Ravished by a Viking (3 page)

“You are an honorable man, Dagr. My daughter was the one who insisted the wedding take place here. She is the one who feared you only bargained to get your hands on one of the ruling family for foul purpose.”

Dagr’s head canted slightly, and if possible, his stare intensified. “And yet, you are a king and a man, and you did not insist that a female in your household obey.”

Sigmund sighed and nodded his head. “My daughter will be your hostage. I will do nothing to cause her harm.”

Birget’s throat tightened. Not once in her life had she heard her father say he loved her, and yet he’d conceded it here and now. She’d known he was proud of her but she had thought, like all Viking women did, that their men were too hardened to ever love.

“How do you plan to battle a foe that lives in the sky?” her father asked.

This time, Dagr’s smile wasn’t a ghost lurking in his eyes; it spread across his face, making him handsome, and every one of the
Valkyrja
drew in a deep breath.

“By joining them there.”

Eirik awoke to the sounds of women’s voices engaged in a bitter argument. He opened his mouth to tell them to shut up, but his tongue stuck to the roof. He swallowed hard and groaned. Everywhere, his muscles ached as though he hadn’t moved them in days, and he was cold. He lay on his side on a chilly metal floor.

And then he remembered. Fatin whispering, “You’re mine” ... the prick of a needle ... the searing pain as he’d shredded into molecules ...

His heart, sluggish when he’d awoken, pounded heavier, faster inside his chest. He bit back a moan and stretched his legs beneath the scratchy blanket covering his nude body.

The women were near him, speaking in low whispers.

He cracked his eyelids open to peek at them through the bars of a cage.

Nearest to him stood Fatin, but she didn’t look as innocent as she had, kneeling beside the fire pit. Her beautiful black hair was pulled away from her face and hung in a long braid down the center of her back. Her face was stark, sharply angled, hard. She was dressed in black leather boots and close-fitting olive trousers, a figure-hugging brown jacket with fur cuffs and collar.

He remembered every sweet curve her clothing hid, the wet heat of her tight little pussy, and he hardened, even though he knew the bitch was responsible for his current miserable condition.

Fatin faced another woman dressed in tight-fitting black trousers with gold braids running down the outer sides of her legs—like a Consortium officer’s uniform. A hip-length jacket, also black, with gold epaulets worn at the shoulders, confirmed his first thought. She was lovely—dark eyes, shiny, chin-length hair, bronze skin—and she was furious.

“This is unacceptable,” she ground out. “You’ll return them to the surface. This isn’t a pirate ship. We don’t kidnap humans.”

Fatin stepped closer and sneered down her nose. “Your orders were to allow us the freedom of your cargo hold and your transporter facility—and secrecy. You shouldn’ t be here.”

“I ferry ore from the planet to the refineries. I don’t transport human cargo.” Her arm flung toward the cage. “Are they criminals?”

Fatin smirked. “They are wanted. And that’s all you need to know.”

The officer raked a hand through her shiny hair. “It ends today. I want you and your cargo off my ship.”

“We aren’t finished.”

“Believe me, you are. By eighteen hundred hours, you’d better be gone or I’ll send every one of your asses back to the surface.” The Consortium officer turned on her heel. Her glance fell to Eirik.

He read regret in her expression, but she firmed her chin and walked away.

“I see you’re awake,” Fatin said, stepping closer to his cage, her hungry gaze sweeping his body.

“Why?” he croaked.

She smiled, a mere stretching of her lips. “You have something the Consortium wants. And you were too tempting a prize to leave behind.” She leaned closer and blew him a kiss. “When the drug has worn off, I’ll be back.”

Eirik growled, but the sound was more of a weak gurgle. He got his hands beneath him and pushed up from the cold floor. That was when he saw the row of cages that stretched the length of the brightly lit room—a ship’s cargo hold, he surmised. Every cage held a man—everyone was large, shaggy-haired, and for the most part dressed like Vikings.

What Hel had he landed in?

Two

The uneven scrape that caught the ice boat’s skimmers was Dagr’s only clue they’d reached the edge of the rugged half-moon beach below the mining camp. In the last hour of the journey, a swift wind had kicked up blinding snow. He’d navigated using the onboard instruments rather than the sun’s position or the looming snow-covered mountain range that on a clear day could be seen for hundreds of leagues.

Dagr gritted his teeth. His back ached from the unnatural position he’d had to assume, standing in the steering harness with the warrior-woman plastered to his back.

Still, the discomfort had been worth it to hear Birget’s soft gasps when the serpents caught the sound of the skiff racing across the ice and circled beneath the boat’s small hull.

Her arms had tightened like iron bands around his neck and her thighs had climbed to cling to his waist. When he’d finally shaken off the beasts with a series of jagged tacks, she’d lowered her legs instantly and kept a respectable distance ever since—if cloaking his backside against the elements wasn’t intimate enough.

From the first moment he’d seen her, Dagr had admired her grit. He’d swept her with an assessing glance when he’d realized who she was and had tightened against an unexpected attraction. She was promised to Eirik, and he had no desire to take a Bearshirt woman for his own wife. He already supported two females in his household—self-sufficient women who understood their place and didn’t require too much of his attention. The heat stirring in his loins would be remedied quite nicely once he returned to Tora and Astrid’s warm embraces.

As clan-lord, his days were full. Adding another woman to his household would provide an unnecessary distraction.

Eirik, the stupid bastard, had assumed his bride would be broad and mannish, and had complained she’d have a mustache thicker than he could grow because he’d heard she was
Valkyrja
. While a couple of the female guards did indeed have shoulders a miner would envy, Sigmund’s two daughters were handsome women, tall and slender with long blond hair and eyes the same color as the leafy greens Tora coaxed from the gardens flourishing beneath the permafrost.

Eirik, if he ever returned, would have no complaints concerning the appearance of his mate. Although, knowing his brother, the woman’s stubborn belief that she was a warrior’s equal would cause them conflict. Neither Eirik nor Dagr would stand for any member of the fairer sex putting herself at risk. No woman of the
Ulfhednar
clan had ever raised a sword to defend herself. There had never been a need.

He pushed aside thoughts of his brother. In the first hours after Eirik’s abduction, Dagr had driven himself mad thinking of the torture his brother must be enduring while he’d made the solitary trip to the
Berserkir
keep. Having company, even this surly woman, did much to keep his mind focused on the here and now.

The skiff bumped to a halt on the shore. Harald, the camp overseer, strode through the swirling snow to pull the prow forward, catching the rope Dagr sailed his way and tying it to an iron spike stuck into the frozen ground for just that purpose.

When Harald’s hand closed around Dagr’s wrist to help him from the boat, there was worry in his eyes.

Dagr knew well the man’s emotion—one he currently shared. “You could not have known, Harald. Have no fears that I’m here for reprisal. I only want to hear firsthand what you know and to see what you’ve uncovered.”

Harald’s gaze slid away. “I am ashamed that such a breach occurred beneath my nose, milord.”

“The breach wasn’t one you could have prevented. Did you question the other Outlanders in your service about the woman?”

Harald nodded. “None knew the girl. She arrived with the last supply shipment and kept to herself. Yet she was eager enough when she learned Eirik would be in need of ‘comfort.’ ”

Frustrated, Dagr blew out a deep breath. “Let’s continue our conversation inside in warmth.”

Harald’s eyebrows rose. No doubt, he wondered at Dagr’s admission of the foul weather until his gaze drifted beyond his clan-lord’s shoulder.

Dagr turned toward Birget and jerked his head. “Sigmund’s daughter,” he said, keeping his introduction purposely short and rude.

“Your brother’s betrothed?” Harald asked, his eyes rounding in surprise.

“My hostage.” Dagr suppressed a smile at the stubborn tilt of the woman’s chin. “I would see her safe from the elements.”

“I’m not cold,” Birget bit out through stifflips.

Indeed, likely she wasn’t, even if her breaths fogged the brisk air. Besides the black, deep-space skin-suit and uniform trousers, she wore a long, fur-lined woolen cloak that covered her from her head to just below her knees.

“A Wolfskin sees to
every
woman’s comfort.” Her darkening glare amused him, but he didn’t let her see it. He stepped toward her. She extended a gloved hand for him to help her down, but he reached inside her cloak and grasped her waist, ignoring her gasp as he set her on the ground beside him.

Then, without another word, he turned his back and followed Harald to the entrance of the long tunnel cut into the hill that led to the mining camp compound.

“Have you made progress since your last transmission?” Dagr asked, tugging off his gloves.

Harald’s gaze shot to the girl as he held open the thick metal door and stood aside while Dagr and Birget entered.

“Our little Valkyrie will be
Ulfhednar
soon enough,” Dagr assured him. “She will never be returned to her father. Besides, our artifact’s existence will benefit both our peoples.”

“But it will most benefit the ones who control it,” Harald grumbled, “which makes it a valuable prize, milord.”

“Relax, Harald,” Dagr said, clapping the stout man’s shoulder. “She’ll never get the chance to betray us.” He fought the urge to glance behind him to gauge her reaction. He didn’t know why he enjoyed baiting her so much. Perhaps it was only an urge for revenge because she’d dared to raise a sword against him.

“Where to first, milord?” Harald asked.

“Since I would make Skuldelev before nightfall, straight to the site.”

Birget had accompanied her father on visits to their own mines, but the contrast between her people’s modern facilities and this crude camp couldn’t have been more surprising. The wolves’ mines were the most productive, their ore the best quality, and yet their miners lived in ancient structures, bereft of even basic amenities.

Still, the men they passed heading from the mine appeared healthy and well fed, and all shouted out happy greetings.

The trio bypassed the entrance to the miner’s barracks and climbed down steps cut into the mine’s rock walls toward a large, brightly lit cavern. With a quick glance, she surveyed the area. Played-out veins of ore radiated warmth and light. Shirtless men operated rock-movers, the large mouths of the motorized beasts emptying into carts along a metal track. Here the technology was much the same as in her father’s mines. Apparently, they didn’t stint the workers what they needed to accomplish their tasks.

“It’s down this tunnel,” Harald said, leading the way past armed guards at the entrance of a long passage whose sides were waist-high rock but solid ice above. Artificial lights were strung along the ceiling. If ore had been exposed here, the roof would have melted, filling the tunnel.

The passage led into a dark ice cavern. Ice shavings were piled against one side. Even though she thought it seemed an odd place to dig, her attention was caught by a structure sitting on the exposed bedrock. The face of a tall pointed arc was still trapped in ice, but the center had been cleared.

Men worked with mallets and chisels, carefully shaving away the ice to reveal more of the structure’s mysteries.

Something about the shape, about the carvings surrounding the sides of the hollowed-out object, stirred a memory.

“She’s a beauty,” Harald said, his gaze clinging to the object. “Cyrus has already deciphered most of the markings. They are instructions.”

Dagr’s intent stare skimmed the symbols on the arch, then rested on the base, which stretched three arm spans wide. “Does he know if it still works?”

“He found a hidden recess in the base, with a level drawn to indicate how much ground ore is needed to power her—and a control panel. We’ve done some preliminary tests, but he’s days away from learning all its secrets.”

Dagr tensed and turned. “Harald, we haven’t days. And I need him to discover only one secret. I will cross tomorrow.”

Harald’s shaggy eyebrows shot up. “I’ll tell him. He’ll not sleep tonight.”

“Tell him that he must also train another in its use, because he’s accompanying our contingent.”

The overseer gave Dagr a curt nod and headed toward a corner of the cavern where a large table sat, covered in scrolls. An Outlander, his close-cropped hair, lean, muscular build, and olive-tinted skin setting him apart from the burly, long-haired Vikings, straightened as Dagr gave him a nod.

“You will cross?” she said, and her gaze shot to the alien structure. Could it be?
It was.
Her jaw dropped as she swung back to the clan-lord.

Dagr gave her a sideways glance. His stare sharpened, blue eyes studying her expression. “Yes, the Bifrost. Or at least half of the bridge our ancestors were tricked into crossing.”

Her heart beat faster. How could Dagr remain so calm? He’d found proof of the legend. That alone was news worth touting far and wide. “You’re sure that’s what this is? It wasn’t just a story?”

“It is the end of the bridge. And it is fully functional.”

“Can it return our people to Midgard?”

“Do you even think it still exists?” he asked, one eyebrow rising. “We could cross into empty space or to an uninhabitable world without the means to return. No, I have another purpose in mind.”

His expression grew shuttered, telling her that was all he would say for now, and she gritted her teeth. How could she get word to her father? The mine overseer was right. Whoever possessed access to the artifact controlled the fate of all New Iceland. “What will you use it for?”

He shook his head, his gaze flicking to the structure. “You have no need to know. We leave for Skuldelev now.”

Undeterred by his abrupt refusal to answer her question, she tried again. “But you’re returning here tomorrow. Why bother to leave at all?”

He turned with hands braced on hips. His smile was grim and thin-lipped. “I must give you into your keepers’ hands. Otherwise, I wouldn’t. Your presence is an inconvenience.”

She was an inconvenience?
Birget gritted her teeth. “But you needn’t escort me. Send me along with one of your men. Or better yet, let me stay. I won’t get in the way.”

“I have promised to keep you safe so long as your father holds to his end of the bargain. I will deliver you to my household guard myself.”

She opened her mouth to argue.

But he shook his head. “Harald,” he said, holding her mutinous stare. “Cyrus has until morning.”

“Yes, milord. All will be ready.”

The journey to Skuldelev passed in silence. Strapped into the back seat of a small, two-man snow-eater, she watched the endless drifts of white, stirred only by the shifting winds and blowing toward the frozen sea that bordered the lowlands they crossed. In the distance, the jagged peaks of the Keel Mountains sawed into the face of Sunni, the sun goddess, stretching the shadows of night to cloak the mountains and the city fortress of Skuldelev at its base.

Birget straightened to peer over Dagr’s shoulder at the city few Bearshirts had ever willingly entered. Where her own fortress stood as evidence of strength and precision, the keep rising several stories high, Skuldelev stretched like a lazy dragon resting across the top of the foothills. The fortress wall hugged the contours, turrets spiking like ridges on the beast’s back. Even the great, gated entrance gave the appearance of a dragon’s large, crenellated head with its mouth gaping.

A shiver rippled down her spine. The day’s happenings had passed in a whirlwind, and only now did it strike her that this might be her home for the rest of her life—this foreign, craggy, monstrous castle where men as rugged and unforgiving of weakness as their clan-lord lived.

Birget had no fear of death. She did, however, fear showing weakness. Not once in her life had she quivered at the sight of a man, but Dagr made her knees weak. The cause wasn’t one she wished to explore. From his reputation, she knew him to be cruel, relentless, and merciless—qualities she normally admired. But she also knew he loved his brother, honored his promises, and cared for the welfare of his people. That she was the enemy’s daughter meant little to him other than the fact that she served as a valuable pawn.

No, she didn’t really fear for her life, but she felt as though the ground beneath her feet had somehow shifted. She no longer knew her place in the harsh world he delivered her to.

Dagr turned the wheel of the vehicle and it cut through gravel and ice, coming to a halt in a wide-open lot where more of the tracked vehicles were parked. “This will be your new home, Princess,” he said, not bothering to look over his shoulder to see if she followed him out of the vehicle’s door.