Storm Maiden (13 page)

The thought made his shaft harden. He turned
to stare at the woman. She paused in her task and watched him with
wary eyes. Dag allowed his glance to explore her exquisite
features, to peruse every supple curve of her body. She reacted
quickly, her cheeks flushing, her eyes flashing with resentment. He
felt her defiance, but it didn’t anger him this time. Instead, it
inflamed his desire all the more.

Then, abruptly, he remembered what he wanted
from the woman, and it wasn’t for her to be broken and weeping. He
wanted her as she had been when she’d come to him in his
prison—exotic, seductive, eager. He remembered how she’d stripped
naked and offered herself. The promise in her enigmatic green eyes
had had nothing to do with rape, or fear.

Dag shook his head. Nothing else would
satisfy him but that she would look at him that way once again.
Nothing.

He turned away from the woman, focusing his
eyes on the distant horizon. “Find some tasks for her,” he told his
brother. “She is too foul-tempered to suit as a bed thrall. I would
have her trained for something else.”

“As you wish, brother. I have a spare sail
that needs mending. Perhaps a few days of plying a needle on rough,
heavy
wadmal
will dampen her fiery temperament.”

Dag gazed again at the Irishwoman, meeting
her defiant look with a penetrating one of his own. “Ask her name,
Sigurd. Now I know her only as Mac Frachnan’s daughter.”

Sigurd spoke. The woman answered in clear
ringing tones. Sigurd translated: “She said she is Fiona, daughter
of Donall Mac Frachnan, chieftain of the Deasunachta.”

Dag took in her haughty expression, the
regal set of her slender shoulders. Fiona. Fairy queen. Irish
princess. Untouchable, enthralling, and utterly maddening.

Fiona paused in pulling the iron needle
through the tough fabric of the sail and looked toward the prow,
where Dag and his brother stood talking near the tent. Since her
fight with Dag in the forenoon, he had ignored her completely. She
was on fire with curiosity and half-dread as to what he meant to do
next.

She returned her attention to her sewing,
chewing her lower lip uneasily. It hardly seemed possible she was
to be spared ravishment. She’d always heard Viking men were beasts,
used to venting their lust wherever they willed. Yet the man called
Dag hadn’t raped her. What was the reason for his forbearance?

She glanced up again, regretting she had no
knowledge of the Norse language. If only she could get an inkling
of what the two Vikings talked about. Dag’s gaze briefly met hers,
and a shiver of foreboding swept down her spine. Did they discuss
her future? Although she had no idea how far they had travelled,
she knew the ship sailed north—away from Eire and presumably toward
the Vikings’ home. Would she be sold to another master there?

The thought made Fiona’s stomach tighten. If
she had to be at the mercy of some barbaric Northman, the one
called Dag was her first choice. For all his hostility, he hadn’t
beaten her nor let his foul companions ill-use her. It was obvious
he protected her from the other men, even Sigurd.

Again, she met the Viking’s gaze. His blue
eyes bored into her, probing and wary. When he turned away, a
thought came to Fiona, filling her with excitement. What if the man
felt guilty for capturing her? Despite his bestial Viking
background, he might be unable to deny his obligation to her for
keeping him alive and healing his arm. There was a chance he could
be persuaded to release her once they reached his homeland. Fiona’s
heart raced at the thought.

She stood quickly, before her resolve could
fail, and made her way toward the prow. At her approach, the two
men stopped talking and stared at her. Fiona looked at Sigurd and
said, “I wish to know your brother’s plans for me.”

Sigurd cocked a dark brow, then turned to
Dag and translated. Fiona focused her gaze on Sigurd. There was
silence for a time then Dag spoke. Sigurd repeated his answer in
Irish. “He says he does not know yet.”

Fiona dared to glance at Dag’s face. It was
controlled and impassive, except for a strange glint in his eyes.
Fiona took a deep breath. “When we reach land, I would be happy to
go on my way and not trouble you further,” she told Sigurd with
dignity.

Sigurd laughed. “And how long would you
last, a lone woman, leagues and leagues from your homeland? Inside
of an hour, you would be begging my brother to take you back under
his protection.”

Fiona flushed. There was sense in Sigurd’s
words, but she would not admit defeat. “I do not need your
brother’s
protection.”
She spat out the word.

Sigurd glared at her. “My brother’s
protection is all that keeps you alive... and unmolested.”

His gaze swept over her body meaningfully,
and Fiona felt her color deepen. Sigurd spoke the truth. Without
Dag, she was terribly vulnerable to the lustful inclinations of the
other Vikings. To reach her homeland safely, she must have the
means to purchase passage on a merchant ship, where she would be
less likely to fall prey to rapacious warriors. Of course, she had
no wealth now; the Vikings had stolen it all. She regarded Dag
resentfully. Because of him, she was an impoverished slave. But he
owed her—without her, he would not be alive.

She faced Sigurd boldly. “I saved your
brother’s life. In turn, he owes me a boon. I ask not only for my
freedom, but also enough coin or wealth to secure safe passage to
Eire.”

Fiona allowed herself to glance at Dag, her
heart pounding. Even to her own ears, her request sounded
laughable, but she would not back down.

Sigurd’s eyes narrowed, then he translated
for his brother. Fiona watched Dag carefully. He spoke harshly to
Sigurd, and Sigurd nodded. “My brother says he owes you nothing. If
not for him, you would have perished with the rest of your kin. He
has already given you your life in exchange for his. Any debt that
might have existed has been repaid.”

Fiona felt her heart sink at the Viking’s
arrogant response. What had she expected? She had attempted to
bargain with a Viking as if he was a man of honor, but he was only
a brutal barbarian who preyed on the weak and helpless. She
stiffened her spine, allowing and the anger and hatred to seep
through her and fire her courage.

“Very well,” she said. “You may release me
at the first port we arrive at, and I will make my way on my own.
If any ill befalls me, it will be on your brother’s
conscience.”

Sigurd translated for his brother in a low,
gruff voice. Dag’s eyes widened, apparently in amazement at her
audacity, then his expression again became grim and fierce, his
voice as frosty as the winter wind.

Sigurd rendered Dag’s response in Irish.
“You misunderstand my brother. He’s given you your life in exchange
for your aid of him, but he said nothing about your
freedom.
Once we arrive in our homeland, your circumstances will remain the
same. You will be his
slave...
and subject to his will in
all things.”

Despite the fact that Dag’s answer was much
as she anticipated, panic beat through her. She had dared to hope
her circumstances were not as awful as they appeared. Now her hopes
were crushed. Defiant words rose to her lips. What did she have to
lose by telling the wretched Viking scum exactly what she thought
of him?

Their gazes met and held. Something in Dag’s
expression made the curses stall in her throat. There was a look of
regret in his blue eyes. Could it be that be pitied her?

Fiona felt as if the Viking stared into the
very depths of her soul. She wondered what he wanted of her. Then,
suddenly, she knew. He still lusted for her. She had been stupid to
use guilt to attempt to coerce him into freeing her. She possessed
a bargaining tool which had a much better chance of swaying the
stubborn Northman, if she had the courage to use it.

She licked her lips in a way she hoped was
provocative, then spoke, her eyes on Dag’s face. “If I am a slave,
then I must have some sort of value, a price if I were to be sold.
Mayhap there is a way I could
earn
my freedom.”

She looked to Sigurd, waiting for him to
translate. He did not, only pursed his lips speculatively. “What
sort of payment were you speaking of?”

Fiona swallowed and regarded Dag again.
“What if I were to lie with your brother—
willingly?
Would
that not be worth something to him?”

Sigurd snorted, then translated her words.
Fiona kept her gaze fixed upon Dag. She saw his look of surprise
before it was replaced by a calculating expression. Fiona’s
confidence soared.

Sigurd’s voice was rich with amusement as he
translated Dag’s answer, “My brother wishes to see proof of your
willingness.”

Fiona stiffened. Of course, the Viking would
expect proof that she would keep her part of the bargain. What
should she do—pretend to entice him in front of the other men? The
idea outraged her, yet she dare not show reluctance. If she were to
have any chance of negotiating her freedom, she must be exceedingly
clever.

Vowing to herself that she would rather kiss
a cow’s rear end, Fiona stood on tiptoe and reached up to pull the
Viking’s face down to hers. She pressed her lips to his.

He didn’t not embrace her or otherwise
respond, and Fiona released him and sank down again on the balls of
her feet. She felt herself tremble. Was that enough? Somehow,
glancing at Sigurd, she didn’t think so.

He raised one of his brows and said
something to his brother. Dag answered. Sigurd’s face was lit by a
mocking smile as he announced Dag’s decision. “He’s not satisfied.
He demands further proof.”

Fiona gritted her teeth. Once she had
stripped naked in an attempt to tantalize the Viking into coupling
with her. She could hardly do that now. What other means could she
use to indicate her submission? She thought of Scorcha, one of the
kitchen servants who was said to lie with any man who asked.
Scorcha was extremely proud of her ample breasts; she said no man
could resist fondling them.

Fiona reached for the Viking’s hand, then
closing her eyes, brought it to her breast. She arranged his
fingers so they enclosed her flesh and held her breath.

Nothing happened. Fiona opened her eyes to
see the Viking watching her. His eyes seemed bluer now, slightly
glazed, but his mouth was still drawn into a grim line. Aggravated
to the point of desperation, Fiona put her hand over his and guided
his fingers to stroke her breast. As he began to rub her nipple,
Fiona felt streaks of pleasure race down her body. She froze. It
was one thing to feign willingness, another to actually respond to
his caresses.

After a moment, Dag pulled his hand away.
Fiona almost sighed with relief. Then she looked at Dag and
realized her ordeal wasn’t over yet. The Viking’s expression was as
harsh as if carved out of stone. He didn’t intend to make this easy
for her.

She turned to Sigurd and said impatiently,
“Ask him if he is satisfied.” Sigurd repeated her question; Dag
shook his head.

“My brother says you are a poor liar,”
Sigurd reported. “No matter what you pretend, your body reveals
your unwillingness.”

Fiona’s throat went dry. What more could she
do? Finding her voice, she said, “There is no privacy here. If he
were to take me into the tent, I promise I wouldn’t fight him.”

Sigurd gave a hearty laugh, then reached out
and grabbed Fiona’s long braid, half-jerking her off her feet.
“Silly little minx—why should he barter with you at all? You have
naught to offer him that he cannot simply take any time he wishes.
Your body is
his.
Why do you pretend to give it to him as a
gift?”

Fiona snatched her braid from Sigurd, a
horrible realization dawning. Dag had never meant to consider her
offer. It was all a game, a wretched game to humiliate her. She
felt her face grow crimson and her hands curled into fists. Without
looking at Dag, she stalked away, grateful she had begun to master
the art of moving gracefully on a ship.

“What did you say?” Dag demanded of his
brother. “Why is she walking away?”

“I told her the truth. Her willingness is
irrelevant. She is a slave.”

Dag suppressed a groan of frustration. The
Irishwoman had offered herself to him; she had promised to submit.
Then Sigurd had ruined it. He wanted to strike his brother, to
pound his stubborn, stupid face. Of course, he did not, although
Sigurd guessed at once something was wrong. “By Thor’s hammer!” he
muttered. “You wanted to test her. You wanted to see her
grovel.”

“
Nei
.”

“Why are you angry? Why do you look as if
you could throttle me?”

Dag didn’t answer. Strangely, while he
hadn’t enjoyed seeing the Irishwoman defeated, he wanted nothing in
the world so much as for her to yield to him. He shook his head,
trying to clear it. “It was wrong to trick her. I shouldn’t have
pretended I might free her if she pleased me.”

“ ‘Tis not wise to offer a slave hope,”
Sigurd agreed. “It only makes them more manipulative and
treacherous, thinking they can improve their lot.”

Dag nodded. Unwillingly, he found his eyes
drawn to Fiona’s slender form. She stood pressed against the ship’s
curving prow, as if retreating as far away from him as she could
without jumping overboard. He wondered if she had ever contemplated
throwing herself into the sea to escape her fate as a thrall. She
was so proud, so wild and lovely. Like a bird, an exquisite,
thrilling bird that he held in his hands, feeling its rapid
heartbeat, the fear and desperation that made its perfect feathers
shudder.
How did a man possess something like that and not
destroy it?

He moved toward her, hearing the mutterings
of the men as he made his way past their clutter and dice and board
games. She didn’t turn at his approach. He stopped inches from her
and stared at the strands of hair which had escaped her braid and
now danced wildly in the breeze. She was so small and
fragile-looking. He could encircle her slim neck with one hand or
encompass her waist with two. With a twist of his wrist he could
kill her.