Heart of a Viking Read online

  Keita recalled her master sitting next to him and waited for the command or angry words. None came. Apparently Ragni did not mind this man touching her, scalding her with his rough fingers. It wasn’t the first time a Viking man had touched her. Yet none of the previous moments had incited anything but fear inside her. Why did her stomach dance so?

  “You speak the language of the Picts?” Ragni asked.

  Thorarin nodded solemnly. “I raided in my youth.” He released her wrist and poured some ale.

  Keita resisted the need to rub away the brand he’d left on her. It would not do to draw attention to the impact it’d had on her.

  The shock dissolved and warmth came back into her limbs. It had barely registered he’d used her language. A few of the Vikings spoke the language of her people but for the most part, they weren’t considerate enough to use it around her. She was to adjust to their world after all, not the other way around. Though she couldn’t tell if this Viking was being considerate or merely wanted her to understand his barked order instantly. She suspected the latter.

  “You will be a useful man to have around. We are planning some raids once the weather breaks again.”

  She moved away, forced herself to breathe deeply, to ignore the tingling sensation that ran up the back of her neck and told her he watched her.

  However, her will was not strong enough and she stole another glance his way when she moved to gather up more platters. Aye, he watched her. Her heart pressed against her ribs.

  Keita worked for the rest of the evening to ignore him, even as the other Vikings dispersed to their homes and she was forced to serve Ragni, Thorarin and handful of men. While weariness made her eyes ache and her feet pound, the presence of the guest continued to make her skin prickle. Even as she settled on the pallet for the night and closed her eyes. her wrist throbbed in remembrance of his touch.

  There should have been no time for thoughts of the Viking, no time to recall his handsome face as she closed her eyes. She, foolish girl that she was, could not summon the usual fear or desperate need to sleep and found herself recalling the shade of his eyes.

  As she drifted into sleep, surrounded by the snores of the other slaves and the deep sound of their guest’s breaths while he slept on the very same floor she did, Keita remembered that green. She recalled when she had walked free on hills the same colour. When her neck hadn’t been constricted in a slave collar and her body had been hers to do whatever she pleased. The sting of tears burned behind her eyelids and she wept quietly until thoughts of Pictish hills drifted far away, leaving her alone and cold on the floor.

  Chapter Three

  Thorarin rose early in spite of the ӧll consumed. Tension riddled his muscles. Already his patience was wearing thin. He took a few moments to eye the stream of light slipping in through the gaps in the wooden roof. As a boy, the járl’s longhouse had been the place he most longed to visit. When his father feasted here, he spent many a night imagining being a warrior at the table and joining in the revelry.

  Now, feasting with the man made him want to curl his fists. He eyed the light shimmering onto the reed-strewn floor and urged his heart to slow. He took no delight in what he was doing, no enjoyment in his deception.

  He scrubbed a hand across his beard.

  Perhaps there was some. He enjoyed the knowledge that soon he would bring about Ragni’s fall. But to break bread with the man had taken more strength than simple brute force. It took strength of mind and will.

  Ten summers of preparing for this moment and his will had been too fragile last eve. He shifted his gaze to where the thralls slept at the other end of the longhouse. Ragni occupied the bedchamber, separated from the rest of them by a wooden wall. Ragni’s son had his own house not far from the longhouse at the centre of the settlement. Thorarin had been sure to survey the layout of the settlement before joining in the feast. Much had changed in ten summers.

  His gaze inevitably landed on the slave girl. The sunlight seemed to catch in her pale hair, as though made of some magical thread that could capture the golden rays. It spilled over her basic pallet and his fingers twitched with the desire to know what it might feel like.

  By Odin’s beard, he needed no distraction from his cause—and certainly not in the form of a slave girl. Why, then, did the memory of soft skin and delicate bones linger on his fingertips?

  She was Ragni’s. That, he had to assume, was responsible for his preoccupation with her.

  But when he took everything from Ragni, perhaps he would take her too. She could be his. He was not sure he would have the will to keep her untouched, whether she brought him good luck or not. However, while he needed time to exact his revenge, untouched she would stay. He would force her from his mind and continue with his plans.

  Thorarin allowed himself a grim smile.

  Bit by bit, Ragni would find his life falling from underneath him. He would have little idea this man he had taken into his home was the same child he’d falsely accused of murder and had forced away from his family. A family that no longer existed. Both dead in a fire. These tales he knew from Anki—an outcast like himself. But Anki had not been accused of murder so could roam freely.

  Thorarin forced himself up as the slaves stirred with the dawn. If they slept any longer, they’d be beaten. His father had owned slaves but none were treated like Ragni’s. It was an unfortunate slave indeed that was taken into the járl’s household. His father—and men like him—had taught Thorarin that slaves were not to be ill-treated. They might wear only the cheapest of garments and eat the most basic of food but beating and injuring them meant they would not be able to work properly. A slave helped with the running of the farm and household. It would not do to treat them with disrespect.

  He pushed a hand through his currently unbound hair and moved his sleeping pallet. The slaves set to work preparing the room for the morning meal with no thought to their appearance or hunger. He noted most avoided Keita, leaving her working alone to gather the bowls and platters. Likely her elevated status meant the slaves disliked her.

  When she placed them on the table only for another slave to throw her a narrowed look and move them, he knew this to be true. The drop of her shoulders and way her lashes lowered sent a dart of pain through him. He knew what it was to be an outcast. She could not even find comfort with her own people. Something in his heart twinged for her, like an invisible string joining them together and pulling tight.

  Which was a foolish notion indeed. He shook his head and motioned to the nearest slave—a man some five summers younger than he. “When will the járl rise?”

  “Not until the sun is high in the sky,” the man replied in accented Norse.

  Thorarin nodded. He had thought that likely. It meant he had time to garner some more information about Ragni and how he ran the settlement now. He needed to know who his most trusted men were, just how deep the discontent between father and son ran and which men were the most likely to take Ragni’s position upon his death should Fleinn not be given it.

  A crack resounded across the room and Thorarin jerked his head in the direction of the sound, his hand going instinctively for his axe upon his back. But he was weaponless. So long living alone had honed his senses, made him ready for attack at any moment—even in this powerful man’s house. And he would need that instinct if he was to remain in the wolf’s house while his plans for revenge unfolded.

  Keita had a hand to her face and a female slave stalked away. Tears shimmered in those grey eyes that had so stolen his attention. When she lifted her palm, he saw the red mark on her cheek. As a favoured slave, she should never have to tolerate such behaviour from another yet he doubted she would say anything to Ragni.

  Thorarin strode over and noted the way her shoulders stiffened when he approached.

  “Keita.”

  She lifted her gaze to his. His heart rattled against his ribs. Her eyes were like a rainy day—stormy and tumultuous. They shouldn’t have had an effect on him after th
e previous day. They did, though.

  The turbulent quality to them left her appearing vulnerable. The warrior in him wanted to rise up and remove that vulnerability. A voice inside him begged him to shield her from all his world would throw at her. An odd thought for he was so used to only caring for himself.

  “My lord?”

  “Come. I wish you to attend me.” And to move her away from the other thralls.

  He spoke in Pictish. He had not lied about raiding. To survive alone he had been a mercenary, learning the necessary skills to survive. He’d found their language easy to learn and a captured monk had helped him perfect it before he sold the man on to a farmer. Keita threw a glance at the slaves and the bedchamber.

  “Ragni will want his honoured guest looked after,” he insisted.

  Her pale throat worked against the collar. Thorarin saw the flutter of a pulse there and noted the faint blue of veins around her collar bone and the way the amber necklace glowed against her fragile skin.

  Keita dipped her head in acquiescence, sending her pale hair shimmering around her shoulders. She wore most of it unbound, a small amount tied back with a leather strip. He imagined that would be so Ragni could admire it. She had an unearthly, goddess-like appearance to her and he understood why the járl believed she brought him luck.

  Unfortunately for Ragni, his luck would be changing. Thorarin would make sure of that.

  He stepped outside and made his way to the bath hut. Smoke spiralled out of the hole in the roof, telling him someone had lit the fires ready for those who wished to bathe. After bathing only in rivers and lakes, he looked forward to the warmth of a proper bath.

  They entered, Keita following several paces behind. He closed the door to the hut and noted no one else had risen to use any of the three tubs that occupied the space. Several torches had been lit and steam rose from the huge metal cauldron that rested over the fire. He jerked his head in the direction of the warm water.

  “Fill the tub,” he ordered.

  She hastened to obey, scurrying past him as though he might pounce on her. Which was not far from the truth. But he did not wish to pounce on her in the manner in which she expected. Well, maybe he did, but he wanted her alone for a reason more important than mere lust.

  Já, he lusted after her. However, he would not let it command him. After all, he was a Viking warrior, forged in the flames of betrayal and survival.

  Neinn, he wanted her here, alone, so he could find out more about Ragni. There was only so much Anki could know. Keita had been at Ragni’s side—in his home—for long enough to hear whispers that no outcast could.

  Keeping her away from the thrall that had hit her would not hurt either. Perhaps if he gained the slave girl’s trust, he could count her as an ally. It was certainly worth considering.

  While she filled the circular wooden tub, Thorarin divested himself of his few bits of jewellery—pieces he had created himself during his banishment. He found himself watching her movements as she filled the bucket and poured the water. Small droplets of water clung to her pale skin and the steam made her face glisten. Keita swung a sideways look his way and he realised he was still standing there while the bath was nearly full.

  Jolting into action, he undressed and cast aside his clothing. He nodded in the direction of the pile of clothes. “Those will need washing.”

  A tiny sound escaped her. Something like that of a vulnerable wild creature—a mouse perhaps or a new-born kitten.

  He glanced over his shoulder to find her frozen to the spot. Her eyes were rounded, her lips parted. It was not possible she had not seen a naked man before, not after her time as Ragni’s slave. Washing a man would have been part of her duties and his fellow Norsemen were hardly shy when it came to their naked bodies.

  “I will not touch you,” he assured her. “You are not to be touched, já?”

  “I...” Her lips moved wordlessly.

  Thorarin lifted a shoulder and shook his head to himself. He strode over to the bath and stepped in. Warmth enclosed his calves and he let out a groan of appreciation as he sank into the tub. Every one of his muscles seemed to loosen instantly.

  He ducked under the water and scrubbed his hair and beard before emerging. He did not need to look to know she remained in the corner, still rooted to the spot.

  “Come wash my hair. My comb is there.” Thorarin motioned to the folded comb atop his discarded clothes.

  Keita scurried forward and he leaned back against the wood to inhale the steam and closed his eyes. Hesitant fingers touched his scalp. A sensation akin to a cold breeze whipping across his skin traversed his body. He tensed when those fingers grew bolder. She worked soap into his damp hair and he drew in a long breath.

  This should have been relaxing. However, the intense awareness that her breasts were not far from him and the way her hair brushed his skin briefly set him on edge. He clamped his teeth together and forced his thoughts away from her breasts. She would not be the first woman to see him aroused but he had little intention of desiring an untouchable slave girl.

  Nimble fingers worked in the soap. Thorarin breathed deeply through his nostrils and concentrated on the warm water licking around him. He smoothed his palms over his chest, using the remnants of soap to scrub his body. He could put her fingers to work on the rest of him but with the increasing sensation of hot, spiking desire working through him, he could not risk it.

  Bringing her out here had been a mistake. A beautiful, exotic, untouchable slave girl. What had he been thinking?

  Information. He jerked upright a little, making her spill back. He settled back against the tub. “Continue,” he commanded.

  Já, information. That had been his goal. Not to enjoy her fingers upon him or imagine them stroking lower beneath the water, cupping him and working him until he was spent.

  “How long have you been Ragni’s thrall?”

  She cleared her throat. He had to strain to listen to her. “Six sennights.”[Ss1]

  “You are a princess?”

  “I was.”

  “How were you captured?”

  “I was given up by my people.” She gave a huff. “Like treasure, I was handed over as payment.”

  Treasure? Já, he could see the value in her. Beautiful, delicate...and there was a hint of wilfulness in the way she had declared that. Underneath the trembling limbs beat the heart of a true princess, he suspected. She moved with regal purpose, with an elegance he’d never seen in slaves.

  He couldn’t deny he’d like to see more of that fire. What would those grey eyes be like when they sparked with anger? If she was to survive Ragni’s world, she should learn to summon it.

  “Why does he believe you bring him luck?”

  “When we crossed the sea, a storm hit. There were three ships. Only ours returned.”

  “He believes the gods favour you?” He tilted his head so he could view her.

  “I know not. Why does it matter to you?”

  “I am interested. You are interesting.”

  Her expression grew cold—or colder for it had never warmed to him. “Ragni does not like anyone being interested in me. You must not touch me. He’s a dangerous man.”

  “I did not mean in that manner.”

  “In truth?” Keita narrowed her gaze at him.

  “Your tale is interesting. I, too, am alone in this world.”

  “I heard your family died.” She reached for the jug and stood. He closed his eyes and she cupped her palm over them to protect his face as she rinsed his hair.

  “They did.”

  Except not in the manner she likely knew. There had been no wife, no child. Neinn, his time had been spent not creating a family but plotting his revenge. Time had passed by slowly but honour and luck favoured the patient man. Now Ragni’s son was grown and whispers of discontent were flourishing, the timing was right.

  “I am sorry,” she said softly.

  A hand to his shoulder urged him up and she began to work the comb throug
h his hair. All thoughts of questions and information vanished. The tension departed too with her tender touch as she pushed the comb through the length of his hair.

  When she shifted to the side of the bath, he opened his eyes just enough to view her while she worked it through his beard. Her gentle fingers upon his skin sent a river of fire through his veins. Beneath half-closed lids, he saw those fingers going further, sinking beneath the water...

  Keita stopped touching him. And though disappointment speared through him, the heat refused to leave his body. Beneath the water, he was hard and wanting. Thorarin gritted his jaw and stood. Bringing her here had been a mistake. He would find out nothing useful and had only succeeded in frustrating himself.

  He stepped out of the bath and held out a hand for a towel. She turned, linen in hand, and dropped the towel. Her gaze landed on his cock.

  “Nay...” she said so quietly, he barely registered the word until she’d taken several steps back.

  He never considered the movement or how it might scare her, but before she could race from the bath house and tell her master of his need for her, he snatched her arm. Her fragile body trembled beneath his palm and his damp fingers clung to the scratchy wool.

  Keita shook her head frantically and put a palm to his bare chest. She tried to push from him but such a small woman could have little effect on him. It was like an insect trying to defeat a giant. It did not stop her, though. That fire he had heard in her voice before flared in her eyes.

  “No,” she insisted. “You cannot.”

  He gripped her other arm and held her still. She wriggled so he shook her lightly to draw her attention to him. Her lips trembled and a shard of something—it was uncomfortable and achy—throbbed in his heart like a splinter.

  “I desire you,” he told her.

  “Do not.” The words were ragged while she struggled to draw in breaths.