Heart of a Viking (11 page)

“Keita!” he bellowed, making her jolt.

She retreated a step and the nightlight reflecting in his wild eyes made her tremble a little. He wouldn’t harm her, she knew that, but...

“Leave. Now. Before you make me do something I shall regret.”

Something he’d regret? Was this a threat? Had she been fooling herself that there could be such a thing as a good and honourable Viking?

She lifted her chin and stood her ground. She hadn’t been wrong about that, surely? “You can tell—”

He closed the gap in one swift step. Thorarin towered over her, muscles bunching and flexing against his garments. Mouth in a firm line, nostrils flaring, he reminded her too much of the men who had taken her, of those who had treated her poorly—even of the
járl
.

A tiny sound escaped her, an uncontrollable one that sounded too much like fear. She stumbled away from him and her back struck a tree. Still, he loomed over her, closer again.

“Leave,” he said low and menacing. “Do not come back to me, Keita, if you know what is good for you. Do not come and sit with me, do not look my way.”

For several moments she scanned his gaze to make out some flicker of this man she had thought herself so innately connected with. However, he had vanished beneath this ruthless warrior and no hope remained. Slipping out from the trap he’d created between himself and the tree, she fled.

He didn’t follow her. No footsteps sounded. He let her leave. Her chest ached and her eyes burned while she raced back to the settlement. Her one escape had gone. There would be no more nights by the fire or shared looks. That was probably a fine thing, she supposed. They had taken enough risks as it was, even if their meetings were innocent. And how much longer would they have been innocent? He desired her as she desired him. It was only down to his control that it had not gone further.

And she had snapped that control. She’d pushed too hard and seen the raw fighter underneath. Keita had not broken through to his desire. Nay, she’d found the savage part of the man and she was not sure she wanted to see that part of him.

As she slipped back into the longhouse and settled on her pallet, she drew in the quietest sniff possible. It wouldn’t be the first time her fellow slaves had heard her cry herself to sleep but she was finished with being seen as weak. No longer would she tolerate their behaviour toward her nor would she hang onto the strange hope that Thorarin would play some role in her life. He was a Viking, she a slave—and a protected one at that. If she valued either of their lives, she’d avoid him as he’d asked.

From now on, Thorarin would not register in her mind. She would treat him as any other Norseman. The only thing she would think on now was her potential escape. Without his carvings, it would be harder to earn coin but she had a small sum already from the previous ones. Perhaps if she continued to hide food, she would be able to escape soon. It would be better than remaining here now, surely?

Thorarin rose well before dawn. He could not claim to have rested. After burying the coin elsewhere, he’d laid awake on his pallet for too long. Wide eyes, shimmering with fear haunted him. Even now the memory of her face made his gut twist.

He pushed open the door and lit some torches. He would continue with the roof today. A little hard labour would be all he would need to rid himself of the ghost of Keita. Besides, he needed to keep up his pretence of the dutiful, reliable warrior, ready to do his
járl
’s bidding. He would avoid the morning meal at the longhouse and return in the evening. That way, he would not have to face her too soon and he would use his work on the farmstead as an excuse. Ragni would be grateful that he was repairing the house and making the farm useful once more.

And he would remain in ignorance as to Thorarin’s duplicity.

He’d heard the murmurings himself. He expected them. Even had his motives been honest, becoming trusted and honoured by the
járl
was bound to summon jealousy amongst those who wished the same for themselves. He did not fear these rumours. Ragni would know well enough that there would be those hoping to take Thorarin’s place. A
járl
could not afford to listen to every bitter whisper.

However, this talk was enough to make him move the coin. If it was found in his house, there would be no disputing his part in the theft. With a population coming slowly to breaking point, he dare not think what would happen if they discovered the taxes in his home.

Ragni was already demanding more coin and the king would not wait long for his due. The villagers did not want to give up any extra money but nor did they wish to suffer the king’s wrath. Everywhere Thorarin walked, tension hung like an unyielding mist. Their loyalty to Ragni was slipping away. He felt it, heard it even. If things continued, the
járl
would find himself overthrown and replaced.

Now he had to ensure they wanted him as the replacement.

That would take some more time, however. First he would do the roof.

Thorarin paused. By the gods. Her eyes. Why would they not leave him be? He could see them not only behind his closed lids but flashing in front of his vision occasionally. Then he’d recall her trembling body and the way he had wanted to pull her into him earlier that night. He’d enjoyed her quiet company far too much. When she was with him, he forgot to spend time summoning his anger toward Ragni. He almost forgot his reason for being here.

But no longer. It was likely a fine thing he’d scared her. Now she would not be visiting him and distracting him. Now she would not be a temptation, drawing him to his doom with utter ease. The Pictish princess could be the undoing of him and he’d been fool enough to think he had the strength to avoid temptation.

Drawing in a deep breath of morning air, he eyed the ribbons of dusky light slowly slipping across the land. A little mist glided off from the lake and curled around the huts like a blanket of wool. Most would be asleep, likely even the slaves. Had Keita rested well? Did she lie on her pallet looking peaceful and beautiful? Or had she too slept poorly, tossing and turning and reliving their encounter.

She would not speak of his deeds, he knew that much. She had no loyalty to Ragni but her curious questions had to be stopped. He would not have her involved in his revenge. This was his burden and his to bear alone. Such a woman should not be tainted so.

Já
, this was better. He nodded to himself and headed back into the hut to re-light the fire. Now he would not need to fear his desire for her because he would simply remember the time he’d terrified her and that would douse it. As long as she did not come near him, he had no fear of acting upon his need for her.

If only there was not this empty aching feeling in his gut...

By the time he had prepared the morning meal, his resolve had returned. This was about his revenge, nothing else. Certainly not about a slave girl.

If all went well, Ragni would be unseated by the end of the month and at his whim. He’d ensure the
járl
knew exactly who he was and what he’d done to him as a boy. He would know that bit by bit, Thorarin had taken everything from him, just as Ragni had done when he’d tried to blame a farm boy for a crime so heinous, such violence had never passed his young mind.

He sat and ate the thick slice of bread slathered with buttermilk and tried not to consider how it felt like there was an empty spot next to him. He finished his food with haste. If he kept busy, he would not think of her.

Thorarin cleared the food away and moved outside to gather the straw for the roof. He’d already made progress but the task was big. There was much to be done here and he’d need his own slaves if he really wanted to make the farm a success. Somehow the thought of running his own farm like his father had appealed much more than taking a seat of power. However, taking Ragni’s seat was the only way to bring the man fully to his knees.

Perhaps he would take up a farm elsewhere when he was done. Far from here. The villagers would elect someone to replace him and his memories of this place could disappear on the wind. And he would free Keita.

By the stars, must he keep thinking of her?

Thorarin set himself to work on the roof, climbing the ladder and settling himself on the eaves. The work was repetitive and laborious but satisfying. Sometimes he wondered if he was not better suited to this sort of quiet, simple work rather than fighting and plundering. He’d done what he had to do to survive as a boy but when this was all over...?

He might have the build of a warrior, maybe even the heart of one. But the soul of one?

He was not so sure.

The sun grew high in the sky before he paused to take a drink. Sweat dripped from his brow. The warmer weather signalled more storms so he had to hope he would get the roof finished before the clouds rolled in.

“Thorarin.”

He peered over the edge of the building to spot one of the village men, Ulf. The man was a farmer like his father and close to the age his father would have been had he still lived.

A shard of regret jabbed him. He did not enjoy deceiving these people. Folk like Ulf had wished him no ill and a few had spoken up in his defence before his banishment. Had it not been for them, he’d likely be dead because the
járl
could not afford to anger the respected members of their village so permanent banishment it had been. At the time, he’d have rather fought a duel to the death—as scrawny and as ill-trained as he was. Of course, now he was grateful to be afforded the chance to regain his honour.

Coming down the ladder, he swiped his hands down his tunic and nodded his greeting. “How goes it?”

“I have come to beg aid from you but I see you are busy with your own work.”

“How can I be of service?”

Ulf peered at the building, where some of his work was now visible in the doorway. “The
járl
tells us your carpentry skills are the best in the land.”

He managed to keep his lips from twitching. Working with wood soothed him. It worked to ease out his frustrations and bring him contentment, but he doubted he was the most skilled in the land.

He could carve some fine pieces, however Ragni had seen fit to exaggerate his skills, perhaps to justify his attachment to him. Thorarin knew better. Ragni might be superstitious but he was smart. Having a carpenter in the community would benefit them all and had he been any other man, he might have been swayed by the promises of power and coin.

A warrior of Thorarin’s experience and strength would always prove useful to a man with enemies. For this settlement, he brought many beneficial skills and Ragni knew it would serve him to keep Thorarin and the villagers content.

And so Ragni was doing his work for him. He was appealing to the villagers to make use of him. Before long, he could have them on his side, ready for when he took the
járl
’s power from him. By then, they would want Thorarin to replace him.

The
járl
had little idea that he was the maker of his own doom. He resisted a smile and turned his attention back to the farmer.

“If you have need of my skills, I would gladly offer them.”

“
Já
, I could do with your aid. The barn door was battered mightily by the storms and I know a few of the other villagers could make use of your abilities.”

Thorarin nodded. “I shall clear away and come down with you to the barn and see what I can do.”

“My thanks, Thorarin. You shall be a great use to this village. It’s been a while since we had someone of your skill in this place, not since the death of Torstein.”

Thorarin stilled at the mention of his father. He had learned most of what he knew from watching his father, though his time away had given him the chance to hone those skills. As a boy, he’d loved to watch him work the wood to his will and marvelled at his great creations. Even the chair on which Ragni sat had been one of his father’s.

Ulf gave him a curious look and he realised he must have revealed some emotion there. He offered a brief smile and went to store away the remaining straw and put away the ladder.

The rest of his roof could wait. A few leaks would do him no harm and it was far more important he spent his time becoming indispensable to the villagers. Soon enough, his father’s memory would be avenged and his honour would be restored. Then he would no longer feel that great shaft of anguish burrowing through him. Soon enough.

Each pulse of her heart felt empty and aching whenever Thorarin was around. Nay, even when he wasn’t around. Keita avoided his gaze but she knew he wouldn’t be looking at her anymore. Just as he’d told her not to look his way, and he never followed her with his gaze anymore. She might as well not exist.

It was for the best, she assured herself, but why didn’t her heart listen?

Keita brought over some
ӧ
ll
for the
járl
and poured it out. He sat at the table, listening to the complaints of the village elders. Though she couldn’t understand their words, dissatisfaction ran clear in their voices and some even went as far as to yell their complaints at him. Ragni curled a hand around her wrist before she could leave and effectively held her at his side—a prisoner.

A shiver of apprehension skated over her skin. This was not the first time he’d been less than gentle with her. His fingers dug into her wrist so tight that she was forced to bite her bottom lip so as not to whimper. If Thorarin, who was sitting at Ragni’s side, noticed or cared, he made no show of it.

But this past sennight, Ragni’s behaviour toward her had changed. A burning sensation started up in her gut, as it was want to do often now. She could feel her power—what little she had as a pure woman—trickling away and she wasn’t sure why. She did her best to play her role as this beautiful, good luck charm but it wasn’t enough.

When the men had left, Ragni gave a grunt and muttered something to Thorarin. His grip on her wrist tightened and he drew her down so her face was level with hers. He tapped a finger under her chin and stared into her eyes. An icy trail raced through her insides and she had to stiffen her muscles so she didn’t shiver.

“You, pure one, do not seem to be so lucky anymore.” The finger traced the curve of her cheek then down her neck, skimming over her collar and coming to rest just above her breasts. “I think your powers are weakening.”

She gulped against the metal around her neck. “Nay, my
járl
. Good luck will return to you, I swear it.”

His cold gaze searched hers. She tried to offer him some sign of confidence but of course she knew she had no bearing on his luck. If he thought her powers to be waning, he might give her up as a protected slave. She would be used just like the others, most likely as a bed slave. Her body would be used and abused and if she became pregnant, her child would be born into servitude too. Keita couldn’t let it happen.

The hold on her wrist eased and he effectively pushed her away. “You had better hope so.”

Keita stole a glance at Thorarin and his gaze remained firmly lowered. It seemed he cared little for her fate. How foolish she’d been to think he might care. All that had driven him was desire and she’d been too keen to seek comfort, she had not realised. Well, she understood now and at least her raw heart would know that and forget him.

Ragni issued no orders so she headed into the storeroom. Glancing around, she gathered some dried strips of meat and carefully tucked them in the hiding spot she’d created behind several pots. She had enough food for a sennight now or maybe longer if she was careful. Ragni’s treatment of her only solidified her resolve to escape—and escape sooner rather than later. As soon as he realised she gave him no luck, all hope would be gone. It was better to risk death in the wild, she concluded.

She continued with her chores as usual, helping bring in the food from the farmsteads, ensuring the bathhouse fire was stoked and the water was clean. By the time preparations for the evening meal were started, she had almost forgotten the way the
járl
had stared at her. Only determination drove her. She ignored all the spiteful words of Fina and the cold stares of the others. Soon she would be free from all of this.

Keita stilled, bowl of pork in hand, at the partition between the store room and the main hall. Ragni’s voice crashed through the room. The words were Norse but she recognised a few—insults mostly to the woman he had pinned against the wall by her arms.

“Whore”, he spat. Something more to do with her being no good. The rest of the words were lost to her but the bed-slave’s horror-stricken face told her the woman knew well what they might mean.

Ragni kept her pressed up against the wall by pushing an arm across her neck. The woman’s face flushed as the metal collar pushed into her skin. Keita scanned the room but no one was around to help. Not that they would. The
járl
could do what he wished with his slaves.

Using his free hand, he tore away her tunic, leaving it dangling about her waist and revealing her breasts. Keita tried to force her muscles to move. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen barbaric behaviour but she’d avoided it for a long time now. So much so that she’d almost forgotten what some of these men could be like.

In Ragni, she saw his son and the horror of that night flooded her senses again. Her vision grew cloudy and her palms clammy. She had to tighten her grip on the bowl lest she drop it. And still her legs refused to move.

He brought the back of a hand across the slave’s face as more furious words spilled out. He struck her chest several times then released her before dragging her into his bedchamber. The girl’s sobs and gasps for air rang in Keita’s ears. She finally found the strength to move and swivelled away.

No more.

Placing down the bowl, she gathered her food supplies and hid them in her skirts. She marched out of the longhouse and headed to Thorarin’s farmstead. No one would think anything of it during the day but she cared little what they thought now.

She had to escape. She would not be that woman.

She slowed when she reached the building. He was not outside fixing the roof and she couldn’t hear him working on some wood so he had to be in the village somewhere, likely aiding someone. Suspicious words had given way to praise this past sennight. Instead of mistrusting him, the people seemed to have come to depend on the hard-working man. She didn’t blame them. How quickly she had come to need his reassuring company.

But no longer. She would forget him once she had left.

Peering into the doorway, she released a long breath when she saw the building was empty. He’d made few changes since she’d last sat here with him. The place still did not quite look like a home. No doubt he’d been too busy fixing the villager’s homes to tend to his own. However, some of his tools were still here.

She hastened over and picked up a tool that he used to work at the wood. Perhaps she could do the same with the slave collar. If she wasn’t wearing the collar, no one would think her anything but a free woman.

She hoped.

Keita found a spare piece of cloth amongst his tools and used it to bundle up the food. With the food in one hand and his tool in the other, she began her ascent up to the forest. Sickness welled deep in the pit of her stomach. She had no idea where to go but she couldn’t follow the river or else she’d be caught. It would be far easier to lose them in the woods.

And to get lost...

When she was well away from the farmstead and certainly hidden from view, she paused to sit and eyed the tool she’d stolen from Thorarin. When she grasped the handle, she almost felt the warmth and strength of his palm. Her heart gave an empty sort of jolt as though trying to thud but unable to do so.

She lifted her chin and angled the end of the chisel toward where the collar was joined. Keita swallowed and brought the metal down upon it. The impact vibrated through her neck but did nothing to the metal. She cursed then offered up her apologies to her goddess. Was she being punished for her lack of faith? Why had she been abandoned so?

She tried again several more times. Great drops of rain began to seep through the canopy of leaves and surround her in puddles. Before long, her garments were soaked and shivers wracked her. She continued to try to chip away at the collar but the metal wouldn’t give way. If she came across anyone with this collar still on, they’d know her for what she was and she would be taken once more, maybe sold on. Keita couldn’t allow that to happen.

A ripple of thunder rolled across the sky. She shuddered and stared around as the forest grew so dark it seemed as though it could almost be night. A crack and flash lit the trees briefly, making them look like sinister beings, looming over her, ready to strike.

Do not be foolish
, she scolded herself.

Taking up the chisel again, she tried to work it under the gap between the two parts of metal. Keita felt a slight give and hope flourished through her.

She would get free from this, she would.

She pushed again, working the tool back and forth, wriggling it until the collar seemed to loosen. This time she tried to pull at it with her hands but to no avail. Another rumble, another crack. More freezing rain, and foolish fears rattling her mind.

Working the tool harder this time, she moved it back and forth until her arm ached. Hope fled her. She let her shoulders drop and brought up her knees to her forehead. With her head pressed to her knees, she drew in a long sniff.

A flash and a rumble tore across the sky. If this was the work of the Norse gods, they were angry indeed. Perhaps they meant death for her.

Lifting her head and fighting a shudder, she handled the chisel once more. One final attempt. She lined the tool up and brought it down hard against the metal. A cry escaped her when the edge of the tool skimmed her skin about the collar and created a heated sting.

“Keita!”

She twisted her head. Like a phantom coming out of the mist, the outline of a Viking strode toward her.

Not just any Viking.

Thorarin.

With his hair plastered to his face and an intense look on his face, he kneeled beside her, tore the chisel from her hand and grasped her arms. “Death will not solve anything.”

She blinked at him numbly for many heartbeats. Death? Aye, death was close for certain. Much longer out here and it might have found her but it had never been her intention.

He pressed two rough fingers to her neck and she realised his fear. He thought she’d been trying to cut her own throat.

“Thorarin...” Her voice came out as thin as sheet ice.

She tried to gather the words to erase the horror that seemed to be etched into his bold features but they refused to come. Coldness enveloped her body and now he was here, she could no longer control the shuddering that wracked her.

He drew his fingers away and nodded to himself. Then he pressed his arms underneath and lifted her easily into his hold. Though he was as wet as she, warmth radiated through his garments and into her. She could not help but burrow herself against him. If she’d had the energy she would have wept—wept because of her failure or with gratitude for him having found her, she knew not.

Thorarin strode boldly down to the farmstead while slashes of white tore ragged strips across the sky. The rain continued and she had some vague worry that the ground would be slippery and they’d fall but his steps never faltered. Strong arms kept her secure and she allowed herself to relax against him.

When they reached the farm, he opened the door and eased her in before kicking it shut. The sound of thunder still penetrated the building but the instant warmth of the building struck her. He set her down by the fire and proceeded to drag over his pallet.

Once that was positioned, he picked her up once more as though she were a light sack of grain and placed her on the straw mattress. She wanted to offer up some words of reassurance or thanks but his efficient movements stopped her from finding the chance. Before she knew it, he’d wrapped a fur about her and was attempting to strip away her soaked gown.

Keita endeavoured to push his hands from her but her teeth chattered and her fingers shook. Even if she were at her best, she’d have no chance against him.

“I will not harm you,” he reminded her.

As if she needed reminding. “I know,” she rasped out.

Thorarin never intended her harm. Having seen the horror on his face, she suspected her thoughts that he didn’t care for her at all were wrong too. She wearily eyed his features while he loosened the laces on her gown and took in the long nose and lips that she had once kissed.

Warmth trickled through her, lighting a slow blaze that seemed to match the heat slowly seeping through to her skin from the fire. How handsome he was. How much she longed to kiss him again, to feel his arms about her. To feel more than fear.

He kept his gaze averted and the furs tightly about her but sometimes you did not need sight. His fingers skimmed parts of her body as he tugged the dress down and away. When he stood, there was no mistaking his arousal pressed against his garments. She gripped the fur tight about her shoulders and that heated need speared low in her body.

Aware of her nudity beneath the blanket, she kept herself curled up on one side while the heat from the fire cast its luxurious fingers all about her. The shivering had nearly ceased by the time Thorarin hung her gown and come to kneel at her side. He moved her head with a finger and inspected her neck. His green gaze searched hers, a great well of sadness echoing in them.

“Never do that again,” he told her.

“I never intended to hurt myself,” she finally managed to explain. “I just wanted this—” she tapped the collar with aggravation “—off.”