Heart of a Viking Read online

“Listen, Keita. I desire you. But I will not act upon it. I am not driven by my baser needs. I can control myself.” He shook her again, as if that might help the words absorb. “Listen.”

  Realisation slipped into her eyes, removing that cloud of fear. “You will not take me?”

  “Ragni says you are not to be touched. No man commands me. But I command my own needs. I have never taken an unwilling woman.”

  She sagged in his hold. “Oh.” That enchanting gaze lifted to his, her pale lashes fanning upwards. “You are different to the others.”

  “They desire you also.”

  “Aye, but they are controlled only by Ragni. Should he lose control, I will be lost too.”

  Thorarin forced down the uncomfortable sensation in his stomach. Ragni would lose control. He would fragment it away until it crumbled from beneath him. And Keita could end up in a vulnerable position before he was able to complete his revenge and offer any kind of protection.

  But that was the cost of revenge, was it not? Keita was a mere slave girl. No one of import. If she had to give up her innocence because of him, so be it. It was not his problem.

  He looked into her eyes and his gut twisted. So why did he suspect he’d already made this slave girl his problem?

  Chapter Four

  The Viking’s declaration rang in her mind even after noon as she ground the corn. No man commands me. She shook her head to herself, unable to forget his sincere gaze. Desire lingered behind those haunting eyes.

  But she couldn’t doubt his words. He had proven he could control himself. Alone in the bathhouse, he could have taken her with ease. He was stronger than her and no one would have heard or seen. Yet he proved himself different to all others.

  She had witnessed stomach churning deeds. The violence and brutality of it. A heavy weight constantly sat upon her shoulders with the knowledge that it would take but a moment for her protection position to be destroyed.

  Thorarin could have taken that chance and he did not.

  Now she couldn’t forget him.

  Keita pounded the corn vigorously, clouds of flour puffing up around her. Her fingers were white and it clung to her already pale hair and coarse clothing. She stopped to run a finger around the collar before dropping down and touching the necklace beneath it. She curled her fingers around the stone and felt its power. If she concentrated hard, she could feel her mother’s energy in the stone. Perhaps if she closed her eyes she might be able to feel that connection to her homeland that she so needed. These sennights of work, terror and uncertainty had almost made her forget her people, her land. That Viking—somehow—had made her remember it.

  She stiffened and set back to work when Fina, a fellow Pict, entered. Her cheek throbbed as if to remind her of how she’d struck her.

  “Why are you not finished?”

  Keita didn’t look at her. “I am almost done.”

  “Your Viking isn’t here to protect you now.”

  She braved a look at the woman. Fina had been a slave for several summers and considered herself the highest ranking slave, in spite of the fact they had no ranks. It had been said that Fina was once a bed slave for Ragni but had been cast aside. Now her resentment focused on Keita and her elevated status.

  “I will have this done in but a moment.”

  She turned her attention back to the grinding and prayed for the woman to go away. Keita could tolerate physical brutality. Her body often hurt. She wasn’t used to labour or being on her feet constantly. She might have been an unwanted princess, but her life at home had not been hard.

  Bitterness and vile words jabbed deep in her heart. How was it even her own people could turn against her? Many of the slaves were Picts like her and yet none showed any care. Being a slave had made them bitter and heartless. She would find no charity or help in them.

  Which meant it would be up to her to find her own way out of this situation.

  “Did he rape you?”

  Keita jerked her attention to the dark-haired woman. Like the other slaves, her hair was cut short. Years of poor food had left her skinny and angular. She had likely once been an attractive woman but she could see why Ragni had cast her out of his bed.

  “Nay.”

  “If he had, you would not say.”

  “He did not touch me,” she said firmly.

  Fina snorted. “You think you are special now, untouched one, but that will change soon enough. One day you shall be taken and used, and cast aside.”

  Keita paused and faced the slave head on. “I have little intention of letting that happen.”

  “You have no choice. You’re a slave.”

  Keita shook her head. How was it these people had lost all hope, all connection to their past? Did they not dream of the rolling green hills or their families?

  “I will be a free woman.”

  “You think to buy your freedom perhaps? Do you know how long it takes for a slave to save enough money for freedom? You will be old and grey before that happens and then you shall see freedom is not so special. For what will you have but your ancient body and no money?”

  Shortly after her arrival, she had learned that slaves were allowed a little money of their own and anything they made themselves, they could sell. But she was a princess. She had no skills to offer. A few of the female slaves made jewellery from stones they found. Some men carved. It would indeed take them endless years to save enough money to buy their freedom.

  So her only other option was escape. But, at present, it was safer to stay at Ragni’s side. She was alone in a country she knew nothing of, far across the sea from her homeland. Though dreams of escape lingered fiercely in her mind, fear and an understanding that she would not survive for long alone kept her here.

  Keita released a long breath. “Fina, if you leave me this shall be done quicker.”

  “You are not a princess here, Keita, you cannot order me about.”

  “I meant not—”

  Before Keita could react, Fina swept a hand across the wooden bench and pushed the bowl of ground corn onto the floor. Several hours of work spilled across the dirt and kicked up a cloud of dust. It stuck in the back of her throat, making her cough as she stared at the spilled flour.

  “Do not take long. We need to prepare some bread for the evening meal,” Fina declared before turning and ducking out of the store room.

  A tight band of anguish wrapped around her chest. Keita stared at the mess for many moments, aware she could not scoop up the flour without picking up dirt too yet fighting to find some way of salvaging it.

  But it was no good. She would have to simply grind more corn. Her back spasmed with pain as if in protest of the idea.

  Keita dropped to her knees and swiped her nose. To think, not long ago she had been living in her father’s castle—and had been in command of people herself. As a child of the king, her life had been pleasant. Eventually she would have been married off to someone slightly important in the name of peace, and though her sisters and their mother hated her, her father was wise enough to know that even an illegitimate daughter could prove useful. She’d never expected to be used in such a manner, however. Did her sisters or father ever think of her?

  She thought of them. Not of their love and affection because she would never have gained that but she considered her simple life.

  Sweeping up the dirtied flour, she pushed it into a pile with her hands. A tear made itself known and trickled down her nose until it landed in the pale mound. She rubbed her eyes with the back of her hands and regretted that she likely had flour all over her face now.

  In Pictland, she had always been clean, always well-dressed. Being a princess had enabled her to help people. She’d enjoyed helping the village women with their children and aiding the sick and poor. Now, she aided the richest of the Vikings and was only allowed the bathe in the river at the end of the day. She did so with caution, ensuring she stole far away from the slaves and Norsemen alike.

  Keita let out a squeak when a pair
of boots entered her vision. She followed the leather wrapped legs, up to his finely-trimmed tunic and that wide chest.

  Thorarin.

  Her skin grew hot at the mere sight of him.

  He nodded at the flour. “What is this?”

  She let her brows dip. He had an odd manner. A little gruff. She would not have expected much else from a Norseman if she hadn’t spent time in their company. Some were what she suspected many women would think of as charming. When the járl hadn’t been around, they would often slip pretty words into her ear. She was not fooled by them. They would take her and cast her aside easily enough and her protection would be gone.

  But Thorarin offered no honeyed words, and ever fewer courtesies.

  “Flour. I-I spilled it.”

  “That ambatt was here, was she not?”

  “Aye,” she replied quietly, turning her gaze back to his boots and tracing the folds of leather.

  “Stand.”

  Swallowing hard, she did as he commanded.

  “Pass me the grain.”

  Keita dutifully scooped a handful from the sack and poured it into his cupped palms. He tipped it into the hole of the top grinding stone and set to work turning the stone. Her mouth dried while the muscles of his arms strained against his garments.

  “You do the other.” He nodded toward the second grinding stone and she jolted into action.

  Her arms ached in protest and she couldn’t grind nearly as quickly as he but between them they would have enough flour before long. Keita stole a glance at him. Why was he aiding her? Was this to do with his desire for her? He’d already made it clear he would not act upon it.

  Muscles flexed against his shirt. She fought not to watch them. Part of her could not help but wonder what it would feel like to have his arms around her. Her experience of men had been limited to the occasional stolen, curious kiss. Thoughts of hands on her body were fairly infrequent. Few men had ever incited such imaginings. And as a Pictish princess, her virginity was prized.

  However, the picture of those capable hands on her didn’t repulse her as it did the other Vikings or Ragni. It sent a tiny shimmer through her body, seeming to set alight something inside her. She shook her head to herself. Foolish girl. Why should she want the touch of a Norseman—or any man? Her purity had been valued in her world and as it turned out, it had value here. These were the imaginings of a naive woman and she ought to put a stop to them. She’d find no comfort in this man.

  “Ragni’s son—” he paused grinding briefly “—he is unhappy with his father?”

  Keita frowned at the conversation. It was unexpected. But then Thorarin was unexpected in many ways. She would never anticipate a Norseman helping her or holding himself back.

  She gave the stone another several pushes around before answering. “Aye. He feels his father does not respect him.”

  “Because he is not like a warrior,” Thorarin stated.

  “Fleinn has not raided. His father wouldn’t allow it. I think it likely he feared he would be killed. Yet Ragni wishes him to be strong and bold.”

  “You know much for a Pict.”

  “I do not understand all that is said around me but the slaves talk of their masters a lot. Fleinn’s bed-slave knows well of her master’s frustration.”

  “Fleinn cannot become a bold warrior without experience.”

  “Aye. My master wants a strong, courageous son but is unwilling to risk his life. I hear tell that he once had another son.”

  Thorarin ceased grinding again and she peered at him as his eyes narrowed and he stared at the stones for several heartbeats. His body seemed to loosen abruptly and he went back to pushing the stone around and around. The noise filled the room while he pushed harder and harder. White powder began to cling to his beard and the length of his hair.

  The very lengths she had combed and stroked that morn. With his dark golden hair loose around his shoulders, a few scattered braids in it, he appeared wild. She had been unable to avoid noticing the pale blue patterns upon his body.

  Many of the Vikings had coloured patterns on them. She had even seen how they did it with a thin needle before pushing the dye into the markings but some of these were different, as though they had been done by someone with all the time in the world. He must have suffered a great deal of pain for much of them.

  Keita slowed her grinding while the memory of his damp body invaded her thoughts. She had seen naked Vikings. She had even seen a few naked Picts when they’d bathed in the nearby river. They were all built like warriors.

  Yet none had quite the impact on her that Thorarin did. His rear had been taut and slightly rounded, his legs long, thick and carved like stone. A dusting of dark golden hair scattered across his chest and darker hair had surround his...Her cheeks heated even now thinking of his arousal.

  Never before had she been overwhelmed by the urge to trace the lines of muscle and veins on a man’s body or feel that crisp hair. She would put her fascination down to the fact he was so unlike the others except she hadn’t known that when he had stripped in front of her, had she?

  She turned her attention back to the grey stones and tried to focus on the rhythmic sound of the rock crushing the grains to powder. Pouring in another handful, she eyed her progress and then Thorarin’s. She’d done little to help, so distracted was she, and he would be finished long before her.

  And she would be in debt to him.

  Yet, she doubted he intended her to repay him. As he’d said, he was master of his own body and she knew if he’d wanted to, he could have done as he wished with her. Ragni’s wrath seemed to hold no sway with him.

  “Do you intend to settle here?” she asked, curiosity burning far enough through her to force the words from her throat.

  “Já.”

  “What shall you do?”

  “Járl Ragni has offered me a farmstead. I work with wood.”

  “You are a carpenter?”

  He frowned at the word and she wondered if he’d never come across the Pictish word for his profession.

  “You create things from wood? Houses? Furniture?”

  Thorarin nodded. “And smaller things.”

  “Like what?”

  He lifted a large shoulder. “Little people. Sometimes things I see.”

  “Like mountains or lakes? You paint with wood?”

  “Já. I carve them into the wood. I cannot paint though. They would look better painted.”

  “I paint.” She let out a tiny sigh. “I used to paint.”

  Thorarin stopped again and eyed his progress. “That is enough I think.” He swept the flour into the bowl and leaned over to add hers to it. When he handed her it, warmth blossomed in her chest. Uncertainty haunted his eyes and he reminded her a little of a boy who had once given her a flower as a child. To her, this bowl of flour was the sweetest gift anyone had given her.

  “You should paint again,” he said gruffly. “Sell your paintings.”

  “And buy my freedom,” she finished for him.

  Those shoulders lifted again in a move that was becoming familiar.

  “Wood and stones and thrown away beads are easy to come by. Supplies for paint are not. I do not even know what plants of yours I can use to create my paints. Besides if it was so easy to buy freedom, every slave would be free.”

  “I would imagine you would want that hope.”

  Keita touched the heavy collar about her neck and her fingers automatically trailed down to the necklace underneath. Thorarin stretched out a hand and cradled the amber in his palm. His fingers were close to her collarbone. They need only slip down and be touching her more intimately. The thought made her heart seem to skip and whirl in her chest.

  “You touch this when you think of hope.”

  “It reminds me of home.”

  “I have nothing of my home.”

  Unable to prevent herself, she locked gazes with him. Those green depths reached deep down inside her and summoned up more longing than she’d felt
in a long time. It was a longing for her homeland, surely?

  “Do you have hope?”

  His gaze narrowed. “Why should I need hope? I am no thrall.”

  She tilted her head to eye him. She wasn’t sure where these words were coming from yet pain was etched into his face, deep in the lines between his eyes and even in the dark shadows of them. Part of her wondered if she was not staring into polished metal and seeing everything she felt reflected back at her. The loss of his family must have eaten deep indeed.

  “Everyone needs hope, Thorarin.”

  His name rang about the wooden hut. She moved the bowl into both hands and clasped it in front of her, as though it might offer her protection from...She didn’t even know what, but something. Something thickened the air and made it hard to breathe. Something made it impossible to look away from him.

  Thorarin dropped his hand away from her amulet. “You had better take the flour to the longhouse now.”

  With that, he spun on his heel and left her staring at his back as he marched away from the hut and in the direction of the abandoned farmstead—the place that would be his home from now on, she assumed. She looked down at the bowl of flour and her chest expanded.

  Viking, Keita reminded herself. Aye, he was different but that didn’t mean he wasn’t one of them. He would not think twice about capturing Picts and having them work his land. Regardless of how interesting or different he seemed, she had to remember that his baser nature would be no different to that of any other Norsemen.

  Chapter Five

  Thorarin lifted his head to eye the eaves of the roof. The farmstead had been left empty for years. When he had lived here, Magnus had run this farm. The land was decent and far enough away from the settlement that he could be sure to avoid all distractions while he worked to rebuild it. But it would take time and hard work. And while he wanted to see it rebuilt, his priority had to be Ragni.

  So he would have to maintain the image of working hard for the community while carefully seeing through his revenge. For when it was complete, he would seize Ragni’s power and take it for himself. There would be no time for farming or woodwork once his plans were at an end.