Heart of a Viking Page 8

  “Why do we not have a drink, my járl?”

  Ragni nodded stiffly.

  Hattr leaned across the table and jabbed the wood with his finger. “We cannot be to blame for the lack of riches. We took what we could.”

  “You have no right to gamble with my investment. You should have landed where you knew you would be successful,” Ragni replied.

  Sigurd, the younger man lifted his lip in derision. “You would have us plunder the same places like cowards. You would not be complaining so had we discovered new wealth.”

  “I am no coward,” Ragni spat.

  Keita came between the men and poured some mead. Thorarin hoped her ethereal presence would calm the anger simmering about the longhouse but they paid her little attention.

  “So you will choose to forgo your honour and not pay?” Hattr said coolly.

  “I will not pay when you did not fulfil our agreement,” the járl stated.

  The older man leaned back and folded his arms. “And what if we take our payment?” With a movement far swifter than Thorarin could have expected from a man of his age, he was upon his feet and had grasped Keita’s wrist. He hauled her into him and she released a cry.

  Thorarin stood and lunged but froze when Hattr brought his eating knife to her neck. He glanced at Ragni, whose face had turned an unnatural shade of red. Sigurd joined Hattr, armed too with his knife.

  “If she is pure and a princess, as you say, she will fetch a fine price,” Sigurd said, waving the knife at them.

  Inwardly, Thorarin cursed himself. He should never have placed her in such a vulnerable position. Now there was a knife pressed to her throat and he spied the faintest spot of blood trickling down under her collar. The stark red against her pale skin sent a rush of heat under his skin.

  “You think you can take my property?” Ragni snarled.

  “You owe us, Ragni.” Hattr backed toward the entrance way.

  The slaves moved aside while Ragni’s men looked to their járl for guidance. They knew how prized Keita was and no doubt had little idea what to do. Risk her death? Let her go? Try to seize her and risk their járl’s ire?

  Thorarin stalked after them slowly. He certainly would not let her die or be taken. But that knife point on her neck prevented any sudden movements. It would be easy to slice her throat before he’d even made a move.

  “You will leave us unmolested or she shall die,” Hattr warned.

  As they stepped out of the door, Thorarin put a hand to Ragni’s arm. “If you wish to keep her, let them leave.”

  Keita could not have understood his words but her eyes widened, fearful and tear-stained. She must have understood his meaning at least.

  “You shall get her back,” Thorarin assured the járl quietly.

  They followed the men out and it took all his will not to tear her from their arms. The sight of these stranger’s hands upon her almost ate as deep as the sight of Ragni touching her. And Thorarin knew well these men would not leave her untouched. They did not have the same control as the járl. He never thought he would be grateful to Ragni for anything but he was grateful for that, at least.

  “Have her,” Ragni declared. “But consider this a mark between us. You shall regret the day you crossed me, I swear.”

  Hattr shook his head. “Neinn, Ragni. You shall regret your greed long before we regret taking what is rightfully ours.”

  The men were allowed to leave unmolested. Thorarin watched Keita until she was out of sight, her pale blue gown disappearing into the forest of green. Her terrified eyes would forever eat into his soul.

  He turned to Ragni. “We could do nothing while unarmed. You wish her back, já?”

  “Já, those bastards will not take what is mine and live.”

  “I shall get her for you.”

  “I should send an army after them.”

  “They shall likely kill her then.”

  Ragni narrowed his gaze at him. “You volunteer to get my property back?”

  Thorarin dipped his head. “Já.”

  “Very well. Remember, she is to remain untouched.”

  Of course, my járl.”

  Thorarin sprinted to the farmstead and took up his weapons. His heart pounded fiercely like a warning drum. They will not have her, it said. They will not have her. Upon his honour, he would bring her back. Even a life as Ragni’s slave was better than whatever Hattr and Sigurd had intended for her. If they kept her, she would likely become a bed-slave and if they sold her, her fate would be no better.

  He took the same path he’d used to come upon the men carrying the taxes. It was ill-used and tangled with roots and branches, but he carved through them with ease. Nothing would come between him and his quarry. His skills learned during his time away were once again called upon when he picked up the sound of voices and boots crunching. He slowed his pace, ignored the urge to race forward and tear her from their grasp. He might be big but he could stalk as silently as a wolf when needed.

  So stalk he did. He moved through the woods as slowly as he could allow himself, snaking toward them. They laughed and talked of their brash behaviour. Thorarin silently encouraged them to continue boasting. It only served to cover his footsteps. When he was alongside them, hidden well by the foliage, he saw that they only had Keita by her arm now. Though tucked between the two men, without the threat of a knife to her neck, Thorarin had little concern for her welfare now. Failure was not an option.

  He waited until their backs were to him.

  Everything focused on one thing and one thing alone. Keita. He saw her, gripped by either man, her gown fluttering and her footsteps faltering. He noted the tremor in her body and heard her sniffles of terror. They would pay for each bruise now likely upon her arms and each tear she shed in fear. The forest around him stilled. Sounds of trees swishing and the occasional tweet of a bird or scuffle of an animal vanished. Hattr and Sigurd’s footsteps remained as did their voices, loud in his ears. But his heart beat slowed and his grip on his axe tightened.

  He had no fear of failure, no notion of this ending any way other than with their deaths and Keita’s rescue. Thorarin relished the heavy weight of his weapon in his palm and made his move.

  Hattr moved slightly as Thorarin lunged, perhaps hearing his footsteps. The axe met not with the soft flesh between his neck and shoulder as intended but rang off his helmet. Nevertheless, the man fell in an instant, dragging Keita down with him. Sigurd swivelled and Thorarin let out a war cry. The man had no time to respond or defend himself.

  Thorarin’s axe cleaved through flesh like a knife through butter. Blood splattered, warm and full of life. But there was no life left in Sigurd. He fell, blood draining into the ground around him. He watched until the man’s eyes shuttered closed and his mouth stopped working in silent exclamation.

  A sharp sting across his upper arm made him howl. He twisted to find Hattr on his feet, weapon in hand. The man was none too steady which was likely the reason Hattr’s attack had left him merely wounded instead of dead. Foolish. He’d been so intent on seeing Sigurd pay, he’d given no thought to the other man’s strength to survive such a blow to the head. Still, he would see this man dead too. He would pay for inflicting this upon Keita.

  Keita—who now stood back against the trees, hands clasped tightly in front of her, her body seeming to tremble uncontrollably. He offered what he hoped was a reassuring look but he doubted she saw anything but blood and horror.

  He let Hattr take the first swing and that gave him time to analyse where he still had strength left. The man was a brute so it should not have surprised him he’d survived the blow. However, Thorarin could not claim to have had a clear thought since first spotting Keita.

  That did not mean he’d fail her, though. She gave him more than his pitiful life to fight for. There was simply no way he’d leave her to Hattr.

  Thorarin made the next move, swinging wide and fast. Though Hattr blocked the blow, he felt the give in the man’s body, how the blow rattled t
hrough him and likely jarred his head and weakened his muscles. The older man wavered on his feet.

  “I will take her,” he said, his words slurred. “Because of you, she will truly suffer. I will pin her down and rape her. I will make sure she hurts in every way possible. I will have her begging for me to take her life. All because of your actions this day.”

  “Neinn.” Thorarin said simply.

  They clashed again and he forced Hattr to take a step back. While the man was still recovering the blow, he came in again. His axe cleaved into his side. He withdrew and as the man sagged to his knees, he stared into his eyes.

  “Be grateful, Hattr, that I have more honour than you. I will not make you suffer for your words.”

  He took the man’s head off with one strong sweep. Keita cried out. Thorarin let his weapon drop to his side and drew in heavy breaths before kicking the dead body down. He lifted his gaze to the slave girl and regret panged deep in his chest. Pale skin, rapid breaths, wide eyes. His savagery had likely terrified her more than the two men had.

  Thorarin took a swift step forward, half-expecting her to flee him but she remained rooted. He curled a hand around her gown and cursed. He’d left bloodied fingerprints on her gown. Now Ragni would know she had been touched by someone other than these men and the stark reminder of his savagery against her purity rang through his mind. He had no place touching her, Ragni’s property or not.

  He dropped his hand away as though burned and paused to look at her. Her grey gaze connected with his, wide, wary and impacting him like an axe to the chest.

  “Do not fear me,” he said gruffly.

  “I do not,” she responded quietly.

  And through the cloud of fear in her gaze, he saw that she did not. He took her arm again because it was too late now not to sully her gown and eased her away from the bloodied scene. He did not stop until he reached the river’s edge. There he released her and washed away the blood from his blade, hands and face. Before long, the evidence of his deeds drifted away, dispersing into the water as though it never happened. Animals and nature would go after Hattr and Sigurd if Ragni decided not to retrieve the bodies. This would be forgotten.

  By everyone except him and Keita. She would remember the violence and the threats. He would recall the time he’d offered up his honour to Ragni and then realised it had not been for him but for her. It had all been for Keita.

  By Odin’s beard.

  Tender fingers pressed against his shoulder and he glanced behind him to find her there. The sunlight glimmered through her hair. If he had been injured, he would think she was a valkyrie come to take him to Valhalla. Though she was no strong shield maiden, he desired her more than any other women he’d known. This was the sort of temptation that would easily lead him to give up his life.

  That thought cleaved through him. Was he really willing to die for a slave girl he hardly knew?

  One look into her eyes removed any doubt. That echo thrummed between them again. It spoke of more than desire. He looked away.

  “Your arm.” Keita kneeled beside him and tugged at the fabric that had been rent by Hattr’s swipe.

  He did not notice the burning sensation until she’d drawn his attention to it. Now he realised the fabric was bloodstained and warmth trickled down his arm. Thorarin waved away her concern but she continued to tug until his tunic and undertunic gave way and the slice could be revealed. He hissed when she scooped a handful of frigid water and poured it over the injury to rinse away the blood. The cut was as wide as his hand and deep—deep enough to reveal muscle and bone. He had received many a glancing blow and survived but this would need stitching and tending so it did not turn sour.

  Keita paled but he saw her shoulders straighten. She offered out her arm. “Rip this.”

  He scowled.

  “My sleeve. Tear it off. It is ruined already and Ragni cannot see these stains.” She pointed to where his bloodied fingerprints marred the wool.

  Deep down he wanted to see some mark on her that said she was his. Not blood or bruises but a mark of his passion perhaps. On the inside of her thighs as he made his way up to her juncture to taste her. He’d bite her there, gently at first then when he had her squirming with need, he’d suck and mark her. There would be no doubt he had been there.

  Mentally shaking himself, he turned his attention to her sleeve. He would not mark her. He would not taste her. He would see through his revenge and pray she survived his machinations long enough to...

  Could he really release her?

  He peered into those grey eyes, so hungry for a life better than this. His heart sank low into his gut. If she came out of this unharmed, he would have to release her.

  Thorarin picked at the seam and wrenched the sleeve from her with ease. He handed it back to her and she coiled the fabric around his upper arm, cinching it tight until sweat pricked on his brow. Once it was tied tight, she startled him by bringing up a hand to cup his jaw. Her fingers caressed his beard and she gave him a smile.

  By the gods, what he would not give to see that smile regularly. To no longer see the haunted pain in her eyes and instead to hear her laugh. He could not recall the last time he’d laughed or even smiled with anything other than a false one but he felt his own lips curve into a responding smile. There was nothing to laugh about now but he dearly longed to make her laugh and join her in the revelry one day.

  “You are in pain.”

  “It will pass.”

  “As does all pain.”

  He narrowed his gaze at her. What did she know of his pain? How was it she seemed to see through into the very marrow of his bones?

  He moved away from her touch, retreated from the sensations she summoned in him. She wavered when he went to stand and he gripped her, his hands sealing over the marks that were already rising on her arms from her treatment. Drawing her to her feet, he skimmed a finger down the bruises and up to where dried blood marked her neck above the collar. He used a thumb to rub away the worst of it and grimaced at the redness beneath the collar. What he would not give to see her without it. A gem like this woman deserved freedom.

  “You have my thanks, Thorarin,” she whispered.

  “Why? I intend only to return you to your master.”

  “Aye, but many would have not bothered.”

  He lifted his shoulders. “This deed will prove my loyalty to Ragni.”

  He tried to keep the words sharp and cool, even while his gaze skimmed the smooth surface of her cheek and landed on her sweetly narrow lips.

  “Your loyalty,” she mused. “I know not what you have to prove but I think you care little for Ragni’s opinion.”

  “There you are wrong. His trust is important to me.”

  “Because you want to make sure he does not think you a thief.”

  Thorarin gritted his teeth. He dropped his hand away from her. “You are the only one who thinks me a thief.”

  “Fear not, I would say nothing. I hold no loyalty to Ragni, either, save that I know I am better off in his hands than in the hands of others.”

  “I do not doubt you have little loyalty to the man who took you from your home. But you speak of things of which you know nothing. Be careful with your careless words, Keita.”

  She took a step closer, restricting the air between them. He felt as though his lungs were burning. He needed to inhale a lungful of air that didn’t hold her drugging essence.

  “Why do you fear me?”

  “I am a Viking. I am afeared of nothing.”

  “Why will you not tell me the truth then?”

  “Why do you care for the truth?”

  She put a hand to his arm, paused and began to toy with the loose end of the wool. “There is little truth and honesty in my life. The other slaves wish me ill and will tell me nothing but lies. Your countrymen would speak of their deeds in a bid to impress every maiden about. And Ragni knows not how to speak the truth. From you, I would like to hear it.”

  He huffed out a breath. The
desire to unburden himself burned bright in his chest. He felt it all bearing down upon him like a great weight. Somehow, he knew if he could but unload just one fragment of his deception upon her, she would take it on her willowy form with the strength of a shield maiden and he would feel release.

  But he could not do it. Any knowledge of his plans would only put her in danger.

  “Would that I could,” he muttered.

  “You can,” she insisted and closed the gap farther.

  But a slither of air separated them. It felt too much but not enough. Not enough to assuage temptation. Too much keeping them apart. When his gaze locked upon hers, he forgot words of truth or honour. Of lies and deceit. He remembered only her.

  With one hand, he hooked her around the waist, with his other, he pushed under her hair and drew her flat to him. Now he knew why he had hated the gap between them. Gone was the fear of temptation, now replaced with deep satisfaction at the feel of her form against him. She fit perfectly, like a missing piece. Her slight intake of breath through parted lips made him want to growl and devour her.

  When he lowered his mouth to hers and felt slender arms wrap about his waist, all reason fled. There was only Keita and her soft lips and softer body. Only her breaths in his ears and her tiny whimpers wracking his brain. The world had dropped from beneath his feet and they were up in the heavens, alone and without a care in the world. No longer were they Viking and thrall. Here they were man and woman.

  He’d been hard since she’d touched him but he’d been able to ignore it until then. Now it throbbed incessantly, growing harder and more painful. His body begged for release but release only with this woman. For a virgin, she matched his kisses well. She had learned from their previous, much-mistaken kiss. But how could this be a mistake?

  How could the sweet taste of her, the way she ebbed and flowed with him be a mistake? If this were, he begged the gods, strike him down now and he would know.