Wild Viking Princess (4 page)

Reider nodded.

Kjartan traced his finger over the Viking.
“This is definitely Danish, a woman’s dagger, and if I’m not mistaken it was carved somewhere along this coast. It’s old. I’ve seen something similar before, but where? How did she come by it?”

Reider took back the dagger and shrugged, making a sign that the woman was still asleep.

Kjartan came to his feet. “You’ve left her alone?”

Reider reassured his friend by pointing to her wet clothing, which he picked up, along with his own, intending to spread them on the drying lines strung around the central hearth. He regretted sharing the information. Kjartan’s guffaws followed him as he completed his task. He hurried to his own alcove, arousing the curiosity of the men.

~~~

Torgrim Jakobsen hovered outside Reider’s alcove. “Sounds like the lad’s feverish, my lord. Cryin’ out like a girl.”

Reider hunched his shoulders and gripped the curtain, but did not open it, unwilling to share his discovery. He muttered his thanks to Torgrim and sent him on his way.

He waited until the seaman shuffled off before opening the curtain a crack and sidling in. Relief and agitation washed over him when he looked at his
guest
. Thanks be to
Freyja
that Torgrim had not seen her. She had thrown off the blankets and furs and writhed on his bed, completely exposed. The hound watched his mistress, but did not make a sound. He turned mournful eyes to Reider.

The arousal Reider had successfully calmed roared anew, but the girl’s pallor disturbed him. He knelt and touched the back of his fingers to her cheek. She was too hot, though she shivered alarmingly.

She shoved the blankets off again and again, tossing her head back and forth. He stayed in a kneeling position beside the pallet at first, but then had to lie alongside her, his arm keeping the covers in place. The salty smell of the sea clung to her damp hair.

The storm raged on outside, the wind whistling through the wattle and daub walls. Loose timbers banged. Water dripped from gaps in the thatch. His eyes became heavy, and he dozed fitfully, exhausted by the rescue and his concern for her.

Concern?
Why should I care? She’s only a woman, a foreigner to boot.

The dog fell asleep, sprawled at the foot of the pallet.

~~~

“I’m—cold.”

It was a mere whisper, but it woke Reider. The dog’s ears pricked up. It yawned and came slowly to its feet, looking first at its mistress, then at Reider.

English
. She had spoken in English. He and Kjartan had traded with the English. He knew something of their language.

How to warm her? He was chilled without blankets or furs, the memory of the icy water washing over him. He made a decision, stripped off his tunic and crawled under the furs. Apart from the dog, his body provided the only warmth. He drew her back against his chest, careful to put his hand on his own thigh. He had never taken a woman against her will and would not take advantage of one in the throes of a fever. Nor did he wish to rile the dog, who seemed to sense Reider meant the girl no harm.

He willed his arousal to abate, longing to cup her breasts and thrust inside this beautiful woman whose bottom rested on his shaft. Good thing he had not removed his leggings. The touch of her bare skin on his
pik
might have undone his resolve completely.

Exhaustion released him from his torment.

Father, mother, pray for me!

Your little girl is coming to you...

Narrow Sea...

A Viking…at the prow of a boat…

Beckoning… jump into the sea...

Jump…

A Viking…

He will deliver me and Thor...

Farewell, brothers... sister...

Don’t weep for me…

I am safe in the arms of my Viking.

Reider understood little of the foreign ramblings of the girl as the fever tormented her sleep in the night. He thought she called to her parents, and recognized
Viking
and
Thor
, but the rest was incomprehensible.

At dawn he smoothed her hair off her face. She was still warm, but the fever seemed to have abated and she slept peacefully. She was beautiful despite her ordeal—high cheekbones, proud nose, fine features—like a princess. He didn’t know her name, so he would call her
prinsessen
. Why not? He had been a prince, before Gorm’s treachery had stolen his birthright.

He heard the sounds of the crew preparing to break their fast. Normally he would be up before them. Men respected a leader who did not stay too long abed, something he remembered his father had often told him. He was reluctant to leave the girl, though he could not say why that was. He lay on his side watching her, his arm crooked to support his head. She was a mystery, a woman who had the look of a Dane, but spoke English, who dressed like a male, but was very much a female. Why was she in the North Sea in the worst storm in living memory, with a loyal dog!

Perhaps Kjartan was right. He should make her his thrall and she would live with him as his slave.
Freyja
knew he wanted her body! But this woman was no slave and he doubted she would accept such a life willingly. He had no wish to live with a woman who hated him, having narrowly escaped that fate with Margit. He did not want to be the object of this woman’s hatred.

The quality of her clothing and the dog’s collar indicated she was from a wealthy family. Ransom was probably a better option, but then he would have to give her up. He rolled onto his back with an exasperated sigh, pressing his palms against his temples. She stirred beside him and he sat up quickly. He should put his tunic back on. She might be alarmed if—

~~~

The ear-shattering shriek that pierced the air when her long lashes fluttered open brought men rushing to his aid. The dog leapt up and barked furiously, baring its teeth. Reider stumbled off the pallet and slid through the curtain, careful not to reveal her. He reassured his crew over the noise of her cries and the barking. Kjartan was calmly helping himself to smoked
laks
and bread, a smirk on his face.

Hastily, Reider re-entered his alcove. His
prinsessen
stood in the far corner of the cubicle, back rigid, a fur clutched to her nakedness. Anger, not fear, twisted her lovely face. She would claw his eyes out if given the chance. The dog stood defiantly in defense, growling. Reider held out his hands, palms facing her, in what he hoped was a calming gesture.

She touched her hand to the dog’s head. “Be quiet, Thor.”

Why did she call on Thor, the god of thunder? At least her sultry voice had calmed the dog.

She snarled at him. “Where is my dagger?”

He shook his head and stepped away.

She scowled at him, evidently angry he did not understand. She clenched her fist and made a thrusting movement. “Where is my dagger?”

He pointed to the dagger at his waist.

Her eyes blazed as she held out her hand. “Give me my dagger.”

He shook his head, thinking he had never seen eyes the colour of a summer sky before.

She stamped her foot, took a deep breath and pointed to the fur clutched to her breast. “Where are my clothes?”

This he understood. He arched his brows and raised a finger, hoping she comprehended he wanted her to wait. He left the alcove to retrieve her tunic and leggings drying by the hearth, with his own clothes. He grabbed his tunic and shoved it over his head.

A glimmer of relief showed in her eyes when he returned. She pointed to the pallet. “Put it there.”

He tossed it down and stepped back.

“My furs?” she demanded.

This word he understood from his trading days. He pointed beyond the alcove.

She glared at him, then waved a dismissive hand. “Go! I cannot dress in front of you.”

He went to stand outside the curtain, arms folded, wondering why he allowed this woman to give him orders as if he were a thrall.

Thirty curious faces glanced in his direction.

“You have to tell them,” Kjartan said loudly.

His friend was right. He nodded his permission.

Kjartan informed the men. “The lad we saved is a woman.”

The chewing stopped while they considered this new information. Judging by the loud laughter that followed, Reider’s plight was of great amusement.

No doubt they think I bedded her. Perhaps she thinks the same.

He hurried over to the trestle table, tore off a chunk of bread and loaded it with salmon. Maybe food would improve matters. His
prinsessen
must be hungry. He noticed the handful of other shipwreck survivors huddled together, blankets around their shoulders, fear and uncertainty written on their faces.

Several of his crew elbowed each other knowingly, watching him hasten back to his alcove with his peace offering.

Having donned her rumpled tunic and leggings with some difficulty, Ragna threw a blanket around her shoulders and sat cross legged on the pallet. She pressed her arms into her ribs to stop the trembling that shook her, and put her hands on Thor’s head. The dog whined, nuzzling into her.

The last thing she remembered was her leap into the sea. It seemed like a nightmare. She did not know why she had jumped, other than that the longboat was obviously the only hope for the people aboard the doomed vessel.

She vaguely remembered the tall Viking at the prow, beckoning. Was he the man in whose bed she had awakened? Had they slept together? Had he—? She didn’t feel violated or sore and there seemed to be no blood in evidence. But the sight of his broad naked chest when she woke had sent tremors spiralling through her. She had seen male torsos while treating the wounded during Maknab’s siege of her home years ago, but this man was—massive.

She must control her fear. He must not think her weak. He did not have the look of a cruel man. His eyes were gentle, a soft brown.

Godemite
! He must have undressed her, seen her naked! No wonder he looked at her that way. She would have to be on her guard. If only she had her dagger. It was imperative she retrieve it. The weapon held too much significance for her family for it to be lost to a Viking barbarian. It had once saved her mother’s life. It was her duty to deliver the heirloom to Blythe, the eldest daughter.

She heard a polite cough and assumed it was her Viking. At least he had manners enough to warn of his presence. “Enter,” she said, as confidently as she could, hoping he would not detect the tremor in her voice.

He came into the alcove, grinning broadly, his big hands full of bread. Her belly turned over, but she put the upset down to a lack of food. The corners of her mouth edged up.

He held out bread, then looked at the pallet, pointing to himself with his thumb, his brows arched. She edged back to the wall, pulling Thor closer. The Dane sat down cross legged facing her. For a big man he moved gracefully. But why did he not speak? She noticed a pink scar across his throat.

He again offered bread with what looked like fish spread on top. She accepted. Their fingertips touched for an instant and a spark passed between them, causing her to glance up at him sharply.

He laughed and his face reddened. He had noticed it too, but seemed more surprised by the sound of his own laughter! It sent a flush flooding across her chest.

He bit into his own portion and chewed heartily, gesturing for her to do the same.

She broke off part of the bread and fed it to Thor. The dog carried it to the corner, then gobbled it down. Ragna nibbled the food. It was delicious. Smoked fish of some sort. How curious to eat fish to break one’s fast.

“Good,” she murmured, taking another bite.

Thor came back for more. The man held out bread. Thor sniffed it warily, then took it from his hand. The Viking smiled broadly.

What was the strange sensation his smile caused in her belly?