Storm Maiden (5 page)

Panic made Fiona rush to where he lay. She
dropped the supplies she’d brought and hastily stuck the torch in
its niche in the wall. Trembling, she knelt beside the man and
touched his face. She exhaled her pent-up breath. He was warm,
slightly fevered, but obviously alive. His breathing seemed slow
and steady.

Her still-shaking hand moved to examine his
wounded arm. It felt much less swollen. She couldn’t be certain
without removing the bandage, but it appeared to be mending. Relief
raced through her. It was her first attempt at healing, and so far
she had been successful.

She sighed softly. Hope remained for her
plan. If only the Viking would rouse a little. Perhaps the drugged
wine had affected him so strongly because he was weakened by the
fever.

Her eyes perused his still face, and the
strange fascination again crept over her—the irresistible urge to
touch him. Her fingers hovered over his forehead, aching to smooth
his thick hair away from his brow. Then she leaned closer, and her
nose wrinkled with disgust. His smell had not improved after two
days of lying senseless. If she meant to couple with him, she must
do something about his odor. Now appeared to be the ideal time.

She glanced down at his long body. His
filthy clothes smelled evilly. She would have to cut them off, then
bathe him. But if she allowed him to lie in the soiled straw
afterwards, he would only get dirty again. Fiona removed the old
cloak she wore, swiftly deciding that it would serve as another
blanket.

She stood, took a deep breath, then leaned
over, grabbed the Viking’s ankles and, grunting, pulled his lower
body away from the wall as far as his shackled ankles would allow.
Straightening, she took several deep breaths. Jesu, but the man was
heavy!

She did not rest long, but began to kick
aside the fouled straw that had lain beneath him. Once the dirt
floor was exposed, she picked up her cloak and spread it out next
to the wall. Then she grasped his ankles and dragged him back to
his former resting place.

Fiona wiped the sweat from her brow and
caught her breath. The Viking had not moved a muscle during the
ordeal but lain as limp and inert as a sack of grain. It seemed odd
he didn’t stir. Again, she leaned over and touched his forehead,
searching for fever. His skin seemed only vaguely warm. It must be
the wine that kept him senseless. Even so, she must hurry. If he
roused and discovered her, she wasn’t certain what he would do.

Her hand trembled as she pulled the small,
sharp knife from the leather thong at her waist and began to cut
off the Viking’s tattered tunic. It was already badly torn at the
neck, exposing much of his chest. She made a cut at the top, ripped
it the rest of the way, then began to ease it off.

Under his left arm it seemed to stick. She
leaned over and saw that the garment had adhered to a patch of
dried blood. As gently as she could, she loosened the fabric and
pulled it away from the jagged gash. She grimaced. Another wound.
Indeed, now that his chest was bare, she could see a half-dozen
ugly bruises and several deep cuts marring his fair skin.

Pity filled her. He must have been in awful
pain the first time she’d come to him. It was well the wine had
kept him unconscious and eased his suffering. She felt the familiar
regret that the Viking’s magnificent form should have been so
battered and damaged.

She turned away and sought out the supplies
she had brought. Unstoppering the jar of water, she poured the
water into the cauldron, reserving a bit for the Viking to drink.
She added a handful of medicinal herbs to the cauldron, then dipped
a cloth into the mixture. With slow, gentle strokes, she began to
wash the Viking’s face.

Her hands trembled as she felt his smooth
flesh beneath her fingers. She cleaned the cut on his forehead,
then rinsed the cloth and rubbed it over the planes of his chiseled
cheekbones and the stubble-covered squareness of his jaw. The
torchlight made his sun-reddened skin gleam bronze and brought out
the coppery highlights in his wavy hair and thick mustache.

She reached his neck, and her hands shook
even more as she perceived the raw strength of the corded muscles
in his neck, the breadth of his square shoulders. Steadying her
hands, she rinsed the cloth and continued washing. Here, where it
had been covered by his tunic, his skin was fairer, a creamy shade,
darkened with freckles. A silky down of reddish-gold hair began at
his neck and spread across his upper chest, then trailed down his
belly in a line to his groin.

Awe and some other emotion she could not
identify assaulted Fiona as she rubbed the scented cloth over his
chest. The sensation of sleek skin over iron-hard muscles made her
throat go dry. He was so beautiful, so pleasing to look at. The
sight, the feel of him caused a dull ache to spread through her
body. She could do this forever, stroking him, feeling his
aliveness, the deep thud of his heart beneath his skin.

She forced herself to concentrate on
washing. The dried blood that caked the gashes on his skin took
some scrubbing. As her fingers rubbed at the wound on his lower
chest, the Viking took a sudden, sharp breath. Fiona froze,
watching his face. When he made no other movement nor emitted any
sound, she returned to her task. A deep bruise was visible around
the cut. It seemed likely that the damage extended to the ribs
beneath. Fiona left the injury alone and began washing beneath his
left arm. He shivered slightly as the cloth touched his armpit, and
Fiona again tensed. Most people were ticklish there, but if the man
were truly unconscious, he should not feel it.

She sat back on her heels, observing the
Viking closely. Could he be aware, but pretending unconsciousness?
Nay, it was absurd to think so. Why would a man lie as if dead
while a stranger bathed him?

She watched him a moment longer, then went
on with her washing. After rinsing what she could reach of his
other side and back, she glanced with distaste at the murky water
in the cauldron. She should have brought more, but it was awkward
to carry and would have been difficult to explain if anyone had
noticed her. She would have to make do with what she had.

Fiona took a deep breath and glanced at the
line of hair that ran down the Viking’s flat, muscular belly and
disappeared into the top of his trews. Her skin suddenly felt hot,
and the weak, aching feeling inside her deepened. Despite the reek
of his clothing, did she have the nerve to bare more of his
breathtaking-but-frightening body?

Fool!
she told herself.
You mean
to have him couple with you—what difference does it make if you see
him naked?
Fortified by the thought, Fiona sought out the knife
and used it to cut the drawstring of his trews. Grasping the
stiffened fabric, she slowly eased it down. She had not even gotten
it past his hips when the trews fell from her hands and she gave a
smothered cry.

Sweet Bridget!
Fiona gaped at the
large, erect phallus thrusting up from the Viking’s thatch of
reddish pubic hair. The man was as aroused and ready as a stallion
in rut! Suspicious, she darted her eyes back to the Viking’s face.
His features were still, expressionless. Was it possible that a
man’s body could be primed for lovemaking while his mind remained
unaware?

Fiona swallowed hard. Dared she continue
washing him? At any moment, he might throw off his stupor and grab
her and rape her. But was that not what she wanted?

Her eyes again took in his engorged male
organ. She had not thought men were so large. He seemed as huge as
a stallion—and she was no mare! Would he kill her if he coupled
with her? At the very least, it would be painful. She felt sweat
dribble down between her breasts. She must be brave. Losing your
maidenhead was said to hurt, but it could hardly be worse than
bearing a babe. If a woman’s flesh yielded to allow a babe through
the birth passage, surely it could accommodate a man of almost any
size.

Fiona bit her lower lip and stared. Men
often referred to their phalluses as “shafts” and “swords.”
Observing one closely, she found the descriptions very apt. The
woman’s body acted as a scabbard—the sheath for the man’s weapon.
Fiona felt a blush firing her cheeks. She wanted to touch the
intriguing sword of flesh rising from the Viking’s belly. She
wanted to know if it felt as smooth and warm as it looked.

She shivered with the thought and shot
another glance at the Viking’s face, relieved to see no hint of
awareness in the man’s impassive expression. Cautiously, she
reached out her hand.

Silky. Hot. A faint smile curled Fiona’s
lips as she explored. The tip of his shaft was very soft. It
tapered like an arrow point, then dipped in to meet his sleek, firm
length. Beneath his shaft, his softly rounded testicles drooped
downward.

Her fingers encircled him, gauging
thickness, weight, warmth, experiencing the wonder of supple skin
overlaying solid flesh. She imagined him inside her, filling the
passageway to her womb. Her knees went weak and her insides
clenched with yearning.

She paused, eyes closed, her senses
intoxicated by the Viking’s glorious hot flesh. What she felt was
sinful. It was wicked enough to defy her father, worse yet that she
might enjoy the wanton thing she intended. And there were other
risks. What if the Viking’s seed took hold in her womb? It would be
disastrous to bear a half-Viking babe.

Fiona pulled her hand away and clenched it
stiffly against her body. The further she progressed with her plan,
the more addle-witted it seemed. She meant to couple with a
barbarian, a savage, and she expected him to neither kill her nor
impregnate her.

She stood. She should give up this folly,
gather up her things, climb the crumbling steps, and bolt the
souterrain opening behind her. Let the Viking rot.

Fiona leaned down to grab the handle to the
cauldron. She paused. Her eyes sought the captive’s sprawled form
and perused his naked, gleaming flesh. A wild hunger unfurled
inside her. One time—what could happen if she lay with him one
time?

Her fingers released the cauldron handle,
and she bent to kneel in the dirt at the Viking’s side. She jerked
the man’s trews down to his hairy thighs, then paused. Because of
the ankle shackles the man still wore, she would have to cut his
trews to remove them completely. Finding her knife, she used it to
sever the fabric, then alternately ripped and cut the garment the
rest of the way down his legs. Grimacing, she threw the smelly
trews aside. They were good for naught but burning now, and the man
did not need clothes for what she wanted of him. Indeed, being
naked might discourage him from escaping. To that end, she decided
to take off his cowhide boots as well. She unfastened the leather
strips from around his ankles and removed the boots.

Fishing her cloth out of the cauldron, she
resumed washing the Viking. She went about her task rapidly; but
even so, she could not avoid noticing the muscular shape of his
long legs, the awesome size and perfection of the man’s lower body.
Every inch of him seemed as solid and strong as if honed of
tempered iron.

Finished, she dumped the soiled water in the
corner of the chamber, then returned to the captive. Although
hardly clean, he no longer smelled of blood and sickness. She
reached to feel his brow again and noted with approval that he
seemed cooler, as if bathing him had eased his fever even more.
There was nothing else she could do for him until he roused.

Would he rouse? If he had not stirred during
all her washing and touching, why should she think he would ever
awake? New anxieties crowded Fiona’s thoughts. The Viking had
suffered a head wound. Could that be what kept him unconscious? She
examined the gash on his forehead carefully. There was some
swelling there, but not enough to seem dangerous. Except for his
arm, the man appeared whole and relatively healthy. His breathing
was even and deep; his color appeared normal. Every moment she was
with him, she expected him to open his eyes and confront her. It
was baffling that he did not wake.

She leaned over him and sighed. She could
not linger here. It must be midafternoon now; if she did not appear
by the time of the evening meal, Duvessa would grow alarmed and
alert Donall to her absence. If her caresses didn’t rouse the man,
it seemed nothing would.

Frustrated, Fiona studied the Viking. His
shaft seemed incredibly stiff and solid. She wondered if she might
be able to force it inside her body though the rest of him lay
inert and insensible. If he tore her maidenhead, who was to know
how it had been done?

She started to undress, then paused,
suddenly feeling cold with guilt. Her whole plan was unscrupulous,
she had accepted that. But to use a man’s body while he lay wounded
and helpless—something inside her rebelled. She defied her father
because she didn’t think it right for him to treat her
like
a thing, a possession. Now she meant do the same to the Viking, to
exploit him for her own ends.

But he was just a godless savage, an animal,
she argued with herself. He had come here to kill and destroy. His
feelings were beneath consideration.

Fiona shook her head. The Viking was not an
animal. She had heard him speak, looked into his compelling blue
eyes. He had a soul, and she would not trade his soul’s freedom for
her own.

Her hands left the girdle at her waist. She
would come back tomorrow. Surely by then, the man would waken.

Fiona retrieved the cauldron and her leather
bag. She would leave the water jar and the food. If the Viking
woke, he would need refreshment.

She took the torch from the niche in the
wall and left the captive. Halfway to the doorway of the chamber,
she turned once more, unable to shake the sense of connection she
felt with the wounded man. She had tended him, bathed him, touched
him as intimately as a lover. Although she didn’t know his name or
the slightest thing about his life, she could not help feeling that
there was a bond between them. A bond that would not easily be
broken.