Heart of a Viking (5 page)

Keita had watched the exchange between father and son while serving the food and drink. Ragni seemed oblivious to the tension now thick in the air. But then, for the short time she had been here, she’d noticed the
járl
was dismissive of his son. And she’d observed the increasing anger from Fleinn.

But what of Thorarin? He was placing himself in a position of great danger and yet she felt sure he was aware of the problems between them. He might not fear Fleinn—after all a man like himself need fear no one—but getting involved with men of power was no fine idea. She had already witnessed two duels fought between men and how the Viking’s justice system worked. A small quarrel could escalate into a blood war with ease and Thorarin had only himself to rely on—no family or friends to stand by his side.

She swiped her hands down her tunic and sucked in the fresh air while silence echoed around her. The familiar pounding of her feet failed to aggravate her tonight. In spite of Thorarin’s help, she had worked twice as hard as usual, but somehow his aid had offered her something. Perhaps it was that hope of which they had spoken.

Hope.

Escape. That was where her hope lay. A few male grunts echoed from one of the nearby huts, reminding her of what her position could be if she remained. But no one stopped her from walking around the settlement at this time of night. There were no chains binding her to the longhouse or shackles around her ankles. Indeed, she could walk away now.

But where would she go? How would she survive? Was this fear fluttering deep inside her a product of her captivity or was it her common sense? To escape, she needed at least some coin and food. If she had coin, she might be able to barter for a ride across the sea.

However, she had little idea where the sea was. she imagined if she followed the river, she would reach it eventually but that could take months. Keita had to earn some coin somehow. Then she could pay for information and help, and someone to remove the collar from her neck—the first indicator that she was a slave.

Keita fingered the iron, aware of the sore skin underneath. She used a salve to lessen the rub but it didn’t stop it weighing on her collar bone and becoming uncomfortable as the day wore on.

Though the day had been windy and cold, the skies had cleared to give way to a star-speckled sky. She lifted her head to eye the gems weaving their patterns across the blackness. She recognised many of the pictures they made except they were in different places here.

Stealing a glance around, she concluded she was alone enough to take the time to wash. Most were asleep or with company. Some of the men were snoring heavily enough to break the sound of the nearby river.

Keita picked her way down the slope of the woods to the riverside. She grasped the tree trunks to prevent her slipping and tumbling into the water. When she had first arrived, she hadn’t bathed for days, unsure of where to go or what to do. Eventually she’d discovered that the slaves bathed when they could, using the frigid river water when they weren’t working.

Her first dip in the water had been a shock to her body but now it came as a relief. The icy coldness numbed the aches of the day. She wasn’t used to feeling dirty or bathing in cold water, even though most of her settlement had used the stream themselves. In her father’s home, she had bathed much like the Viking’s did. With heated water and the aid of servants.

For all her problems, she had been lucky indeed. She wished she had realised that.

When she reached the water’s edge, she eased her tunic over her head and placed it on the ground. Her feet were bare and covered in filth. They had grown hard and rough, much like her fingers. Keita shuddered when a whisper of air skated over her skin.

She would bathe quickly. In spite of the clear skies and the gentle lap of the stream, misgiving worked its bony fingers through her—as though a storm was on the horizon. It was likely to do with the rising tension between Fleinn and her master but either way, it left her stomach coiled and her mind on edge.

Gulping down a gasp, she stepped into the water, feeling for the stony bottom. She had no soap with which to wash so a rough scrub from her hands would have to do. She scuffed her feet against the stones to work loose the filth from her feet.

To think her feet had once been wrapped in the finest leather. Now she owned nothing—not even the rough tunic on the riverside. Only her amulet kept her company. Upon finding out about Ragni’s superstitious nature, she told him it protected her and therefore it protected all of them. He’d allowed her to keep it.

Keita ducked under the slowly moving water and came up with a gasp. Running fingers through her hair, she took a moment to admire the scenery. The land of the Vikings did not differ as vastly from her Pictland as she might have thought, though there were more trees. The rugged outlines of rocks and mountains reminded her of home at times. All they needed was that perfect shade of green and perhaps she would not feel so far from home.

Giving her body a brisk scrub with her palms, she came back to the side of the river and eased out. She let the air dry her body for as long as she could stand it. The itchy wool failed to absorb water and if she put it over wet skin, it would feel worse than ever. Then she tugged the offending garment over her head and tied the rope belt.

She missed beautifully spun gowns and soft wool.

A creature snuffled in the distance. She paused and urged away the shudder that wracked her. No one was about and it was just that—a creature of some kind. However, she quickened her pace as she headed back to the longhouse through the dense trees. She had no intention of being mauled by some Norse beast.

She froze again when a twig cracked. The creature was closer than she’d thought. What could it be? A wolf perhaps? A bear? She wasn’t sure what creatures they had here but she had seen many furs from all manner of beasts. Most were likely stolen or traded. These men, she had learned, travelled farther than any Pict could dream of.

Forcing herself on, she moved with haste. Those crawling fingers were back again, trailing up and down her spine and making her skin prick with something more than cold.

She could see the break in the trees and the odd flicker of light that signalled the settlement. No wild animal would come near the fire or people. But she wasn’t safe yet.

Something coiled itself around her wrist. A plant. No, a hand. She whirled and a clammy palm clamped over her mouth before she could utter a screech. Even in the dark night, it was clear who held her captive.

Fleinn.

He gripped her face with his hand, squeezing her cheeks so she couldn’t utter a sound. His once pale eyes seemed dark and bottomless. When she fought to tug her wrist from his grasp, he twisted her hand so that it would only take one sharp movement and it would be broken.

“Quiet,” he told her in Norse.

She understood the command. She’d heard it a few times though not usually directed at her. Fleinn spoke no other language than his own as far as she knew. And yet he still did not see why his father did not trust him to lead the community.

Using the grasp on her wrist and his hand still digging into her face, he backed her up against the tree. The rough wood pressed even through her coarse tunic. She released a tiny sound and he tweaked her wrist in warning.

If she could have bitten on her lip, she would have, but his fingers digging firmly into her cheeks and lips prevented it. He kept her mouth puckered, as though ready for a brutal kiss while preventing her from forming words. Not that she would, she couldn’t have a broken arm or wrist. There would be no sympathy for her. Keita would have to continue her duties as usual—in agony. And likely unpure anyway.

But she couldn’t let Fleinn take her.

She knew he would. She saw it in his eyes, glinting in the dappled moonlight. This wasn’t desire. This was a need to show dominance, perhaps over her or more likely over his father’s property. She had seen lust many a time in all its forms recently and she had also seen women ravaged as a show of male dominance—a reminder that they were owned body and soul.

That was what Fleinn intended for her.

The clasp on her face eased. He put a single finger to her lips to remind her to stay quiet and gave her wrist another tug. This time she kept any sound at bay and nodded. The hand that had left burning marks in her face, trailed down her body, starting at just beneath her slave collar. He skimmed his finger across the flesh there, then dipped it beneath her tunic. Keita flinched and grew aware of her rapid breathing.

Part of her felt as though it must be drifting up and away from her body, toward the gods and goddesses who had abandoned her so. The touch to her skin hardly registered. A numbness pervaded every inch of her and though her breathing refused to slow and her chest would not cease heaving, she was grateful for it. Perhaps her goddess had not abandoned her entirely.

She waited, allowing Fleinn the time to stroke over her tunic, following the shape of her breasts and waist.

He dipped his hand to pull on the low hem of her clothing but was unable to do so without releasing her wrist. This was what she had been waiting for. Silent hope flourished inside her and the amber stone around her neck felt as though it had burst to life and was warming her from head to toe. Heat and determination radiated through her. Her virginity was her value and her hope. She wouldn’t lose it.

He eased the clasp on her wrist and held up both hands to signal to her to remain. She did. For the moment, she would still struggle to push past him. There had to be a better moment to do it and she would not waste it on foolish, rash movements. Fleinn released a slow grin and tapped her hands that were clasped at her sides. Then he tugged on the edge of her tunic and motioned for her to lift it.

She nodded in understanding. He wished for her to offer herself to him.

By some miracle, she kept her eyes open, aware she needed to know exactly what was happening around her. Slowly she bent to grasp the scratchy wool. There were no other barriers between her nudity and the night air. The Norse provided no chemises or extra garments to ward off the cold.

With deliberate slowness, she eased up the fabric, feeling the night air brush her calves, then her thighs and finally her sex.

“Higher,” he barked, motioning for her to lift more.

She knew the command and did as she was bid. With the tunic raised up to her stomach, she was bared to his gaze. His gaze roamed over her. Bile burned up her throat and she swallowed it down. A heavy beat started up in her ears.

Not yet. She couldn’t make her move yet. But when? When he had her pressed against the tree or laid down in the dirt? She lifted her gaze to the skies briefly, long enough to see the moon tucked beneath the canopy of leaves. A shadow passed over the glowing orb and that hope resurrected. It was a sign, surely? A message from her goddess in the form of a bird. A free animal. She would gain her freedom and she would not lose her innocence.

Fleinn took a step forward and she met his burning gaze. His finger touched her outer thigh and her hands trembled so that she nearly dropped the hem of her tunic. His breaths were hot and heavy against her face, tinged with mead. Then he eased down to his knees and eyed her most intimate parts. A long finger started a trail up toward them and her body began to shake from the tension in her muscles.

He glanced up at her. The wait was over. As soon as he dropped his head, she lifted her knee into his face. Fleinn released a grunt and clasped his hand over his nose. Taking advantage of his surprise, Keita pushed him hard and he toppled back. She fell into a run before he could recover.

Branches scratched her bare arms, stones jabbed her feet. Behind her, twigs cracked. The light of the moon guided her through the forest and back to the settlement. She swore then to thank her goddess on the morrow if she survived this night. The glow of a few lit torches offered beacons of hope and though her lungs ached with exertion and her heart beat perhaps faster than it ever had, the knowledge of salvation pushed her to run faster.

At the edge of the settlement, the moonlight waned. Clouds hid her reassuring glow and Keita stumbled over a stack of wood. She clawed to standing but too late. Heavy hands came upon her back and pushed into the ground. Dirt filled her mouth and nostrils. She fought to breathe, to fight, anything.

Fleinn gripped her wrist so hard she feared he might break her bones from simply holding her. He yanked her arm up behind her and she wailed as a shard of pain tore through her. The painful hold on her body meant no ability to move, not without snapping her arm or wrenching her shoulder. She squirmed as much as the hold allowed her to but it did little when he was upon her, pressing apart her legs with his own while she suffocated on dirt.

Fingers scrabbled up her bare thighs. She whimpered against the mud clogging her throat.

Then the fingers were gone.

The weight on her back lifted.

Her arm wrenched and she screamed again, this time able to spit out dirt in the process. However, the clasp on her arm vanished. She rolled slowly and cradled it against her while her shoulder throbbed in protest. In the vague shimmer of milky light that was painting the settlement once again, she saw him.

Thorarin.

He threw Fleinn to the ground. His face was a mask of savagery, contorted with anger. Lips parted, teeth bared. Every part of him told of his strength and aggression from his widely spread legs to his lifted shoulders. Before Fleinn could push to his feet, Thorarin was upon him with one heavy blow to the face.