The Pagan's Prize (7 page)

"No . . .Halfdan," came a small whimper, the
woman burying her face against Rurik's chest as he placed the lamp near the
tent's back wall. "Must get away . . . please—"

"Halfdan is dead." Rurik hoped the finality
in his tone would reassure her. "He cannot hurt you anymore."

Kneeling, he laid her upon the fur pallet, attempting
to ignore her nakedness—impossible task! Hastily he brought the blanket up to
her chin. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her eyes the most stunning
shade of blue in a face hauntingly pale and marred only by the ugly bruise on
her cheek.

"Dead?"

He nodded. She looked so vulnerable, the quality in her
voice almost childlike, arousing in him a powerful surge of protectiveness. Or
perhaps it was simply his own exhaustion. He sat back upon his haunches,
determined to get some answers now that she had finally regained her senses.

"The Slav merchant was also killed. You no longer
have anything to fear from them."

Rurik was greeted with a blank stare, then a soft
query, "Merchant?"

"The one who stole you from your master's caravan."
This time he was answered with silence, and she seemed confused. Wondering if
Halfdan's blow or her ensuing fall might have done more damage than he had
thought, Rurik tried another, more direct tact. "Tell me your name, little
one."

Oddly, she opened her mouth as if to say something,
then her brow creased in consternation.

"Your name," he tried again. "Think
hard."

An interminable moment later, she murmured almost to
herself, "I . . . I don't know."

"Damn that swine!" Rurik cursed under his
breath, wishing it had been his sword that had ended Halfdan's miserable life.
The terrible shock must have robbed her memory. Only the image of the Varangian's
brutality remained.

"Surely you remember your master," Rurik
pressed. "He's one of Prince Mstislav's boyars, isn't he? A member of his
senior
druzhina
? You were on your way
to Chernigov to meet him when you were abducted."

"Master? I don't know. . ." Suddenly she
grimaced. "My head . . . it hurts so."

"Easy, wench, easy," Rurik said soothingly.
It was clear he would discover no information tonight. Perhaps she would
remember more tomorrow after a comfortable sleep, at the very least recall her
name and that of her master by the time they reached Chernigov, three days hard
journey from here.

If that failed . . . the thought of taking her home to
Novgorod was enticing. Yet he hoped, for the sake of his liege lord and the
critical battle to come, that she did remember who she was. There was too much
at stake for him to indulge his own selfish desires. She was only a woman,
after all, and the world was full of those who could please him.

Rurik ran his palm across her forehead, marveling
despite his resolve at the smoothness of her skin. He was pleased to see that
some color had returned to her cheeks, and her shivering had ceased. "Sleep
now," he bade her as he tucked the blanket once more beneath her chin.

"Yes . . . sleep," she said drowsily, closing
her eyes.

"You are safe here. No one will harm you."

"Safe," came her reply, a whispered echo,
then suddenly her eyes flew open and she clutched at Rurik's hand. Her gaze was
wide and fearful. "You will not leave me?"

"No, little one. I will not leave you."

But he did exit the tent a short while later when he
knew from her steady breathing that she was fast asleep and probably would not
wake again until the morning. In the night air, his tunic felt cold and clammy,
the fabric clinging to his body. Moments before he had barely noticed his
sodden state.

Staring at the woman's face—the soft curve of her
cheek, thick, sooty lashes so long it was easy to imagine them playing like the
finest silk against his skin, graceful gull-winged brows, a patrician nose
saucily tipped at the end, and rosy lips so lush and full he longed to press
his own against them and tease them open with his tongue—was enough to make him
wish she were nothing but a common slave possessing no ties that bound her to
another man . . .

"Is she well, my lord?" asked Kjell,
interrupting the sensual turn of Rurik's thoughts.

"She sleeps." Deciding the untested warrior
was displaying too much interest, Rurik looked at him sharply. He had brought
Kjell along on the journey only at the special request of the man's father,
another member of Yaroslav's senior
druzhina
,
who believed his son needed toughening. Now Rurik could see why. "And
sleeping is what you should be doing. The hour will come soon enough when you
must take the helm from Leif."

With that, he strode to the prow and stripped out of
his wet clothes, his mood growing dark indeed. But he wasn't so much angry at
Kjell as he was at himself. He dug in his sea chest for another tunic and a
pair of trousers and yanked them on, then throwing his heavy fur mantle around
his shoulders, he sat down and stared out across the black water.

By Odin, had madness seized him? He had six concubines in
Novgorod, each one a beauty in her own right. There was nothing special about
this wench . . .

"You were a bit harsh with the lad," came
Arne's reproachful voice behind him.

"He has the look about him of a lovelorn pup,"
Rurik said caustically. Running his hand through his damp hair, he did not turn
as the warrior took a seat across from him. "Kjell would be wise to keep
his thoughts to his duties and not upon fantasies that cannot come true."

"He is young, my lord. Wenches to him are still
creatures of fascination and awe, worthy of adoration. He has not yet learned
that their fickle hearts are not to be trusted . . . as have some of us."

"It is not only women's hearts that cannot be
trusted, old friend. As for the wench, she remembers nothing thanks to her
mistreatment at the trading camp, not her name, not her master's name. She's
taken on the manner of a child. Only the gods can say when she may recover."

"Yet that is not what's troubling you."

Frowning, Rurik could not see the warrior's expression
in the dark, yet he knew Arne looked in sympathy. The grizzled bear could read
him as few could; not even Rurik's own father understood him as well. Yet he'd
be damned to admit that the woman was behind his irritation. He would be a fool
to change his plans and keep her. It would be akin to treason, and let him
never,
never
forget that wanting a
woman too much held its own dangers.

"Dawn will come soon, Arne. I'll stay on watch
while you get some rest."

"As you wish, my lord." He gave a grunt as he
hauled himself to his feet. "But rouse me if you decide to go for another
moonlit swim. The wench may yet surprise us."

Chapter 5

But there were no surprises during the next three days.
To Rurik's annoyance, the woman's state did not improve. Sleeping much of the
time, she ventured from the tent only to attend to her private needs behind a
blanket while he made sure that all eyes were averted. To him, it seemed as if
she were ensnared in a strange dreamlike daze, for she showed little interest
in anything around her and cared not if she ate or drank. She still remembered
nothing when questioned about her identity, and the one time he had raised his
voice at her to see if she might for some reason be feigning her malady, he
brought on such a fit of tears that he no longer doubted her loss of memory.

She also made no further references to Halfdan,
seemingly content with Rurik's explanation that the Varangian trader had been
killed. Nor did she ask any questions about Rurik or his men or why she might
be with them. In fact, she had spoken very little since that first night.
Whenever Rurik questioned her about the name of her master, he had been greeted
with the same blank stare.

"Slap her, my lord! That will bring the wench out
of it quick enough!" Arne had urged impatiently on more than one occasion,
but Rurik had decided that remedy was too severe.

Instead, he hoped that the simple trust she displayed
in him would encourage her memory. She clearly viewed him as her protector, a
role he knew was useful. Yet they were nearing Chernigov, and she seemed no
closer to recalling her name than the first night of their journey.

"The trousers, my lord." Kjell handed over
the linen garment as well as a rope belt and a wide cloth sash. "They only
reached to my knees, so the wench won't be swallowed up by them."

"They'll do." Rurik strode to the tent, glad
for the concealing gray light of dusk. He had purposely adjusted the sail
earlier, slowing the boat's pace. He wanted to arrive at the fortified city at
nightfall, no sooner.

The men would easily pass as fur traders, but the wench
might attract attention, even disguised as a male slave. In the light of day a
sharp-eyed individual might discern a female's form so he would take the
cautious path, especially since the caravan's searching guards might have
reached the city before them.

Inside the tent, Rurik was displeased to see that the
woman was resting again, one small hand curled beneath her chin as she lay on
her side. He had never seen anyone sleep so much, ill or no! But he supposed it
was a form of healing and it had kept her from trying any tricks. The past days
she had been as docile as a newborn lamb.

Usually, he preferred women with fire and passion like
his tempestuous Semirah, although this woman's tawny beauty more than
compensated for her lack of spirit. Looking at her now, the seductive curves of
her body outlined beneath the woolen blanket, was enough to rekindle the wanton
thoughts he had done his best to repress these past few days—

Thor's blood,
man, do not forget she may still remember her name!
Rurik berated himself,
angered by his wavering self-control. He went down on one knee and shook her by
the shoulder.

"Time to wake, little one."

His breath caught as she opened her eyes, huge liquid
pools of cobalt-blue that inexplicably fascinated him. Their unusual hue
reminded him of the faraway Sea of Marmara on a cloudless, sunlit morning. She
yawned prettily and stretched, kittenlike, her slim arms extended in front of
her and her bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket. Then she looked up and
gifted him with a smile as open and guileless as a child's, a becoming dimple
in each cheek.

For a fleeting moment, Rurik could not remember why he
had come to the tent. She made such a fetching picture with her wild tousled
hair, hanging almost to her waist, framing her face, the oversize wool tunic
she wore fallen from one delicately boned shoulder to reveal the soft curve of
a breast. Only the sharp scraping of oars outside focused his attention back to
his purpose. Cursing himself, he laid the trousers beside her.

"I brought these for you. Stand up and I'll help
you put them on."

Without a word she obeyed him and rose, catching his
arm to steady herself when the boat suddenly swayed beneath their feet, the
waves grown choppy in the stiff wind whistling past the tent. Her unexpected
touch sent a charge racing through him like wildfire. Rurik clenched his teeth,
warning himself to move fast with what needed to be done. Standing so close to
this golden goddess was proving too much of a temptation.

"Lean on my shoulder." While she did, Rurik
bent down and slipped first one trouser leg and then the other past her feet.
He drew the garment quickly up to her waist beneath her borrowed tunic so that
he had little time to focus upon the enticing curve of calf and thigh. Grabbing
the rope belt, he secured it around her and then he turned her so she faced
away from him.

"I'm going to wrap this sash around your breasts,"
he told her, bringing the piece of cloth up under her tunic. "Let me know
if I tie it too tightly."

Rurik swallowed hard as his knuckles grazed firmly
rounded flesh, and he must have startled her, for she gasped and stepped
backward. Instinctively, his arms closed around her and for an instant he
reveled in the arousing sensation of her slim body pressed against him.

Surprisingly, she did not pull away but leaned even
closer, her bottom rubbing against the hard bulge his flesh had become. With
supreme effort he pushed her away, concentrating again on tying the sash. Last,
he gathered to one side the extra folds at the neckline of her tunic and fastened
them with a plain metal cloak-pin. Her disguise would be for naught if the
tunic slipped again from her shoulders.

"It's safer for all of us if you're dressed as a
male slave," Rurik explained as he turned her to face him, although she
didn't seem the least interested in her garb. "We're very near your new
home . . . and your master. Soon you'll be with him again."

She looked at him silently, her tantalizing lips
forming no response. Rurik wondered if perhaps he
should
try Arne's remedy. There must be something he could do to
shatter the queer spell that gripped her, something that would draw forth her
master's name. By the gods, he wasn't one to use brute force against a woman,
but in this case . . .

"My lord, we're nearing the city wharf!" came
Leif's voice just beyond the tent.

Deciding to wait until they had found their next few
nights lodging before attempting a drastic measure that could bring on a noisy
flood of tears, Rurik surveyed his handiwork and deemed the woman's attire
passable. She made a pretty lad, but with her breasts flattened beneath the
sash and baggy clothes, he doubted any would question her sex. Yet he had to do
something about her hair, although the thought of cutting those magnificent
tresses did not set well with him. He had never seen their like before.

"Could you braid your hair for me, wench?"
Wielding a sword was far more suited to his large hands than such a task.