somehow, in the process, she hoped to regain her own life as well. But the question was—would it be here in the past, or in the future?