Avelynn (35 page)

I squirmed free of his hold. “You mean to leave me here?” I hissed.

“You will be safe until I return. Halfdan will not touch you and risk a drop in selling price.”

“And if I'm not willing to take the risk?”

“What I said in the clearing stands. I have assured your safety and fair treatment. If you leave this cottage, you are on your own.”

Deep down I knew he was right, but I was furious at my helplessness. “Why do you cower to him?”

The bronze glow of his skin flushed with anger. “You know nothing about me or my life. Loyalty and blood are valued above all else to a Norseman.”

“Your brother doesn't seem to share your ideals.”

We stood toe to toe, glaring at each other. “I have worked hard to earn respect from my men and from my brothers. I will not jeopardize my position for—”

“A Saxon whore?”

“For a hopeless cause. What good would it serve to anger him? You would be sold to Demas, and I would be killed and could do nothing to help you.”

I turned away from him in defeat. I was fighting the wrong man. Gods, why was I being so ungrateful and hurtful? I closed my eyes. The next words were no more than a whisper. “Why didn't you come back in September?”

“I returned too late. I wanted to come earlier, but I had given Ivar my word.”

“You gave your word to me.” A tear burned the crease of my eye, threatening to fall. I swatted at it furiously, but another took its place. After all I had been through, being here with Alrik, captive and helpless, was breaking the last of my reserves.

He took a step closer. “I could not promise I would be back in September, but I promise you now. I will not let you down. You have my word. I will see you safely delivered to your people.”

Delivered to my people. He wouldn't be with me. He would never be with me. The tear fell.

His arms encircled my waist, and his lips met mine. I pulled away. I was angry—angry that he left me, angry that he returned.

“I will not force you, Seiðkana.”

My eyes involuntarily traveled down to the tent in his breeches. His words awakened months of unrequited passion. I shoved it away and crossed my arms in front of my chest.

He looked to the door. “We do not have much time.”

“You hurt me, let me down, and then brought me here … dragged behind your bloody horse!”

“Of that, I had no choice. To all we passed on the road, you were my captive. Though, I cannot say it did not serve to wake you to the danger you were in.” His eyebrows creased, but he pulled me back into him. The soft wool of his tunic brushed my cheek.

I could smell the musk of his scent, and my legs trembled. “Why didn't you just let me go? Why did you have to come back?”

“Because I love you.”

Tears blurred my vision. “I hate you.”

His mouth found mine, forcing my lips to part, his tongue demanding my surrender. My hands groped blindly for his neck. My tongue slid over his teeth, grazing the roof of his mouth, devouring him. Gooseflesh rippled along my skin. My breasts swelled, the tips straining against his chest.

He forced me against the wall, my back pinned against rough wooden planks. His hand traveled down my body, slipping inside my trousers, searching and finding the desperate wetness there. I inhaled sharply as his fingers slid along the sensitive flesh.

My own hands tugged the drawstring at his waist. His breeches slipped over his hips. I ran my fingernails down his thigh and brushed them lightly against the rigid sacks between his legs, cupping and massaging them in my palm before grasping the length of him. A rumble deep in his throat escaped, filling my mouth with heady vibration.

His teeth grazed my neck, my earlobe, my shoulder. Following the scoop neck of my tunic, his mouth kissed my collarbones, his tongue tracing the swell of each breast, delving into the valley between them. His free hand roamed beneath the fabric. I arched my back, pressing myself into his kneading hands as he rolled a nipple between forefinger and thumb.

Long, probing fingers slipped deep inside me. “Alrik.” My head flung back, my hips strained forward.

He tugged at my trousers, and I pulled away from him long enough to loosen the cross garters that kept them from slipping to the floor. After some rather unbecoming hopping, I managed to step out from their tether.

“I want you.” His breath was hot and heavy against my cheek.

“I want you too,” I gasped between the thick, moist lips covering mine.

He pressed the tip of his arousal against me, rubbing it back and forth against swollen, quivering folds. I whimpered, needing more, and he drove inside me, filling me.

I cried out in muted desperation and grabbed a handful of his hair. My fingernails dug into his back. I wrapped my legs around his waist. Gods, if anyone were to come in and find us … Fear heightened the feverish, panicked pace, pushing our unbridled arousal to furious heights. With each thrust, he assaulted my womb. A mixture of pain and pleasure seized my body. I met him blow for blow, pushing my hips up to meet him, my passion clamping tightly around him, holding him to me, weakening him, possessing him.

A strangled cry contorted his features, his mouth held open in exquisite awe. His sounds, his pleasure, his need pushed me over the precipice, and my body convulsed. Waves of pleasure crashed over me, rippling with each final thrust. My legs shook, and my body melted as he shuddered and pulsed within me.

He leaned his forehead against the wall, and we remained frozen, our breath apace with each racing heartbeat for one last moment.

But too soon, he pulled away, and I disentangled my legs from around his waist. He fixed his breeches and tunic and inched closer to the door. I righted my own garments and sat on the bed. I waited, my hands resting on my lap. His face wore a mixture of euphoria, from the healthy glow of a man well satisfied, and sorrow. The fire in his eyes was diminished, his eyebrows heavy with our parting.

“I must go.”

“I know.”

He hesitated as if he didn't quite know what to do or say next.

“Thank you,” I said. “For everything.” My eyes glazed over, and my chest constricted.

He nodded. “I will be back as soon as I can, Seiðkana. You have my word.” He stepped outside, leaving me to stare at the black iron latch as it clamped down, locking me in.

*   *   *

Halfdan proved a gracious captor, even providing me with a new kirtle, a comb, and a basin of rose-scented water to wash one morning. I hadn't bathed since Windsor and was grateful for the gift. Neither guard looked at me, let alone tried to touch me, when they shoved my meals through a sliver of open door. Halfdan was obviously taking Alrik's suggestions seriously, my virtue being considered a valuable asset.

After a while the days began to blur. I placed a notch in the dirt floor near the back corner of the cottage to keep track.

Despite Alrik's warning to sit and be patient, I wasn't about to wait to be rescued if I could devise a means of accomplishing the task myself. I assessed every possible opportunity. I couldn't take down the guards by hand—they were three times my size and fully armed. I tried dismantling the bed to use one of the larger posts as a makeshift club, but the frame wouldn't budge. Twice daily, food and ale were set inside the door, but the door was open only a slit, and each time I saw silhouettes of people milling around outside.

By the end of the third week, I grew increasingly anxious. A restless energy kept my legs bouncing when I sat. Surely, Alrik had reached Ealhswith by now. I wasn't sure how long it would take Alrik to find her, and I had no idea how he planned to meet with her. A Viking couldn't just walk straight into a village and ask to speak with the king's sister-in-law.

Trust him, I told myself firmly. But doubt hopped madly from shoulder to shoulder, mocking me. He had tried to come back in September, but circumstances out of his control prevented him from doing so. Who was to say something wouldn't stop him from returning this time as well?

Scooping away some dirt with my finger, I began to notch another day into the floor, but stopped as a thought struck me. The ground was soft here.

Reading was at the confluence of two rivers, the Thames and the Kennet, which protected the town on two sides from attack. The Vikings had overcome the remaining tactical weakness by digging a dyke around the exposed periphery and fortifying it with a wooden palisade. The wall of spiked tree trunks ran alongside the cottage I was being held in.

Perhaps I could dig my way out. If I broke out at night, emerging between the palisade and the cottage, I could keep to the shadows and slip down the riverbank when the way was clear. I wasn't sure if the shoreline was wide enough to allow passage, or if it was free of ice and debris, but despite the danger of being swept into the frigid water, I knew I had to try.

The latch on the door lifted.

“Hello,
wyrt-gaelstre
.”

My blood waxed cold.

Halfdan and Gorm entered, followed by Ingvar, the Saxon from Alrik's crew, the man whose brother was killed.

“You are certain?” Gorm asked.

“That's her. I was with Alrik when he was fucking her.”

Panic coursed through my veins.

“We found this on her when she was captured.” Ingvar handed Alrik's knife to Halfdan.

Halfdan rolled the garnet-studded hilt in his palm.

“And you are certain she speaks Norse?” Gorm asked.

“Oh, she knows it, all right.”

Halfdan nodded. “Gorm, place several lookouts along the river. When Alrik lands, see to it he does not make it back alive.”

My knees buckled, and I stumbled backward, bumping up against the bed.

Gorm and Ingvar left.

Halfdan shut the door. “Let me show you what we do to spies,” he said, and closed the distance between us.

 

TWENTY-ONE

“Bastard!” I cried out in Norse. Tears streamed down my face.

“You mistake me for Alrik,” Halfdan said, switching the cat-o'-nine-tails across his leg. The whip had several corded ends, each tipped with a knot.

We were in a small sunken hut. The floor was dug a few feet into the earth. Plank walls and a thatched roof made up the portion aboveground. The rushes had been swept, mounding in piles around the periphery of the hut. A shoulder-high post near the back of the room was the only ornamentation. My neck had been forced into a chiseled-out split down the center of the post. A horizontal cross brace nailed into place behind my head ensured I couldn't move, and my hands were tied and bound to the front of the post. I was naked. My hair was thrown over my shoulders; the length hung loose, covering my hands. A woman sat on a small stool near the door, guiding wool onto a spindle. Her apparent job, beyond indifferent witness, was to tend the small fire burning in the central hearth. A variety of iron brands glowed red in the ashes.

Halfdan waited until I'd regained enough strength before continuing. Blood ran in rivulets down my back and snaked along my hips before drying thick and sticky down my legs.

“What is your relationship with Alrik?” He leaned his shoulder against the wall, watching me.

“I told you.” My legs shook from the strain of trying to hold myself up. Whenever I collapsed, the weight of my body pulled my neck deeper into the wedge, and the rough edges razed my skin. “We met by accident. We haven't seen each other since last summer.” My breath was strained. The words came in short spurts.

“Where is he?”

“I don't know.”

“He stopped at York weeks ago, but has since disappeared.”

“I don't know where he is.”

“Do you care to know what I think?” He pushed off from the wall and walked behind me.

“Please,” I begged.

He brought the whip down hard across the torn flesh of my back. My body convulsed from the pain, and my legs gave out. My scream was garbled as the wood dug into my throat.

“I think,” he began, “that he has gone to tell your Saxon friends of our plans.” He walked over to the fire and picked up a brand, the tip a fiery red.

I tried to find purchase with my bound hands on the post. I pushed myself higher. “He would never betray you. He respects you.”

“He knows nothing of respect! He has dishonored me—spat on my father's name!” Spittle flew over the brand. It snapped and crackled as it evaporated.

Nothing I said made any difference. In Halfdan's eyes Alrik was a traitor and I was a spy. Alrik would be ambushed as soon as he landed, his life forfeit for a crime he didn't commit. And I would be tortured until Halfdan grew bored of my pleading, pathetic cries. He wouldn't kill me. My worth in gold was dependent on keeping me alive. We both knew that. But that didn't stop him from exacting pleasure in my pain.

He grabbed a handful of my hair and laid it across the brand. It sizzled, curled black, and caught fire. His fist closed around the flames, snuffing them out. The smell of burnt hair scorched my nostrils, churning my already panicked stomach. He held the brand inches away from my face, trailing the outline of my cheek. Heat radiated from the metal, searing my skin.

“Do you know what it's like to have your feet branded?” he asked conversationally. “Will make it harder to stand,” he added.

“Please, I don't know where he is.”

“You disappoint me.” He moved behind and picked up my foot. I tried desperately to jerk it free of his grasp.

“Why do you protect him? He has left you here to take his punishment while he runs away like a cowering dog.”

“I love him,” I whispered.

He pushed the brand into the arch of my foot. I screamed, my body flailing to get away from the pain.

“Goddess,” I called out in English between gasps. “Woden, Thunor, please save me.”

He recognized the names of the gods and eyed me curiously. “You are not Christian.” He set the brand back into the fire. “Who are you?”