Storm Maiden (24 page)

“Nay, I went with him because I desired him.
I
wanted
him to bed me.”

“It doesn’t matters why you did it, only
that you have finally come to your senses and decided to make use
of your beauty.”

“But it does matter,” Fiona protested. “I
don’t want you to think that I’ve accepted being a thrall. I still
mean to leave this place and return to my homeland.”

Breaca turned to regard Fiona. The cynicism
in her young face was startling. “Dream all you wish of freedom,
Fiona, but do not allow your bootless fancies to cause you trouble.
You are a slave now and will likely die a slave.”

Although Fiona’s whole being protested
Breaca’s words, she realized it was pointless to argue. She
silently followed Breaca to a low timber building. Inside, bales of
raw wool were piled almost to the ceiling on one end, while several
large looms occupied the other. Two Norsewomen Fiona had seen in
the longhouse sat spinning the wool while Mina worked at one of the
looms. At Fiona and Breaca’s entrance, Mina sighed and stood up to
stretch, then rubbed at the small of her back. Fiona watched her
intently. The Norse woman seemed big for this stage of pregnancy,
and the dark smudges beneath her eyes testified to her fatigue and
discomfort.

“Ask Mina if I may look at her. Tell her
I’ve had some training as a midwife.” Breaca’s eyes widened at
Fiona’s request then she phrased the question to Mina. The
Norsewoman hesitated, then nodded and stepped away from the
loom.

Carefully, Fiona felt Mina’s belly beneath
her loose kirtle. It was big and hard. The woman carried no fat
upon her body. Indeed, except for her midsection, she seemed to be
wasting away. Fiona pushed at the smooth flesh beneath her fingers.
The answering kick surprised and delighted her. She looked up and
smiled at Mina. “Tell her that the babe seems strong,” she told
Mina.

Mina smiled back, obviously pleased. Fiona
returned her attention to her examination. Gently pressing in a
different spot, she was rewarded with another tremor of life. She
glided her fingers upwards, seeking to feel through the distended
skin and gain a sense of the babe’s position. A flutter of
movements met her fingers. Fiona furrowed her brow. From what
Breaca said, three moon cycles must pass before the babe was due to
be born, yet the babe was very active, and Mina very large. Sudden
apprehension struck Fiona. What if the Norsewoman carried not one
babe, but two?

Fiona raised her gaze to Mina’s, wondering
if she should say anything. Sharing her concern wouldn’t change
things, and it might make the Norsewoman anxious.

Fiona removed her hands from Mina’s belly.
“Tell her that everything seems well, although I can’t tell for
certain which way the babe’s head is positioned.”

Breaca translated. Mina responded in her
soft voice.

“She says to ask you if there is anything
she can take for the discomfort the babe causes.”

Fiona shook her head. Most pain-killing
herbs were too strong to give to a woman until she was actually in
labor. “If she has any dragonwort, I could make her a draught which
would help her carry the babe to term,” she told Breaca. “The babe
clearly saps her energy. She must save herself for the last
difficult months.” Even as she said the words, Fiona wondered if
she shouldn’t make her warning more severe. As fatigued as she
seemed already, Mina would scarcely survive a difficult labor.

Breaca repeated Fiona’s words in Norse. Mina
smiled faintly and gestured toward the huge pile of wool. Fiona
felt a stab of sympathy.

Poor Mina. How could she rest when there was
obviously so much to do?

“She should have more help,” Fiona remarked
to Breaca.

“She does.
N
o
w,”
Breaca
answered. “Your main duty as a thrall will be to assist Mina in
clothmaking.”

Fiona looked with dismay at the pile of raw
wool. It made her hands ache just to think of spinning it and her
eyes hurt to contemplate its weaving. She hadn’t appreciated her
easy life in Eire.

* * *

“
Ja
, this one looks as if it would
make a fine mast,” Dag agreed. He splayed his hand over the bark of
the enormous tree and tried to visualize the grain beneath, as
Ranveig seemed able to do. It was no use. Although his strong arms
and broad shoulders would be useful when it came time to cut down
the huge timber, he had not Ranveig’s skill at imagining a tree
become a ship.

He grinned at the short, bowlegged
shipwright. “I’ll make a bargain with you, Ranveig. You build the
ship—I will sail it.”

Ranveig grunted. “I merely wanted your
approval. Sigurd wouldn’t come, and he says your knowledge of
sailing vessels is as good as his.”

Dag felt a twinge of surprise at his
brother’s praise. Sigurd often dealt with him in a slightly
condescending fashion. It pleased him to hear his brother admit his
worth.

“You have my approval, Ranveig. But I would
go back to the steading now. I have some unfinished business that
needs attending.”

Ranveig nodded absently, still staring at
the tree.

Dag moved off into the woods, his heartbeat
quickening at the thought of his “unfinished business.” It was
foolish of him, but he couldn’t wait to see the Irishwoman again.
His body still hummed from the pleasure of the night before, yet
his greedy shaft was hard and ready for more. What excuse could he
use to take the woman from her duties? Was there a tunic he could
have her mend?
Nei,
better yet, he would say that he meant
to begin teaching her Norse. He would have to take her someplace
quiet for their lesson.

He smiled, thinking of exactly what words he
would teach her first.

Fiona sighed and brushed a strand of hair
away from her face. It was hot in the weaving room, and she had not
had a respite since Mina had suggested she and Breaca get some
buttermilk from the dairy at midday.

Nearby, the Norsewomen talked quietly, but
Fiona couldn’t understand their words and their conversation did
little to lift her boredom. She was alone with her thoughts, and
troubling thoughts they were. She kept reviewing in her mind the
events of the night before. At last she’d coupled with the Viking,
and it had been as splendid as she had imagined. But guilt gnawed
at her remembered pleasure. Dag was her enemy. Her mind knew that,
even if her body would not accept the truth. How was she to endure
living like this, torn between desire for her captor and resentment
that he had such control over her life?

The drone of women’s voices suddenly
stopped. Fiona looked up and saw Dag standing in the doorway of the
weaving house. He seemed so big, his body blocking the light from
outside. Fiona’s throat went dry at the sight of him.

Dag spoke a few words to Mina. She raised
her brows, then nodded, her face expressionless. Fiona’s
apprehension intensified.

Dag turned in her direction, and his
blue-eyed gaze seemed to pierce her body with fire. He gestured for
her to come with him.

Fiona breathlessly followed him out the door
of the weaving house. They passed byres and storage buildings and
finally reached the bathing hut. They entered the building by a
different door than she and Breaca had used. Seeing the large
washing area, the many wooden tubs and benches, Fiona guessed this
side of the shed was reserved for the jarl and his close kin.

Dag latched the door behind them, and Fiona
felt a tremor of anticipation at once more being alone with this
enigmatic, unpredictable man. What would he do to her this
time?

Dag put more wood on the fire and pushed
several large rocks against the hearth, then quickly undressed.
Seeing his prodigious erection, Fiona shivered with sudden desire.
So that was what he intended.

He approached and gestured toward her
clothing. Fiona took off her shoes and kirtle while Dag stared at
her. He guided her to one of the benches. Cloths for drying off
were piled on one end. Dag spread one across the wooden seat and
sat down. He motioned for her to seat herself beside him.

She did so, her heart thrumming in her
chest, all her senses acutely aware of the man inches away from
her. The newly-stoked fire behind them blazed into life,
illuminating the room. Fiona couldn’t help staring at Dag, perusing
his bare flesh as he had hers. So dazzling he was, this fiery sun
god. The glow of the flames turned his long wavy hair to molten
bronze and cast his strong, well-made features into dramatic
relief. She watched the light warm his skin and make his blue eyes
glow hot and wild as if he were as fevered as when she had first
beheld him.

Her breathing quickened. From the beginning,
she had desired this man. It hadn’t mattered that he was a Viking,
her enemy. She had felt an intense craving to have him touch her.
She was awed by his fair coloring, his height as he towered over
her, the strength and power implicit in his long limbs and sleek
muscles. She’d known instantly that this was a man among men. Deep
down in her woman’s soul, she recognized him as a male to mate
with, to seek strength and protection from.

Dag reached out and touched one of her
breasts. He said a word, then touched her other breast and repeated
it. Fiona looked down at his hand, surprised and a little
disappointed to realize that he meant to teach her his language
rather than make love. She spoke the word as well as she could. He
nodded and said it again. The second time she refined her
pronunciation, earning a warm smile from Dag.

Very deliberately, Fiona drew his hand to
her breast and gave him the Irish word. Dag’s finger massaged her
nipple as he repeated it. Satisfaction swept through her, not
merely sexual, but pleasure that he was willing to learn her
language as she learned his.

Dag leaned down and touched her foot, giving
her the Norse word, then moved his hand upward to demonstrate the
terms for “ankle,” “calf,” and “knee.” Fiona repeated them in a
breathless voice. Her body felt swollen and hungry, and she could
scarcely concentrate. She closed her eyes as he touched her thigh
and waited for him to move his hand to a more satisfying position.
When he did not, she opened her eyes to see Dag regarding her with
a teasing expression. Slowly, deliberately, he put his hand on her
wrist, apparently preparing to begin his tantalizing upward route
again.

Impatient, Fiona took his hand and brought
his fingers to her mouth. She said the Irish word for “mouth,” then
nibbled on his fingers. Dag’s eyes darkened with desire, and Fiona
felt a wave of gratification. Her Norse lessons would not last much
longer at this rate.

Abruptly, Dag stood. Taking her hand, he
brought it to his erect shaft. Fiona inhaled sharply, barely
remembering to repeat the word for that part of him. His hand
covered hers, urging her to stroke him. Fiona gave a ragged sigh
and complied.

She looked up and watched his eyes darken
and his jaw go rigid, then enjoyed the half-gasp, half-growl he
made when she rubbed her fingers lightly over the silky tip. She
knew a taste of the power he must have felt over her when he’d
kissed her intimate parts. He had made her helpless before his
inflaming and gratifying loveplay. Now he was near as
defenseless.

Except, she didn’t know how to bring him to
completion as he had her. Nor was she certain she wanted to. Her
own body felt restless and wanting. Would he think her wanton if
she let him know she didn’t want to wait to couple with him?

She released his shaft and stood to move her
hand up to caress his chest and shoulders. Subtly, she moved close
to him, so her breast grazed his arm. He moaned, then grabbed her
around the waist and kissed her, a deep, demanding kiss that made
Fiona’s knees go weak. As her stance faltered, his hands found her
hips. He lifted her up and rubbed her aching groin against his.
Fiona near exploded with the sensation of his hard flesh so near to
her aching center.

When she was certain she could stand no
more, he drew her towards the bench and, sitting down, arranged her
legs so she straddled him. With one swift, almost violent,
movement, he lifted her hips and brought her body down upon his
upthrust shaft.

Fiona screamed. For a second, she thought
she couldn’t bear it. Then she realized that the extreme pressure
of his body inside hers felt wonderful. With her legs wrapped
around Dag’s strong body, his hard thighs supporting her bottom,
she opened her eyes and looked up at her lover. His features were
distorted, and she wondered if this position felt as intense for
him as for her.

He took a harsh breath and lifted her hips,
then brought them down. Fiona screamed again. The feeling of his
shaft thrusting inside her made her almost mindless with pleasure.
She clutched at Dag’s shoulders, half-begging for mercy. He spoke
harsh, emphatic words in his language, then rapidly repeated the
motion.

Again. Again. Again. Again.

Fiona’s thoughts shattered; her body burst
into swirling flames. When she collected the pieces of her
consciousness, she found herself lying on Dag’s chest with both of
them sprawled lengthwise on the bench. Beneath her cheek, her
lover’s heart thundered; his skin felt slick and hot. He groaned
something in Norse, then reached up to smooth his hand down her
back. Fiona felt tears creep from beneath her closed eyelids. The
place this man took her to, surely it was paradise or heaven, the
realm of the hereafter which they had caught a glimpse of.

“Fiona,” Dag whispered. She opened her eyes
and lifted her head. He smiled at her, a brilliant smile of
satisfaction and warmth. Fiona felt something stir inside her,
something beyond the languorous bliss that enveloped her body. She
looked away from Dag’s blinding grin and again lay her head against
his chest. She had let this man meld his body with hers, dared to
allow him to touch her heart.