The Pagan's Prize (10 page)

She was no fool. Her father employed spies against his
elder brother. Yaroslav must do the same. Perhaps this man was a spy, and hoped
to use her to gain some military advantage for the grand prince. He obviously
believed her to be a boyar's concubine; perhaps it was best to convince him.

"What I meant is that I don't look upon Lord Ivan
as my master," she said in a much softer tone, giving the Varangian the
true name of her betrothed. Ivan would never betray her father, and he was a
shrewd man. He would know how to outwit her captor and win her return long
before the Norseman discovered her identity. "Nor does he see me as merely
his concubine. We are so much . . . more to each other."

"So I thought," Rurik muttered, any amusement
he had derived from her pretty display of hauteur vanishing at the image of her
even smiling at another man.

Then, angrily reminding himself of his resolve to be
rid of her, he demanded, "Where can I find Lord Ivan? I want to send him a
message and let him know that you are well."

"Why don't you just take me to him?" Zora
countered as guilelessly as possible. "If we are in Chernigov, it would be
an easy matter to escort me to the
kreml
.
My Ivan is one of Prince Mstislav's most trusted warriors."

Rurik had no intention of betraying himself or his men.
It was best she believed he was a mercenary. "It's not that simple, wench."
He was determined not to call her "little one" again, forcing himself
to think of her as nothing more than a pawn. "There is the matter of
ransom."

"Ransom?" came her startled reply.

He laughed, mocking her. "Of course. Did you think
I had brought you all this way for charity? When I learned of your value from
the Slav merchant, I knew I would profit well by your safe return."

Zora felt her face grow hot as she realized she might
have misread this man entirely. So he was only interested in gaining ransom . .
. and he was a murderer to boot! She would have felt safer if she were in the
hands of a disciplined spy and not some ruthless fortune hunter.

Suddenly her situation felt much more precarious, and
Zora decided that she would not wait for any ransom to be delivered. As soon as
she saw her chance, she would escape. Then, once she was safe with her father,
she would have this coarse Varangian and his companions hunted down and see
that they paid with their lives for the unthinkable indignity she had suffered.

"What is your name, wench?"

Zora hesitated. If he discovered that he held a princess,
who knew what he might do? "Ilka," she lied, using the name of one of
her slaves.

"Ilka. It doesn't suit you." The Norseman's
gaze raked over her in a manner that filled her with apprehension. "Beauty
such as yours deserves something finer." He gestured to the bed. "Lie
down, Ilka."

Zora clutched the fur more tightly around her. "Lie
down?"

"We've only a few more hours left until dawn and I
want you to look your best tomorrow for Lord Ivan."

Zora wanted to refuse—it was humiliating to sleep in
the spot where he had so recently defiled her. But his forceful tone
discouraged any argument. Perhaps she had nothing to fear from him, she tried
to reason with herself, setting the wine jug close within her reach as she lay
down upon the bed and arranged the fur so that it covered her torso. He had
been sleeping upon the floor after all—

"Move over."

She stared up at him in disbelief, her heart hammering.
"What?"

"I don't trust you, Ilka. You've already proved to
me that you can wield a sword. I don't want to wake up to find myself bleeding
to death. Or you gone." When she hesitated, he kicked the jug so hard
under the bed that it shattered against a corner post. "Move over!"

Her mouth suddenly dry, Zora obeyed by quickly scooting
as far to the wall as she could go. She had just turned her back to him when a
powerful arm went around her waist. She gasped as he brought her hard against
him and threw a heavily muscled leg over her thigh. To her horror, her bare
bottom was nestled right up against his hips.

"Sleep well, Ilka."

Sleep well?
she thought furiously as his breathing soon became deep and regular.

God help her, she'd be damned if she closed her eyes at
all!

Chapter
7

To Zora's relief, morning came mercifully swift.
Watching sullenly as the Varangian pulled his tunic over his head, she told
herself that she held no interest in the immense breadth of his shoulders, so
thick with muscle, the bulging contours of his arms, the impressive span of his
chest, or the masculine leanness of his waist. She was merely keeping a
cautious eye on him.

Amazingly, she felt little fatigue even though she hadn't
slept, the heat of his body alone enough to help keep her eyes open. His every
movement in sleep, radiating more strength than she imagined most men possessed
in their waking hours, had also kept up her defenses.

She suspected that she must have gotten enough rest
during the past few days to make up for the lack last night. Since the moment
her stem-faced captor had arisen to relight the oil lamp and begin to dress,
she had felt alert, eager, and ready for any chance of escape that might
present itself.

"Get dressed," the Varangian ordered as he
fastened a wide leather belt about his waist. Drawing his gleaming sword from
the scabbard, he ran two fingers along one filed edge to the tapered tip and
then down the blade's other side as if checking for any damage from its recent
mishandling.

To Zora, it looked almost like he was caressing the
weapon, the expression on his handsome face somber and reverent. She had heard
tales that Norsemen revered their swords, surrounding them with an aura of
mystique. Some Varangians even gave their swords a name.

"What do you call it?" She must have asked
her question a bit too flippantly for he shot her a dark glare.

"Branch-of-Odin."

"Makes sense for a pagan like you," she
muttered, resenting his frown and her own shiver of fear.

He ran the flat of his palm down the three-foot-long
blade and then thrust the deadly weapon back into its sheath. "I thought I
told you to get dressed."

Bristling at his tone, Zora held the fur she had not
let go of since last night more snugly against her body. "In what, if I
might ask?"

He picked up some clothes scattered upon the floor and
tossed them to the bed.

Inspecting the two garments gingerly, almost afraid to
touch them for fear of finding lice, Zora's eyes widened.
 
Trousers?
A man's tunic? Was he mad?
She glanced at him in confusion, but before she
could speak the Varangian chuckled in amusement.

"You seem surprised, Ilka. Surely you can see that
we couldn't bring you into the city as a woman wearing fine silks and slippers,
your beautiful hair unbound and flowing down your back. Someone might have
recognized you and we would be dead men." He threw a rope belt and a damp
piece of cloth into her lap. "Until you're back in Lord Ivan's arms, you
will play the part of my slave"—his voice grew heavy with warning—"and
a docile one at that. Do you understand?"

Nodding, she bit back her sharp retort, though the
thought of meekly following this heathen's orders even for a short while turned
her stomach.

"May I at least bathe before I dress?" she
began in a deceptive flat monotone, but her anger at her lost virginity
suddenly overcame her discretion. "Ivan will not be pleased to have the
smell of another man upon me."

Her statement was rewarded with a black scowl. She
glared right back at him, which seemed to displease him all the more.

"There's water in the bucket," he said
tightly. "I used that cloth sash to bathe you last night, but of course
you don't remember."

"You did what?" Her gaze skipped in surprise
from the wrinkled length of material to his face, which was inscrutable.

"It doesn't matter," he bit off. "Take
care that you wring out the sash well when you're finished. Your breasts must
be bound with it as part of your guise." Paying no heed to her gasp of
outrage, he strode to the door and flung it open, only to pause at the sight of
another Varangian who appeared as if he had been just about to knock.

Zora swallowed her pique for the moment, thinking ahead
to her escape. She hoped there were not many more Norsemen hiding in the
adjoining room. This older man was as dark as her captor was fair, even for the
sprinkling of gray in his hair and beard, yet a full head shorter and much
wider in girth. His face was round and swarthy, and he had the most peculiar
nose she had ever seen. He looked as if someone had punched him good and hard,
breaking his nose and squashing it to one side.

"Ah, Lord Rurik, you're awake," the graying
warrior said amiably. His gaze flew to the bed and he grinned, which made Zora
grip the fur all the more tightly to her breasts. "I trust you and the
wench slept soundly."

Lord Rurik? Zora thought, realizing she had neglected
to ask her captor his name. Then again, most likely he wouldn't have told her
even if she had. She decided Rurik suited him.
 
A hard name for a hard man. But what of the title? That puzzled her.
Since when did mercenary rogues of his sort have titles?

"Not as soundly as I might have wished,"
Rurik said, casting a meaningful look in her direction. "It's not every
night that a man's own sword is raised against him."

"Your sword?" The hulking warrior's grin
vanished. He glanced incredulously from Zora to Rurik. "The wench?"
Rurik nodded.

"By Odin, I slept too well! I heard nothing!"

"Don't trouble yourself, Arne. There was never any
real danger. Our captive beauty vastly underestimated her opponent. Now come,
we have much to discuss and the wench wishes to bathe."

Not missing his sarcastic tone as he shut the door
behind him, Zora felt like flinging the damned bucket across the room. Damn his
pagan's soul to hell. She couldn't wait to be free of him!

Rising from the bed, she dropped the fur to the floor
and proceeded to scrub herself clean, the cold water proving some balm for her
temper. A bit of soap would have been nice, but she would just have to wait
until she was back in the women's
terem
where she could enjoy a proper bath.

As she gave herself a final rinsing, she squeezed the
dripping cloth against her shoulder, relishing the opportunity to wash away any
remnant of Rurik's loathsome touch. Sucking in her breath as the chilled water
trickled down the front of her body, she suddenly froze as an unsettling flash
of memory struck her . . . Rurik, standing tall and broad in front of her, his
eyes burning into hers, his knuckles grazing her sensitive flesh as he pressed
the soaked cloth between her breasts—

No, that couldn't
have happened!
she told herself fiercely, cursing that her nipples had
grown hard and turgid. He hadn't bathed her! That had been another of his lies!

Flinging the cloth into the bucket with a splash, she
dressed quickly although her skin was still damp. She wanted to be clothed, her
nakedness an unwanted reminder of her disgrace. Outside, the sounds of activity
beyond the planked walls—people shouting and laughing, carts rumbling, horses
neighing—spurred her on.

She felt as if she were suffocating in this dim, stuffy
little bedchamber, no windows to provide fresh air or an escape. She wanted to
see the next room, wanted to know how many other Varangians were in Rurik's
band and then weigh her chances. With trembling fingers, she rebraided her
hair, then she went to the door and thrust it open.

Rurik was leaning against the wall with his heavily
muscled arms folded over his chest, obviously waiting for her to emerge. Her
breath caught, for in the bright morning sunlight streaming in from a nearby
window, she finally got a good look at his face.

He was more strikingly handsome than she had thought,
his short beard and mustache only accentuating his hard, sculpted features. His
thick blond hair was longer than she recalled, skimming his shoulders, and
gleamed with silvery highlights that mirrored the brightness of his sword. When
he inclined his head slightly, she spied a glint of gold and noticed for the
first time that he wore a small hooped earring in his left ear, although he
bore no other ornament.

But what drew her attention was his eyes. They weren't
black as she had imagined them to be, but an intense blue like the color of
deep water, or the sky after twilight just before it darkens into night. She
found herself captivated by them, thinking they were the most arresting hue she
had ever seen . . .

"You forgot the sash, Ilka."

"What . . . ?" As if shattered from some
spell, Zora felt a hot blush burn her cheeks as he smiled lazily at her, his
teeth a brilliant white against his sun-bronzed skin. Clenching her jaw
stubbornly, for she didn't want to wear that clammy cloth against her skin, she
muttered, "I did not."

"I'm not blind," he countered, his gaze
falling to her breasts. "Your beauty juts free and unfettered for all to
see."

Zora wanted to slap him for staring at her so, and to
her mortification when she followed his eyes, her hardened nipples were well
outlined against the linen tunic. That alone made her rush into the bedchamber,
and turning her back to him, she lifted the garment and wound the damp sash
around her upper body.

"Do you need any help?"

"No!"

But she did. She sighed with frustration as she
struggled with her arms behind her to tie a knot, then jumped when she felt his
large warm hands cover hers to take over the task. Shivering at his touch, she
jerked her hands away as if stung and, made furious by her reaction, wondered
what the devil was coming over her. The man had raped her, let her not forget!