The Pagan's Prize (9 page)

It was too much. Sweeping her into his arms, Rurik laid
her upon the bed and leaving her for only a moment, undressed more swiftly than
he had ever thought possible. As he blanketed her with his body, he no longer
cared about savoring her or taking his time. He wanted her so badly that he was
shaking. Believing she wanted him just as much, he parted her legs with his
knee and thrust inside her with such vehemence that she cried out . . . not a
man's name, not in ecstasy, but in raw pain.

"By Odin . . . ?" Rurik had had virgins
before, and in that unsettling instant, he knew the woman moaning beneath him
had never known another man. Yet he could no sooner stop his wild assault than
the furious hammering of his heart.

"Sshh, little one . . . sshh," he soothed,
knowing from experience that soon her pain would pass and rippling pleasure
take its place.

Kissing her hungrily, passionately, the wine-scented
taste of her mouth driving him into a frenzy, he nonetheless drew back a little
and slipped his hand between their bodies. His fingers found the slick, wet
heat he was seeking and he slid them into her, teasing the tender bud hidden
there that seemed to swell beneath his touch.

He was rewarded at once by her sharp inhalation of surprise,
then broken whimpers as she began to toss beneath him, her hips thrusting
upward as urgently as he delved within her, neither his fingers or his
deepening kisses giving her any peace. He almost laughed in triumph against her
lips when her arms curled around his neck to grip him tightly, her panting as
hot and breathless as his own.

Then he thought no more, the searing sensation in his
loins building to such intensity that he grimaced as if in mortal pain.

From some far-off place he heard her cries of rapture,
her incredibly tight, blistering sheath gripping him like a throbbing vise . .
. squeezing him, teasing him, until he reached that point where his body
stiffened and his breath jammed hard in his chest. As a pure hot explosion of
sensation overwhelmed him, more blindingly powerful than anything he
remembered, he called out to the woman beneath him, no matter that he didn't
know her name . . .

Rurik could not say how much time had passed before he
raised his head, but he guessed a good while for the woman's eyes were closed,
her breathing deep and regular as if she were asleep. Either that or she had
fainted from the force of her passion. He had seen such a thing before. Fearing
his weight was too much for her, he rolled over and carried her with him until
she was lying on top of him, their bodies still joined.

Loki take him, the wench had been a virgin, he thought
incredulously, cursing the devious god of mischief who had wreaked this havoc.
A damned virgin! The last thing he had expected was innocence.

Rurik sighed heavily as the woman's gentle breathing
stirred the blond curls upon his chest. He hadn't expected the powerful
feelings that were crashing in upon him either. Instead of being satiated, he
was more intrigued than ever.

A concubine, yet a virgin? An innocent possessing the
passionate nature of a wanton? A woman who had looked to him for protection,
yet who might now be compromised in value to her master because Rurik had
stolen her chastity? An insistent inner voice demanded that he save her from
the wrath his defilement of her might arouse, that he keep her safe from harm
and take her back with him to Novgorod. He had never felt so strongly drawn to
any woman since Astrid—

No, by Odin! For that reason alone, he would leave this
wench to her fate!

His actions had been impulsive since the first moment
he saw her, but no more! Women were trouble of the worst kind, and he would do
well to remember that.

Besieged by bitter memories, Rurik shifted the woman
from his body and rose from the bed. To continue touching her, holding her, was
a torment he did not need. After covering her with a soft fur, he threw several
skins onto the floor and lay down.

Tomorrow morning he would rid himself of her, even if
he must abandon his plan to use her for information. He wanted no woman around
him that made him feel like this one. He would leave her near the gates of
Prince Mstislav's palace, where someone would surely recognize her and return
her to her rightful master.

It had to be done.

Chapter 6

Awaking with a start, Zora winced at the tenderness
between her legs. It wasn't a true pain, but a dull ache, yet she had never
felt such a sensation before.

She shifted slightly, amazed that her entire body was
sore. She stared in confusion at the raftered ceiling, trying to gather her
muddled thoughts. Where was she? Rubbing her hands over her face, she sharply
inhaled as she touched her left cheekbone. Ouch, it hurt! Frowning, she ran her
fingertips more gingerly over her skin, wondering what she could have done

"Holy Mother Mary," she breathed in horror,
all too suddenly remembering why her cheek hurt so painfully as if a ray of
brilliant light had pierced her brain. He . . . he had struck her! That
Varangian trader, Halfdan Snakeeye!

Dreadful memories leapt to life in her mind, lurid
sights and sounds: Halfdan's scarred face, his leering grin, his terrible
laughter . . . and the naked slave women in the tent, all of them writhing,
moaning, then the trader throwing her down upon a bench and stroking himself right
in front of her!

Halfdan's coarse words flew at her "You cannot
escape me, pretty bird. I will have you, here, now, in the dirt!" Then she
was running, running, and begging for aid but no one would help her. No one
would listen! Fierce-looking Varangians were everywhere, and Halfdan was coming
closer and closer. She remembered crying out, "You cannot do this!"
then he struck her down and she was falling

"Oh, no . . ." Zora whispered, feeling
suddenly very sick. "Oh, God, no." Rising abruptly on her elbow, Zora
flung aside the furs, her hand moving to the place where the dull throbbing was
centered. She felt a wetness and gasped in disbelief at the scarlet blood
staining her trembling fingers, the same telltale sign smeared upon the inside
of her thighs.

He had raped her! That brutish, dung-smelling Varangian
had raped her!

A half sigh, half groan suddenly drew her gaze to the
floor. She stared wide-eyed, her heart pounding in rage and fear, at the naked
man sleeping only four feet away with his broad, muscled back to her. In the
dim lighting she could see that he was huge, his hair blond. She didn't need to
see more.

Halfdan!

Her first thought was to flee. Then the bright glint of
metal near the sputtering oil lamp caught her eye and she drew fresh courage.
Focusing with deadly intent upon the sword lying within arm's reach, she
decided then and there that she was going to kill him for what he had done to
her.

Burning for vengeance, Zora vaulted from the bed, and
grabbing the sword hilt, she yanked the heavy weapon from its sheath. She
staggered beneath its weight, but clenching her teeth from the effort and
fueled by blinding fury, she managed to lift the sword high enough to deal one
fatal, hacking blow.

"Now you will pay!" Yet the blade had no
sooner begun its downward motion when she was knocked violently to her knees,
the sword wrenched from her hand.

In the next instant she was hauled by the shoulders to
her feet, coming face-to-face with a man she realized at once was not Halfdan.
In fact, she could not recall ever seeing him before, although she guessed from
his sheer size and fair hair that he must be a Varangian. She gaped up at him
in astonishment, his expression so thunderous that she was swept by cold fear.

"This is something new, little one," he said
in a low husky voice that sent strange chills through her. He gripped her upper
arms tightly. "I've heard of those who walk in their sleep, but to engage
in swordplay? A most dangerous affliction indeed. Someone could have been hurt."

Confused that he addressed her as if he knew her, Zora
stared into eyes that appeared black as night in the room's dimness and a
bearded countenance made no less handsome by his obvious anger. "Who-who .
. . are you?" she finally demanded, her voice hoarse.

"You don't recognize me?"

Again, she was startled. Recognize him? How could she?
She had never seen this man before.

Zora shook her head.

Now the blond giant seemed somewhat surprised. "Yet
you raised my own sword against me," he said, searching her face. "Why?"

"You raped me! You deserve to die for what you
have done, you . . . you filthy pagan!"

Rurik stared at her incredulously, his head beginning
to pound. It seemed his docile charge had at last recovered. Gone was the
acquiescent child-woman who had so captivated him, and in her place, a defiant
avenging angel with apparently no memory of the past few days, let alone the
last few hours. Thor's blood, if he hadn't heard his sword sliding from the
scabbard, he would have been dead!

"It was no rape," he said tightly. He had
never taken any woman to his bed against her will. That might be the sport of
other Varangian warriors, but not his. "You did not spurn my advances,
wench, but eagerly welcomed them."

"Liar!" Her eyes snapped indignant fire. "I
would rather die than submit to a barbarian such as you!"

Suddenly she ground her heel into his big toe with such
fury that he released her, cursing. She fled to the foot of the bed, and as if
realizing for the first time that she was stark naked, she yanked a fur off the
mattress and flung it around herself.

"Say what you like, wench, but you did submit to
me and willingly." Undaunted by her insults and her behavior although his
toe throbbed in pain, Rurik took a step toward her but reconsidered when she
lunged for the empty wine jug and held it poised in front of her like a weapon.
Perhaps if he tried to reason with her, he might coax her into cooling her
temper. She had already tried to kill him once and then stomped upon his foot.
He didn't relish the idea of sustaining any further injury at her hand.

"I didn't know you were a virgin." He used
the same soothing tone she had responded to favorably in the past. "If I
had, I wouldn't have touched you. It was not my intent to cause any trouble
between you and your master—"

"Master?" Zora interrupted, deciding that
this Varangian must be mad. He had made little sense since first opening his
mouth. She was glad when he picked up a pair of trousers and tugged them on,
although she would be the last to admit how disconcerting she had found his
nakedness. Keeping her gaze trained upon his face had been almost impossible
for what lay below, his physique more formidable than any man's she had ever
seen—

Furious at herself for even thinking that this Norseman
was remotely attractive, especially after what he had done to her, she spat, "I
have no master."

"No? Before I took his life, the Slav merchant who
stole you from the caravan told me that you did."

"You killed Gleb?" Stunned, Zora recalled all
too clearly that ruthless merchant's plans for her.

"So you remember him."

"Yes," she replied bitterly. "He was
going to cut out my tongue and sell me in Constantinople. How could I forget
such a man?"

"Then you must remember Halfdan as well."

Zora eyed the Varangian with renewed suspicion.

"Do not fear, little one. He is also dead. I told
you all of this before, but you've been ill since I took you from that trading
camp. You suffered a severe shock. I'm not surprised you don't remember me,
even though you've shared my and my men's company for almost four days now."

Four days?

Unwittingly lowering the jug, Zora wondered if this
astounding statement could be true. She remembered the events at that horrid
camp so clearly, as if they had happened only an hour past. Yet here she was in
a tiny room at some unknown place with a half-naked stranger who was leading
her to believe that he had saved her from Halfdan and Gleb.

Saved her?
she scoffed, taking the Norseman's measure from head to toe. He had also raped
her, and she refused to believe otherwise. Surely even ill she would not have
allowed him to steal her honor. This damned Varangian had ruined her!

"Where are we?" she demanded, raising her
weapon again when he made a slight movement toward her. "Chernigov."

Her father's city! So close to her new home, to Ivan
her betrothed, and yet this giant was holding her captive for God knew what
purpose. Zora lifted her chin, her tone icy. "What do you want from me?"

An unsettling glint of humor lit his eyes. "Only
your master's name, little one. I want to release you to his care, but I cannot
until—"

"I told you I have no master!" she snapped,
infuriated that he would find anything in this situation amusing. "You
make it sound as if I am a slave—"

"Not a slave, perhaps, but a boyar's concubine or
so I was told. A favored one . . . and obviously without having shared his bed.
No wonder the man's wife hated you."

It was on the tip of Zora's tongue to declare hotly
that she was no concubine but a princess of the Tmutorokan Rus, and that
everything he had been told about her were lies. But something stopped her. She
was not certain this man would truly help her. She was nothing to him . . .
unless he had something to gain by assisting her.

Smelling treachery, Zora nervously chewed her lower
lip, her heart beating a little faster.

Perhaps she was in the hands of an enemy of her father's.
Varangian warriors held positions in Mstislav's army, but they were few in
number. Unlike Grand Prince Yaroslav who possessed strong alliances with Norse
kings and chieftains. If this man knew she had been abducted from the caravan,
why hadn't he taken her back?