Storm Maiden (3 page)

“Oh, so ‘tis only serving girls and sluts he
cavorts with in his banquet hall! ‘Tis pleased I am that his vow to
you will save me from his coarse attentions.”

Her father grabbed her wrist. “Do not speak
so of your future husband.”

“ ‘Tis true, though, isn’t it, Father?”
Fiona spoke acidly.

A stricken look crossed Donall’s face. He
dropped her wrist and turned away. Fiona noticed how much silver
threaded his dark hair. Her father had aged greatly in the two
sunseasons since Aisling died. An unwanted sense of compassion
disturbed Fiona’s thoughts as she realized how much her mother’s
death had affected him.

It vanished as her father spoke in his cold,
imperious voice once more. “ ‘Tis my right to command you to wed
this man, and you will do as I bid. Sivney Longbeard is a powerful,
wealthy man. He will keep you safe. You’ll want for nothing.”

Fiona took an outraged breath. “Safety!
Wealth! Is that what you think a woman should seek from marriage?
What of fondness and affection? You and my mother married for
love—and against the wishes of both your families as well. Why is
it different for me? Why must you barter me off in a loveless
marriage to a man I despise?”

Donall turned to face her, his eyes cold.
“These are dangerous times, daughter. You need a man to protect
you. I knew I could protect your mother, else I would never have
wed her.” He drew back, his lean, still-powerful body rigid with
tension. “If your mother were alive, she would be grieved to see
you question your sire’s wishes. You shame her memory.”

Tears sprang to Fiona’s eyes. How dare her
father evoke her mother to hurt her! Anger and reason warred within
her, making her shake. She wanted to shout at her father, to wound
him as he had wounded her. She knew arguing would avail her
nothing. Better to make peace with Donall so she could be about her
business with the Viking.

“You are right, Father,” she said with as
much calmness as she could muster. “Only an ill-mannered,
disrespectful daughter would question her sire’s wisdom in wedding
her to a man she hates.”

Silence fell on Fiona’s ears as she walked
briskly from the bedchamber. A twinge of doubt nagged at her. Most
men would beat their offspring for speaking as she had. Donall had
always shown remarkable forbearance in his dealings with her; it
was almost as if he cared for her feelings. But that could not be,
Fiona told herself. If Donall cared, he would not insist she wed
Sivney.

She quickened her pace as she made her way
to the main kitchen of the settlement. The evening meal had long
since passed, and the place was vacant except for the ancient cook,
Vevina. The old women said nothing as Fiona entered and went
purposefully to the supply area behind the cookroom.

Fiona hastily wrapped a joint of beef in a
piece of linen, then grabbed a chunk of hard white cheese to add to
her provisions. Vevina stepped behind her. “Hungry are we, little
Fi? I have some fine stew simmering.”

Fiona shook her head. “ ‘Tis not for me, but
Tully. The silly hound caught a thorn in her front paw. I’m taking
her some healing ointment, and I need a treat to distract her.” She
pointed to the leather bag draped over her shoulder. “I’ll also
need fresh water to clean the wound.”

“Tully, eh? I knew her for an awfully fancy
beast, but I had not heard the chieftain be giving his hounds wine
these days.” Vevina gestured to the bulging wineskin tied to the
bottom of Fiona’s bag.

Fiona blushed, and her eyes met the cook’s
pleadingly. She could hardly pretend that the drugged wine Siobhan
had given her was meant for a dog. Vevina gave a hearty laugh that
made her massive belly jiggle and revealed the single ivory-colored
tooth remaining in her broad mouth.

“Ecch now, your secret’s safe with me,
princess. No one could blame you for seeking out a little sport
before your father binds you to that greasy cattleherder. Wait here
while I fetch you and your lover a blanket for comfort.” Vevina
gave an exaggerated wink, then waddled off to the little cubbyhole
behind the kitchen where she slept.

Fiona gave a sigh of relief. Vevina would
not breathe a word of her secret. She had known the old cook since
babyhood, and the huge, cheerful woman had always indulged her
craving for sweetmeats; now Vevina obviously thought to indulge her
tastes for even more forbidden pleasures.

Fiona shivered, a thrill of fear and
anticipation shimmering down her spine. What would Vevina think if
she knew Fiona’s “lover” was really a Viking prisoner?

Vevina returned in a moment, and Fiona
collected the rest of her supplies. Then she set off for the
souterrain, weighed down by a caldron of water, the blanket, and
the bag of supplies. Fiona’s progress was slow, and her muscles
tightened with apprehension as she neared the edge of the palisade.
The entrance to the souterrain was located a few paces behind the
granary. If anyone saw her, it would be difficult to explain her
numerous burdens.

Fortunately, she met no one. When she
reached the wooden door set in the ground, she put down her
provisions and glanced around warily. It was almost twilight. It
would not do to light the torch until she was well down in the
passageway; someone might mark the glowing light and come to
investigate.

She took a deep breath, shuddering
involuntarily as she contemplated again entering the damp, gloomy
hole. The place made her shiver, and not only because of the
darkness and the crawling things that lived there. Her father’s
fort had been built almost on top of one of the old burial mounds
of the Tuatha De Danaan, the original inhabitants of Eire, and the
storage chambers of the souterrain made up part of the passageways
of the ancient barrow. Although Fiona had never sensed spirits
lingering there, the place still made her uneasy.

Now her dread was intensified by the fear
that the Viking had roused and freed himself of his shackles. Her
throat closed up at the thought, but she forced her fear aside and
unfastened the souterrain door. Jerking it open, she maneuvered
into the opening and found the crude stairway that led downward.
She took a few steps, then fumbled for the torch and the flintstone
tied at her waist. She struck the flint, and the passageway flared
into light. The pitch on the torch caught quickly, burning with a
pungent odor. She placed the lighted torch in a crack on the side
of the stone stairs and went up to retrieve the rest of her
supplies.

Sweat trickled down Fiona’s brow as she
moved gingerly down the steps and reached the floor of the main
storage area. Come winter, these rooms would be full of cabbages,
turnips, leeks, and apples; now, only a few weeks into summer, they
stood almost empty. The Viking was in the farthest chamber. Fiona
made her way to the room and paused in the doorway, wondering what
her torch would reveal.

He was still there, his body twisted
awkwardly as he sagged sideways in his shackles. His head hung
forward, hiding the finely-chiseled features and piercing eyes that
had so struck her when she first saw him. She approached
cautiously, expecting him to raise his head and stare at her again.
He did not move.

She dropped the full wineskin to the floor
to make noise, then called out “Viking” in a loud voice. Still, he
did not stir. Fiona took a deep breath; it appeared the man was
unconscious or dead.

She went to him and touched his arm. The
heat of it made her draw back. Aye, he lived, but he was clearly
ill with fever. It would take all her efforts to keep him alive.
Fiona felt some of the tension leave her body. The chore of healing
was much easier to contemplate than seduction.

She found the bracket in the wall and hung
up the torch, than began to unburden herself, spreading her
supplies on the dirt floor. Siobhan had laid out her tasks
carefully. She must get the man to drink. First water, then the
drugged wine.

Fiona filled an empty skin with water from
the cauldron, then stood on tiptoe and aimed the skin at the man’s
mouth. She squirted some water between his lips. His mouth hung
open, slack, motionless, and the water dribbled down on the filthy
straw beneath the prisoner. She swore softly and lowered herself to
the balls of her feet. How to make him drink if he was insensible?
She searched her mind for some memory that would aid her. Sometimes
newborn babes would not suckle at first, and Siobhan would stroke
their throats. If it worked with a babe, why not a man?

Fionna again stretched up on tiptoe. With
one hand, she dribbled the water toward the man’s mouth. With the
other, she touched his throat. His skin felt searingly hot. She
stroked gently, trying to coax him to swallow. Abruptly, he
coughed. The vibration echoed down her fingertips. She drew her
hand away and concentrated on holding the waterskin.

He drank deeply, pausing occasionally for
breath, his great chest shuddering. She was so close; every
movement he made seemed to transfer to her own body. He smelled
rank, sweaty, and sick. Still, it was fascinating to be so close to
this foreign man-beast, akin to petting a wolf or a panther or some
such savage but beautiful creature.

The skin emptied. The man took the last
swallow and sighed, still seemingly insensible. Fiona took the
waterskin away, then retrieved the one full of drugged wine.
Siobhan had warned her that she must get the man to drink some of
it before she attempted to clean the wound in his arm. Otherwise,
he might thrash around and make it impossible to aid him.

Cautiously, Fiona lifted the wine to the
man’s mouth. He moaned, but allowed her to force the spout between
his lips. The wine dribbled down his chin at first, then he
mastered the technique of gulping as she poured it into his
mouth.

Fiona’s hands shook and her legs ached with
the effort of standing on tiptoe. She began to worry that he
imbibed too much of the drug. Weakened as he was, it would not take
much to induce a deep and dangerous stupor. She tried to take the
wineskin away, but as she lowered her arms, the man’s shackled left
arm jerked around to grasp her by the hair. Fiona gasped and
dropped the wineskin. She struggled, but the man held her tightly
pressed against him, his massive, fevered body like a banked fire
next to hers.

“Swanhilde, Brunhilde—what art thou?” The
Viking’s deep, gutteral voice sounded thunderously in the
low-ceilinged chamber. His foreign words meant nothing to Fiona,
but the tone of his voice reminded her of an endearment. Was he
dreaming; did he think her his lover?

Fiona fought to catch her breath. She should
let him ravish her here and now and be done with it.

She relaxed in his embrace, letting her body
meld to his. He mumbled something intelligible, then his fingers
moved down to touch her breast. Fiona drew in her breath. No man
had ever touched her so intimately. Even through her wool kirtle
and linen shift, she felt the heat of his fingers, the deftness
with which he teased her nipple to throbbing hardness. Her body
went limp, tingling with wanting.

He mumbled again, then released her so
abruptly she almost pitched to the ground. She caught herself as
the Viking sagged backwards. The drug had clearly taken effect.

She felt frustrated, aching. She glanced at
the Viking, half hanging on his shackled good arm, half braced
against the wall behind him. The pure, clean lines of his handsome
face and heavily-muscled neck sent a thrill through her. If she
could ever get him fit enough to manage it, she might actually
enjoy losing her maidenhead to this wild barbarian.

Sighing, she turned back to her task,
kneeling down and searching her bag until she found the large iron
knife at the bottom. She raised it and again approached the
Viking.

She had considered long and hard whether to
undo the enemy warrior’s shackles. If his arm were to heal
properly, it would have to be cleaned and stitched, and she could
not accomplish that if his arm remained shackled. On the other
hand, if she only desired the man healed enough to couple with her,
simply giving him water and easing his fever would suffice and
limiting his recovery might actually be wiser.

Nay, she could not leave him as a cripple,
Fiona thought decisively. It would be a crime against the gods to
doom such a splendid warrior to live out his life with a useless
sword arm. Whether it was wise or no, she must do her best to heal
him.

She carefully used the knife to pry open the
shackle around his wounded arm. Before the damaged limb could hang
slack, Fiona grasped the elbow of his injured arm and braced it
against the man’s body. The Viking groaned. Fiona took a deep,
steadying breath and reached up to undo the other wrist
shackle.

The old metal gave way against the pressure
of her knife, and the shackle fell loose. Fiona shrieked as the
Viking sagged forward, his dead weight threatening to smash her
into the dirt floor. She grunted and pushed against him. Slowly,
the unconscious man’s body moved backwards. His back struck the
dirt wall behind him, and he slid down.

Fiona took a deep breath, her whole body
trembling with strain. She raised a hand to her sweaty forehead.
Blessed Saint Bridget! It had been like trying to hold up a pile of
rocks! She had yet to begin her real healing work, and already she
was exhausted.

She leaned over to inspect her patient. He
sprawled against the stone wall of the souterrain as if he had been
thrown there. His legs lay at an angle to his body, his injured arm
half buried in the filthy straw that covered the dirt floor. Fiona
sighed. She needed space to work; she must move him so she would
have a clean area in which to tend the wound.

Kneeling, she lifted the man’s head. With
her other hand, she thrust the dirty straw aside. She continued
cleaning, exposing the floor beneath the man’s upper body. Then she
took the blanket, spread it out and tugged it beneath his head and
shoulders. Still crouching down, she pulled the cauldron of boiled
water near and began to clean the wound in the man’s arm,
attempting to keep the water from spilling on the blanket. The
wound wasn’t deep, but Fiona knew she must get every trace of
poison out if it were to heal properly. She dug and probed, making
the Viking groan even in his stupor.