The Viking's Captive (8 page)

How about indigestible?

“… but what can I do to make things better? I mean, how can we start over?”

Is the woman lackwitted? Or deliberately obtuse? She knows exactly what she must do.
Adam craned his neck to look pointedly over his shoulder at his hands tied behind his back and around the tent pole.

She got the message.

Her shoulders sagged. Then she seemed to come to a decision and braced both palms on her thighs and leaned forward to address him … which was a big mistake.
A huge mistake!

For the first time, he noticed her attire. She must have bathed sometime after the evening meal because her hair, in long braids, was still damp. Her face was shiny clean, and clear as new cream, except for the dotting of a few freckles on her nose. Instead of chain mail, she now wore a hip-length, faded blue linen
shert
over her usual tight wool
braies
and half-boots. The
shert
was belted at the waist.

She was a big woman, Adam observed, not for the first time. Her height was immense for a woman, due to her exceedingly long legs. Her hips were ample, as were her breasts, though both were offset by a comparatively narrow waist.

Oddly, her bigness was not unattractive. On the contrary. Overall, she was well proportioned so that all her bigness just contributed to a picture of woman in all her glory. She was almost more than a man could take in.

He forced his eyes to move higher, and the picture was the same. Her lips were full. Her teeth were big. Her eyes were wide, thick-lashed, and crystal clear as blue lagoons. Even her blond hair would be big when loose, he would imagine.

And he was imagining.

But that wasn’t what had caused his chin to drop to his chest. It was her posture, leaning forward on muscled thighs, which resulted in her
shert
gaping open at the laced vee-neckline, giving him an enticing view of an ocean of skin and the top swells of two very curvaceous breasts.

Adam had a weakness for curvaceous breasts. Well, actually, he had a fondness for all kinds of breasts—small, big, round, pointed, flat, whatever. Leastways, he had in the old days when he’d jumped from one lady’s bedchamber to another like a randy rabbit.

“So, what do you think?” Tyra said.

Huh?
He hadn’t realized that she’d been talking all this time.

He arched a brow in question. He hoped he appeared more mature than he felt.
Thinking about breasts! By the rood! I’m behaving worse than an untried youthling.

“Did you hear one word I said? Stop looking at me like that.”

He shrugged to indicate confusion, but he knew exactly how he’d been looking at her. The shrug just covered all grounds. To his mind, shrugging was a man’s best tool.

“Some men feel they must pretend to flatter me, just because I am a woman. Well, forget about that. I am a soldier first and foremost, and I know better than most how unattractive I am to men. Frankly speaking, I am stronger and larger in size than many men … not Norsemen, who are better endowed than normal men, but other males. Like Saxons. So save your ogling eyes and drooling lips for mush-headed maids who would appreciate the effort.”

Is the woman daft? Unattractive? If I were any more attracted, my male parts would set themselves afire.
And I am very well endowed, thank you very much, even if I am only Viking by adoption, not birth. Furthermore, I most certainly did not drool.
He licked his lips all around, just to make sure.

“Back to what I was saying afore—what would you say to a truce?”

He might be interested. Truth to tell, he was bored to death with sitting about, rope-bound, all the time. He tilted his head to indicate she should continue.

“I would set you free … under guard, of course … or two guards.” She added that last after giving his body a quick head-to-toe scrutiny.

Aha! She is probably noticing my… endowments.

“I have no fear of your doing harm to me, or my men …”

Mayhap not.

“… but you might find a way to escape, and I am honor bound to deliver you to my father’s bedside.”

Honor, hmmm?
He could understand that—the need to fulfill a pledge. But there was something missing from this truce offering. She had told him of what she would give. What did she expect in return? The answer was forthcoming.

“Your uncle Tykir claims you to be a trustworthy man … one whose word, once given, is solid as ice on a winter fjord. If you would give your vow not to attempt escape till you have examined my father and done whatever you can to help him, then I will cut your ropes myself right now.”

He considered her offer for a long time. The occasional snort of Rashid’s snoring was the only thing breaking the silence between them. Their eyes held the entire time as each weighed the other and wondered if trust could be given.

Finally he nodded.

She smiled widely—a big spontaneous expression of joy—and a hard core of something he could not name began to melt inside him. “I hoped you would agree,” she said, standing with a groan and pulling a long knife out of a scabbard at her belt. She was about to cut his ropes.

“Wait!”

Surprise flared on her face, and her smile faded. Odd how that latter affected him adversely! Her short-lived trust was replaced with suspicion.

“A truce goes both ways. You set
your
conditions, to which I agreed. Now I set mine.”

She still stared at him suspiciously, the knife poised in her hands. “I’m listening.”

Since she was standing tall over him, he had to crane his neck to look up at her. Shifting slightly, she adopted a legs-spread stance.

He hated that arrogant posture. Unfortunately, a familiar part of his body … one that had not been in use for an aeon or so … liked that arrogant legs-spread stance very much.

“If I am unable to help your father … if I try my best and ‘tis not enough”—he paused to quell memories of a time when his best had most definitely not been enough—“if he dies under my care, I want your promise that you will shield me with your own life. Rashid, too.”

She nodded. “‘Tis a fair request you make. I agree.” She started to relax.

“There’s more.”

She went stiff again, but kept her legs spread. Blessed Lord, if she only knew what her pose did to him!

“I want one night in your bed furs. Dusk to dawn. You, naked. Me, naked. Oh, do not be enraged without hearing the rest. You would not have to touch me, and I would not touch you … unless you asked.”

He saw anger in her fiery eyes, and hurt as well, as if his proposition offended her deeply. “Why?”

“Because I want to.”

“Nay!” she declared emphatically and stomped away, muttering something about “lying lackwit Saxons who think with their male organs.”

“Wisdom has two parts: one, having a great deal to say; and, two, not saying it,” Rashid proclaimed from inside the tent. Apparently, the snoring had been a ruse to cover his eavesdropping. And, apparently, he believed that Adam had said too much … too soon.

“She will be back,” Adam predicted, ever the optimist … or was that ever the egotist?

“Every ass loves to hear himself bray.”

“Rashid! Are you calling me an ass?”

“Nay, it is just that you bray overmuch. Comes from having an overlarge ego, I would say.”

I guess that answers my question about optimist or egotist.
Adam laughed, but only for a moment.

Tyra was returning. There was a glow of determination in her eyes, but her cheeks bespoke great embarrassment.

“I agree.”

“You agree?” That part of Adam’s body that had come to life miraculously of late now stood at attention. Talk about miracles! This one was better than any of Alrek’s, in Adam’s opinion.

“Under my conditions,” she added.

“Oh?” Adam tried not to sound as interested as he was.

“One night, and one night only. No touching.”

“Unless you ask me to … or unless you insist on touching me,” he quickly reminded her.

She glared at him as if to say
that
would never happen, but in truth she looked adorable when she glared at
him. Mayhap he would tell her that … later. “And do not forget the naked part,” he threw in for good measure.

“How could I? There is one other thing. I agree to this suggestion, scandalous as it is, only if my father lives. If he dies, the pact is canceled.”

Adam wanted to argue, but, really, he had been only half serious to begin with … although the half that was serious was very serious. Besides, who wanted to sleep with a grieving woman?

He nodded his head.

Soon his ropes were cut and Tyra motioned to two of her biggest guardsmen, ordering them to stand outside his tent. Before he knew it, she was gone in a huff.

“I told you she would be back,” Adam gloated to his friend as he crawled into the bed furs inside the tent, after untying the Arab’s ropes.

“Feather by feather, the goose will be plucked,” Rashid declared with a laugh, rolling over and away from him.

“Precisely,” Adam said.

“I was referring to you as the rooster, not her,” Rashid said with dry humor.

“I know.”

H
er in a harem? Hah! …

Tyra couldn’t stop looking at the man.

He’d caught her in mid-ogle once or twice. On one occasion, the rogue had actually winked at her; the other time, he’d just grinned. In any case, his smirking, as if he thought she was remembering her promise to him—
which she was not … definitely not … well, hardly—
cured her of her infernal staring … for a few moments, leastways.

It had been a busy day, starting with their early morning turn from the North Sea up the headwaters of Ilsafjord—one of the thousands of rivers interlacing the Northlands. Not all of them were connected, unfortunately. In fact, twice today they’d had to portage the two longships. Portage was a long, arduous enterprise that involved removing all the men and animals from the crafts, then carrying the boats overland to the next waterway … or pushing the boats over hastily made wooden rollers, if the distance was far and the pathway open.

All that time, Adam, to his credit, had contributed his fair share of muscle to the hard labor. And, yes, Tyra was beginning to notice, to her chagrin, that, for a healer, he had a fair share of muscle … not like her Viking warriors, whose very livelihood depended on their being in perfect physical condition. But he held his own,
and that was remarkable in itself. She supposed it came from being raised in a Norse household, even though he was Saxon by birth.

Tyra suspected that one of the reasons Adam worked so hard was to escape Alrek, who had developed an attachment for the healer, despite Adam’s best efforts to avoid the boy and his never-ending questions. He seemed especially uncomfortable with Alrek’s view that he was a miracle sent to change his life. Why he could not just laugh off the outrageous notion was beyond Tyra’s understanding.

Oh, well. In the next day or so they would enter the edges of her father’s vast land holdings. Then she would be faced with a whole other set of problems.

A wicked man’s wink would mean nothing to her then.

Well, almost nothing.

She hoped.

“What troubles you, my lady?” Rashid asked, jarring her from her reverie. Rashid and Adam traveled on the same longship, now that their bonds had been released. Rashid had just given up his spot on a sea chest to Adam, who was teaching Alrek how to row without hitting himself in the face on the backswing of the heavy oar. The boy had gotten two bloody noses yesterday. No doubt, Adam’s reasoning was that an exhausted Alrek would be a silent Alrek.

Tyra glanced up from the rudder she was steering … easy work now that they’d entered the wide river, Drisafjord. There was no wind to carry the sails, but the current ran smooth.

“What troubles me?” She gave her full attention to the Arab—a handsome, dark-skinned man with a full mustache but a hairless chin, which he plucked meticulously every evening, to the wincing fascination of her
men. Tall and slim, he was an attractive man who was probably much favored by women. Alrek, who had latched on to the Arab as well as his new best friend, Adam, claimed that Rashid was the son of some desert sheik. She would have to ask Rashid later why a prince of the desert would have left his homeland. “Everything troubles me. My warriors and I should be off protecting our southern boundaries. Pirates and outlaws abound. My sisters are up to Odin-knows-what mischief. My father hovers at the doors to Valhalla. I have wasted much time searching for your physician friend to help my father. What should have been an easy task has proved bothersome in the extreme. ‘Twould be a shame to have accomplished one goal … saving my father … only to lose his holdings for lack of diligence.”

“Diligence! You toil beside your men. You work your fingers to the bone. With all due respect, my lady, you do your bloody well best.”

“With all due respect,” she repeated back at him, “hard work matters not if there is no success. And do not dare quote me a proverb about that.”

“Why go looking for trouble?” Rashid persisted on the same subject. “Did a messenger from Stoneheim not arrive this morn, informing you that your father still lives?”