Viking (6 page)

“Turn around.”

She stared at him for the space of a heartbeat, then proudly presented her back. An instant later she felt cold metal slide around her throat. She raised her hand to tear away the offensive chain but Thorne had already clasped it together with a tiny lock.

“Why did you do that?”

“So that everyone will know to whom you belong. No man will dare touch you while you wear my badge of ownership around your throat.”

“I hate it!” Fiona cried, trying to tear it apart with her hands. The despicable silver chain was a harsh
reminder of her captivity. Was that what he’d intended? She would never forgive Thorne for this. The chain made her feel lower than his pet dog. How could she teach Thorne to appreciate her if he held her in so little regard? She must speak to Brann, tell him she could never consider Thorne anything but a heartless barbarian.

Thorne pulled her hands away from her throat. “Leave it be, you’ll hurt yourself. You can go now. I’m sure you have chores to perform.”

Still fuming, Fiona spun on her heel and stomped away. No one in the hall dared to mention the silver chain around her neck. The fierce look on her face was enough to convince those who noticed it that silence was the better part of valor.

At the evening meal that night, Fiona circled the table filling drinking horns and mugs. When she reached Rolo, he lifted his hand to finger the chain at her throat. The gesture turned into a caress. Fiona stiffened and would have pulled away, but Rolo’s grip upon the chain tightened and she could not move.

“I see Thorne has presented you with his badge of ownership. My sister’s betrothed is a jealous man when it comes to his possessions. I will still have you, lady. I have great faith in my sister’s ability to control Thorne. When he banishes you, I will be waiting.” His hand left her throat and slid over her breast in an intimate caress that sent shivers of revulsion down her spine.

“Fiona! Pour me some ale.”

Fiona wasn’t surprised that Thorne had been watching her from across the table. His eyes were narrowed, his fury apparent as he raked her with his fire-and-ice gaze. She felt Rolo’s hand slide away as she hurried away to serve Thorne. No one seemed to notice anything amiss, for the jovial talk around the table continued.

“Did Rolo remark upon the chain you wear around your neck?” Thorne asked with deceptive calm as Fiona bent to pour his ale.

“Aye, he mentioned it.”

“What else did he say?”

“Why don’t you ask him?” Fiona said with asperity.

Thorne was about to chide her for her brazen behavior when Bretta spoke to him, diverting his attention. “Did you know the wife of one of your crofters had a stillborn babe today?” Bretta asked, speaking in Gaelic for Fiona’s benefit. “The midwife said the birth was progressing normally until Fiona stopped by the cottage to ask if she could help. The midwife believes your thrall placed a curse upon the woman when her help was refused, and that the child was born dead as a result.”

Fiona let out a strangled cry as heads turned to stare at her. Those who understood Gaelic had quickly translated for those who did not. She heard the Viking word for
witch
being passed around the table.

“Nay!” Fiona cried, appalled by the accusation. “I heard that Dagny was having trouble birthing her
child and stopped by to offer my help. I am a healer, not a witch. Had my help been accepted, the child might have been saved.”

Bretta said nothing more as she calmly returned to her meal. She had done what she’d intended and but waited for the next opportunity to cast doubts upon Fiona.

“I did nothing,” Fiona said when Thorne continued to stare at her. “They wouldn’t let me try to save the babe.”

“Fiona treated my rash with her salve,” a thrall named Eric said in Fiona’s defense. “It’s gone now.”

“She cured my stomachache,” a female thrall added timidly.

“If Fiona is a witch, she’s a good witch,” Tyra insisted. “My burns are already healed, and not a scar to show for them.”

“Enough!” Olaf roared, ending the controversy swirling around Fiona. “Let the meal continue. Didn’t I warn you there would be trouble?” Olaf said in an aside to Thorne. “Not only have you disregarded my advice, but your obsession with the woman has grown out of hand. I fear for you, Thorne. Give her up before ’tis too late.”

“Nay, Father, Fiona is mine,” Thorne hissed beneath his breath.

“What about Bretta?”

“Trust me to handle Bretta.”

Olaf watched with a hint of fear as Fiona fled to join Brann.

“She has gone to the wizard,” Olaf said to Thorne.
“See, they conspire together. ’Tis not good. The men grumble among themselves and wonder which of them will be the recipient of her evil.”

“Nothing will happen to them,” Thorne said with a conviction he didn’t feel. “I will deal with Fiona. As for Brann, I will find him a place with the crofters.”

Olaf nodded agreement. “ ’Tis a wise decision.”

Thorne tried to ignore Fiona as the meal ended and board games were brought out. Later a skald entertained with stories of brave deeds, great warriors, and the gods who influenced their lives.

Unable to understand anything but bits and pieces of the stories, Fiona left the hall for a bucket of water while the other thralls listened eagerly to the scald. She didn’t see Rolo follow her outside. She had just pulled the bucket up from the well and was turning to carry it into the house when Rolo stepped out of the shadows where he had been lurking. The bucket slipped from her hand, spilling water over her feet and hem.

“You frightened me. What are you doing out here, my lord?” She didn’t know if Rolo deserved a title but she was taking no chances.

Rolo grinned and leaned forward, pinning Fiona to the well with his mighty bulk. “I hoped for a moment alone with you.”

“Let me pass. I’m needed in the house.” She tried to duck around him. He stepped into her path.

“Not just yet. You must know I want you, Fiona.”

She fingered the hated silver chain, almost glad
for its presence. “I belong to Thorne. He is very possessive of me.”

Rolo chuckled beneath his breath. “Thorne fears you will bewitch me like you bewitched him.”

“I have bewitched no one.”

“Aye, I believe you. I do not believe in witches or spells. What you have done to Thorne goes beyond simple sorcery, but the poor fool is too besotted to realize it.” He grasped her shoulders and pulled her against him. “Show me how you did it, Fiona. Give me a taste of what makes him desire you. Did your kisses enchant him? Or did he fall under your spell when you opened your white thighs to him?”

By the time Fiona gained control of her temper it was too late to stop Rolo. His mouth came down hard over hers, crushing her lips against her teeth with such force she tasted blood. When he thrust his tongue into her mouth she reacted instinctively, biting down on the offensive wedge of flesh with such force that Rolo cried out and jumped back. Free at last, Fiona ducked around him and ran toward the house, right into Thorne’s arms.

“Going somewhere?” Thorne asked in a voice made rough with anger.

“Oh! Aye, my lord. I’ve duties to perform. Please let me pass.”

“Is that Rolo out there by the well?” he asked with deceptive calm.

Fiona swallowed past the lump in her throat and nodded.

“Did you lure him out here with your sorcery?
Did you let him kiss and touch you? What other delights have you promised him?”

Suddenly Bretta appeared beside Thorne, a brittle smile stretching her mouth. “Thorne, there you are. The night is so lovely I thought you might like to join me for a stroll. We can discuss our new home, the one you’re going to build on the land I bring with my dowry. Will it be a large house?”

Fiona started to ease past the pair, but Thorne stopped her with a single word. “Fiona.”

Fiona went still. “Aye, my lord?”

“Wait for me in my chamber, I won’t be long.”

“My duties—”

“Your first duty is to me.”

“Let her go, Thorne,” Bretta coaxed, pulling on his arm. “I wish to speak in private with you.”

Fiona darted away before Thorne could stop her. He appeared distracted when he turned back to Bretta. “What did you wish to talk about?”

“You and I, my lord. I want this marriage. ’Tis everything I could wish for. I’m willing to overlook this mild obsession you have for Fiona, but it must end on the day we are wed. I will share you with no other woman. Have you bedded Fiona yet, Thorne?”

“Nay, though ’tis none of your concern, for we are not yet wed.”

“Your father wants this union. I bring wealth and land with me. They will greatly enhance your family’s holdings. If you need a woman now, I would be most happy to oblige you. The contracts have been signed and need only consummation to become
legal. Let me come to you tonight.”

Thorne tried, he truly did, to desire Bretta. She was fair to look upon, tall, blonde and shapely. Everything a Viking could want in a mate. But she was not Fiona. He would do his duty and bed Bretta when they were wed, but not before.

“Not tonight, Bretta. I’m going hunting with Ulm and a few of my men at first light tomorrow. We’ll be gone several days. Perhaps when I return …”

Bretta chose to read promise into his words though Thorne had meant them as a stalling devise. “I’ll be waiting, my lord,” she said coyly. “I think I’d like to go inside now. It grows cool out here. Just one more thing,” she added in a voice too sweet to be sincere. “I may be young but I am a Viking woman. No enemy will prevail against me.”

“You have no enemies here, Bretta,” Thorne assured her. “Father wants this marriage and so do I. I will do nothing to jeopardize it.”

“It would please me were you to send Fiona to sleep in the hall with the other thralls.”

Thorne scowled. “Do not dictate to me, Bretta. I can be pressed only so far. If you are not pleased once we are wed, ’tis an easy thing to divorce. You have but to state your intentions before witnesses on our doorstep and again beside our bed. Until we are wed I will do as I please with Fiona.”

Unappeased, Bretta sent him a scalding look and flounced away.

Fiona lingered in the hall, conversing quietly with Brann. “I cannot spend another night in his
chamber,” she said, shaking with anger. “Thorne values me as a slave and naught else. There is naught between us but dislike. Perhaps you should consult the stars again. Could you not have made a mistake?”

“There is no mistake, child. Did Rolo hurt you?”

“You know? How?”

“The same way I know that you must be on guard at all times. Rolo lusts after you, but Bretta’s jealousy is just as dangerous. Until she is sent away you must be ever watchful.”

“Bretta will be sent away? Why?”

“ ’Tis complicated and I do not know the why of it.” Brann looked over her shoulder and hissed a warning. “Thorne comes.”

“Why aren’t you waiting in my chamber as I commanded?” Thorne asked, halting beside her.

“I had duties,” Fiona replied.

“Your duty is to obey me. Go to my chamber and await me.”

He strode away without a backward glance.

“Arrogant barbarian,” Fiona hissed.

“Aye, he is a Viking,” Brann said as if that explained everything. “Fear not, Fiona. Thorne is fighting a losing battle. Fate and the Celtic gods will not be denied.”

Chapter Six

Fiona had no intention of obeying Thorne. Others might quake at the sound of his voice but Fiona was made of sterner stuff. Instead of going to his chamber as he had commanded, she finished her chores in the hall. When the skald began a new tale, and everyone in the household was listening with rapt attention, Fiona slipped outside to cool off. The night was warm and she was flushed from working over the fire. She gazed with longing at the bathhouse, wondering if anyone was using it. She doubted it, not with everyone in the household crowded around the storyteller, listening to his stories.

The bathhouse was empty, just as Fiona hoped it would be. Muted light from the fire flooded the smoky chamber. Fiona slipped inside and bolted
the door behind her. The room was hot. Water bubbled in a cauldron hanging over the fire, ready to accommodate the next bather. Fiona found a dipper and began ladling hot water into the tub already half full of cold water. When the bathwater was lukewarm, she peeled off her coarse homespun and climbed in. It felt wonderful. She sighed in contentment as she sank down into the water.

Fiona saw a lump of soap lying on the rim and used it to wash her hair. She scrubbed vigorously, then dipped her head into the water to rinse off the soap. As she dashed strands of wet hair from her face, she heard loud pounding on the door.

“If you’re in there, Fiona, you’d better let me in.”

Thorne.
“Nay!”

“You weren’t in my chamber,” Thorne shouted through the door.

“I cannot be in two places at one time,” Fiona said with asperity.

The door rattled. “Let me in, Fiona!”

“I’m not finished.”

“You’re finished if I say you are.”

“Go away, my lord. I’m sure Bretta is looking for you.”

“Bretta is already abed. If you do not open the door, I will break it down.”

Fiona looked at the substantial door and decided it would take a battering ram to break it down. “I will come out after I finish bathing and not before.”

Fiona felt a frisson of fear when she heard a loud crash against the door. She tried to tell herself that Thorne couldn’t possibly break down the door, and
even if he could, he wouldn’t hurt her. Brann had assured her that Thorne would come to value her one day; she just prayed he wouldn’t kill her before coming to that decision. An angry Thorne was a formidable foe. She knew that defying him was dangerous, but his arrogance was appalling.

It wasn’t going to be easy to love a man like Thorne, she decided. She was nothing but a possession to him, to be used for his own pleasure. How could she teach him to love her when he didn’t know the meaning of the word? She sighed heavily. It was going to take tremendous fortitude and patience on her part to fulfill Brann’s prophesy.

Suddenly the door flew inward and Fiona stared in dismay at the giant who had all but ripped it from its hinges. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips, legs spread apart, a fierce scowl darkening his features.

“You dare to defy me?”

“I wished to bathe in private,” Fiona said, scrunching down into the water. “We are going to live together a long time, lord Viking. You should learn to respect my wishes.”

Thorne stared at her as if she were addled. “What nonsense are you spouting, lady? What kind of witchcraft are you brewing now?”

“No witchcraft, Viking. Brann says our destiny is written in the stars and Brann is a great wizard. ’Tis not the fate I would wish for myself, but I will have to make the best of it.”

Thorne fit the door back into the gaping hole and slipped the lock into place. Then he approached the
tub, anger and bewilderment were visible in his expression. Silent and tense, he stared down at her. “
You
will have to make the best of it? You try my patience, lady. Get out of the tub!”

Fiona thought to refuse but his scowl was still firmly in place and she decided it would be foolish to anger him further. It might take a while for him to accept the fact that Fate had already decided their future. Vikings, she had learned, were excessively arrogant, bullheaded and barbarous, and easily aroused to anger. Fiona couldn’t imagine why Brann insisted that this violent man was the perfect mate for her when she wanted no mate at all.

“Hand me my tunic, Viking,” Fiona said, “and I will obey you.”

Thorne didn’t move. “I have seen you before. You lured me to your island and bared your body to me. I can still picture you as you were then, clothed in naught but moonlight and mist, far lovelier than the Valkyrie maiden who will escort me to Valhalla when my time comes. I knew then that you were no mere mortal woman.”

He shook his head to clear it of visions of Fiona as he had seen her on the island that fateful day. He hadn’t been the same since. “Get out of the water, Fiona, I want to see you as you were that night.”

Thorne wanted Fiona every way a man could take a woman. He wanted her aflame with the passion he could sense in her. He wanted her beneath him, with naught between his skin and hers. He wanted to thrust himself into her, forcing his strength into her softness. He wanted her soft cries of pleasure
to fill his ears as he experienced the pure joy of her willing response.

“What are you going to do?” Fiona felt the searing heat of his gaze and knew she could no more stop what was likely to happen than she could roll back the tides. It was meant to be, even if Thorne did not know it and she did not want it. But the element of fright still existed. The threat of impending violence clung to him like a dark mist.

He gave a dry, brittle laugh. “I’m going to do what I should have done on Man when I first saw you. Had I taken you then, I wouldn’t be mad to have you now.”

Fiona couldn’t stir, couldn’t speak as Thorne moved relentlessly forward, gripped her shoulders and lifted her from the tub with a great splash. He set her on her feet and deliberately took a step backward without releasing her. His eyes traveled the length of her body, each sweep of his hard gaze like a burning brand upon her flesh. Fiona swayed and clutched at his tunic for support. Her skin was flushed. She felt as if she were turning to cinder.

Thorne started to lower her to the hard-packed ground. She sensed his dark desire and even darker determination and knew she couldn’t let him take her like this, here on the hard, cold ground. Then his mouth was on hers. Hot, hungry, his tongue was thorough and wild as he tasted her. She was swamped by a great and unknown power sweeping her toward her destiny. There was about this man something intoxicating, something bold and magnetic,
something powerfully primitive and compelling.

Resist,
an inner voice warned.

Thorne released her mouth as he pressed her to the ground and straddled her, his knees holding her captive. At some point between the moment he started kissing her and when she lay on the ground beneath him, he had removed his tunic. The sight of his massive form sucked the breath from her. He was magnificent. Hard all over and bulging with muscles. Copper nipples stood out on the mat of golden hair that covered his chest. Firelight sharpened the bones of his face, giving him a feral look. Her gaze dropped to his manhood. It rose like a stalwart warrior from his loins.

She didn’t move. Didn’t dare to breathe as he trailed his fingertips lightly across her stomach, moving lower and lower until they sifted through the fine hairs between her thighs. She shuddered and tried to collect her thoughts. This ferocious Viking was making her feel things that were wicked. Things that only a wife should feel.

“Nay! Don’t! We are not wed.”

Thorne was too aroused to think clearly, but her words finally sank in. “Wed? Surely you jest, lady. I am betrothed to another. You are my slave. I am taking you for my mistress.”

“I will not allow it,” Fiona hissed.

Thorne gave her a slow smile filled with promise. “Do you think all Vikings are selfish lovers? I know how to make a woman want me,” he whispered against her mouth. “Do not ask me to court you
with compliments and sweet words, for ’tis not my nature. But I can give you pleasure.”

“You cannot bed me if we are not wed,” Fiona insisted. She knew Thorne wouldn’t agree to marry her and felt safe making a statement that was as outrageous as it was improbable.

Thorne was burning inside and out. His flesh was on fire and his innards boiling. His brains had turned to mush and he knew he was being directed by his loins instead of his head. His was a hell he had not created; it was an inferno that had ignited the instant he had first set eyes on the tempting witch. There was no logical explanation. It had to be magic. He could deny it no longer. He’d do anything …
anything
… to have her lie willingly in his arms.

Except wed her.

“Do not fight me, Fiona, for I am determined to have you.”

“Nay! Not here. Not like this. You will have to rape me if you want me. But heed me well, Viking. Take me against my will and I will place a curse upon you and your family that will follow you into eternity.”

Of course Fiona had no idea how to go about conjuring up a curse, but the threat seemed to work. Thorne went utterly still, apparently evaluating her words and the threat they implied. He stared at her for a long, silent moment. Then his head dipped once as if in mocking acknowledgment.

“We will wed.”

His expression was so fierce, his voice so feral
that Fiona recoiled in fear. “What did you say?”

“We will wed.”

“But you are betrothed to Bretta.”

“I will ask Father to betroth her to Thorolf.”

“Your father—”

“—will not be happy but will honor my wishes.” He rose to his feet and pulled her up with him. “There is an elder in the village. He will conduct the ceremony.”

Fiona pulled away from him, alarmed by this unexpected turn of events. She needed to talk to Brann. She could not believe the Viking truly meant to marry her. It was too preposterous. “Nay. I am a Christian. Unless a priest blesses our marriage, I refuse to consider it.”

He bit out a furious oath. “I do not need your permission to bed you, Fiona. Nor do I need it to wed you. I do not fear you as a woman, but must take your threat against my family seriously. If I must wed you to have you, then so be it.

“I want you, Fiona. Witch or no. I am convinced that you have cast a spell upon me. Therefore I will wed you in order to keep my family safe from your black magic and to slake this unbearable lust that consumes me.”

Fiona was rendered speechless. It seemed ludicrous that Thorne would wed her simply to satisfy his lust. Surely that wasn’t what Brann had meant when he’d said Thorne was her soul mate, was it? She knew that few women were fortunate enough to choose their husbands for love, and that most women had no choice in the matter, but she had
always thought that if she wed it would be for love. Not only would she love her husband, but her husband would love her. This barbarian didn’t know the meaning of love. Until he did, she would not wed him, no matter what the stars said about her future.

“I will wed no one without a priest,” Fiona maintained. She felt fairly safe making such a demand, for she knew there were no priests in this heathen land. There was much Thorne had to learn about women before she’d agree to become his wife.

“What if I could produce a priest? Would you wed me and let me bed you without incurring a curse upon my family?”

“Aye,” Fiona said easily. That was how sure she was that there wasn’t a priest within a hundred leagues of here. “Perhaps you could take me back to Man. Our village priest could marry us. I would like to have my father present when I take a husband.”

“There will be no one present but your wizard,” Thorne said, sounding more pleased than he had a right to be. “Dress yourself. I will return shortly with Brann.”

Fiona stared at him in consternation. She couldn’t imagine what Thorne had in mind. Before she could question him, Thorne had pulled on his tunic and was already striding out the door. With shaking hands she donned her coarse homespun, her mind in a turmoil. She had no idea what Thorne intended and was determined to refuse whatever he suggested. She would—

“Fiona. Are you in there, child?”

“Brann! Thank God. Come in. Have you seen Thorne?”

“Aye, I am here at his order.”

“I don’t understand. Why does he wish to marry me? He believes I’m a witch and he doesn’t love me. You told me Thorne would value me, would love me even, but ’tis merely lust he feels for me. I will not wed him unless a priest blesses our marriage. It frightens me to think what Thorne’s father and brother will say when they learn of this. Nothing will convince them I haven’t bewitched Thorne. And Bretta! Dear God! She’ll be livid.”

“Aye,” Brann said, nodding thoughtfully. “There will be danger, just as I predicted.

“Why, Brann? I understand none of this.”

Brann closed his eyes. When he opened them he appeared to be in a trance, seeing and hearing naught but the silent voices that spoke to him in an ancient tongue. Fiona had seen him like this before and she waited patiently for him to speak.

“The Viking is strong. A fitting mate for a woman of your courage and intelligence. No male on the Isle of Man was worthy of you. Your future was revealed to me before you were born. The Viking knows it in his heart but resists. Your combined strengths will produce strong children who will rule the Isle of Man and protect it against invaders.”

“I want to be loved, Brann. Is that so wrong?”

“Love is already present.”

“What nonsense is this?” Thorne said, striding into the chamber. “Love is for dreamers. Pleasure
is all a Viking wants from a woman. Are you ready, Fiona?”

He moved into the light and she saw that he had changed his clothing. He was resplendent in a knee-length tunic the color of the blue flowers that grew upon the hillside above her village. It was woven of the finest silk and fastened at the shoulder with an elaborate jeweled brooch. A finely wrought sword was thrust into a scabbard attached to a leather belt cinching his waist. The buckle and hilt of the sword were made of gold and adorned with jewels. His cloak of fine wool dyed a vivid red was held together with a simple gold brooch. He was truly splendid.