Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (23 page)

Laurel twisted against
the bindings on her wrist to no avail. Her hands ached, both from how tight her
assailant had tied the binds and from her struggles against them.

Her eyes scanned the
deeper part of the fjord one last time as they sailed out of its mouth and into
more open waters. The coastline was still visible to their left, but on the
right spanned naught but unfathomable water.

She shivered despite
the warm mid-morning sun beating down on their little boat. Her attacker had
carried her for what felt like miles but was probably only a few moments’ walk
away from Eirik’s cottage before he cut in toward the fjord. There he’d dumped
her into the wooden hull of this small boat and pushed off. The craft was sized
to be sailed by only one or two men and was small enough that if she were to
stretch out her legs, she’d almost touch his feet where he stood by the tiller.

Other than handling her
roughly, he hadn’t made any moves to harm her—yet. She silently sent up a
prayer for her safekeeping. Mostly he seemed thoroughly occupied in the sailing
of their small vessel.

She cursed herself for
the thought, for at that moment, he fastened the sail in place and crouched
before her. She withdrew her knees into her chest defensively and scooted all
the way back into the prow, which was less than a foot behind her.

The man scrutinized her
with hazel eyes. His dirty blond hair was braided back from his face and pulled
into the topknot that so many Viking warriors seemed to wear. The sides of his
head were shaved, giving him an even more imposing appearance.

He was enormous even in
a squatted position. He was both tall and broad, built like Eirik, except
perhaps even wider and thicker. He wore a seax on his belt and two axes
crisscrossed his back.

At least he didn’t wear
a nasal helm or a heavy coat of chainmail, she thought, trying to calm her
terror-stricken mind. Otherwise he’d be not only more intimidating, but nigh
impossible to attack should she managed to formulate a plan of escape.

Even as she forced the
thought of escape to the front of her mind, her clenched stomach sank in utter
dejection. She was in the middle of open waters on a boat with a hulking Viking
warrior with no one else in sight. It was hopeless.

The man reached toward
her and she flinched back, but her head hit the unyielding wood of the prow.

“Pretty thrall,” he
said hoarsely. He pinched some of her hair between his fingers and eyed it.
“Pure. And long hair, too. Unusual. You’ll fetch a good price at the market,
indeed. Unless the Jarl wants you.”

Her cries of confusion
and outrage were muffled by the gag in her mouth. He sneered at her, but then
snorted. “You want to talk, pretty one? We have a long sail ahead of us. I
could use the distraction.”

He roughly yanked the
strip of cloth holding the gag in her mouth from her face. She spat out the
filthy rag and coughed, trying to rid the taste from her tongue.

“Why do you have long
hair, thrall?” the man asked with a frown.

“My…my master wished it
so,” she croaked. If this Viking was like the other Northerners in the village,
he wouldn’t take kindly to the idea that Eirik treated her like a freewoman.

“Humph. But your master
left you innocent?” The man’s brow furrowed in confusion.

Her mind reeled. Who
had told this man that she was a virgin? And what was the correct response to
such a question? If she said that she was still an innocent, would she raise
his suspicions? A darker fear stabbed through her. Would he see her virginity
as an enticement and try to take her himself? Or if she admitted that she was
no longer a maiden, would he think that there was no harm in having her as
well?

Her thoughts raced back
to what he’d said a moment ago—something about how her virginity would fetch a
higher price at market. If that was so, then he’d have a reason not to touch
her.

“Ja, he did,” she said,
fumbling for words. “He was…he was saving me. As a gift. To one of his
friends.” For the first time, Eirik’s kind and decent treatment of her was a
liability, for she had limited knowledge of how most Northmen dealt with
thralls.

The man nodded
dismissively and she had to bite back a sigh of relief. “Your master’s delay is
to my Jarl’s benefit,” he said with a smirk.

“And…and who is your
Jarl?” How much information would she be able to glean from this warrior? She
had to tread cautiously so as not to alert him to what she was doing.

“You don’t recognize
the sail?” he said, pointing upward. She glanced at the pattern of blood-red
diamonds against the white sail and shook her head. The diamonds looked
familiar, but she couldn’t place them in her jumbled mind.

He gave her a quizzical
look. “You must be an utlending. I thought you talked funny as well.”

“Ja, I was captured by
my master in a faraway land,” she said diminutively. Perhaps she could lull him
into giving her more information.

The man eyed her
skeptically but then nodded. “I overheard Grimar the Raven boast to Jarl
Thorsten of the lands to the west. Now even the Jarl has caught the wanderlust
and hopes to sail there as well.”

Laurel couldn’t stop
her eyes from widening and her jaw from growing slack. “Did…did you say
Grimar
?
And Jarl Thorsten?” The Jarl’s name drifted back to her from memory. Madrena
had told Alaric that the attack on Dalgaard had likely come from Thorsten’s
men. But Grimar? What was his connection?

Her captor laughed in
her face at her dumbfounded expression. “Though you speak our language well,
perhaps you are simple-minded,” he sneered. “Grimar the Raven requested that we
attack your little village. You are the payment to my Jarl for the attack.”

Her mind lurched at
this revelation. Grimar was in league with their attackers. He was responsible
for countless deaths, as well as Eirik’s injuries.

“But why?” she breathed
aloud. “Why would Grimar wish to attack his own people?”

The man shrugged and
leaned back on his heels. “The attack was just a distraction. I overheard him
tell my Jarl that he wanted to get rid of some kin of his, someone getting in
his way.”

Laurel swallowed the
cry of horror rising in her throat and forced herself to keep breathing. Grimar
had meant for Eirik to be killed. And he’d passed her off into the hands of
another Jarl as payment. Her racing mind snagged on the memory of Madrena
warning her about Grimar. She’d said that he probably wasn’t dangerous, just
far too interested in Eirik’s health. Now Laurel knew the truth—Grimar was more
than dangerous. He was set on murdering his own cousin.

“How…interesting,” she
managed to choke out through her tight throat.

Just then
,
a flicker of movement caught her eye over the
man’s shoulder. In the distance behind them, skimming out of the mouth of the
fjord
,
was a small ship. She forced her eyes
away and back onto her captor so as not to rouse his suspicion. But another
quick glance told her that there was indeed a ship behind them, and it looked
to be drawing closer.

Her heart leapt into
her throat. Could it be Eirik? She couldn’t let herself hope. But if there was
any chance of escaping before she was delivered to Jarl Thorsten and either
sold or kept as his slave, this was it.

But she had to keep her
captor distracted somehow to ensure that he wouldn’t turn around and spot the
boat’s sail as it approached.

“Your Jarl must be a
very wise man to look to the west for exploration and raiding,” she began.

Something was digging
into her back where it pressed against the boat’s wooden prow. She shifted
slightly to alleviate the pain.

“Ja, he is a great
man—far more powerful than the weakling Jarl Gunvald in your master’s village,”
he smirked.

“The lands to the west
would certainly reward your Jarl for his efforts,” she went on. Her fingers
brushed against a jutting piece of iron. Perhaps it was an exposed rivet poking
from one of the wooden planks behind her. She ran her fingers around it
tentatively and found a rough patch on one of its surfaces.

The man eyed her
,
and she froze. “What kind of rewards?” he said
skeptically.

She relaxed a hair’s
breadth. “There are many unprotected places called monasteries along the coast
in my homeland of Northumbria,” she said. She sent up a silent prayer for
forgiveness for what she was saying, but if she managed to escape, the Viking
before her would never be able to use the information against her homeland or
its people.

“These monasteries are
places of worship,” she went on. As she spoke, she eased her hands over the
exposed rivet so that her cloth bindings rested against its raw edge. “They are
filled with treasures reserved for our God. I’m sure Grimar mentioned all this
to Jarl Thorsten.” Ever so slowly, she rubbed the bindings over the rough-edged
rivet.

Her captor snorted.
“Grimar the Raven boasted so much that we laughed at him.”

She remembered Grimar’s
reaction to being laughed at on the Drakkar. It had almost cost her her life.
“What he spoke of is true,” she said, widening her eyes for effect. “In my land
,
we believe that God is praised through the giving
of our wealth. Monasteries like the one I lived in are filled with gold,
silver, and jewels.”

She kept her wrists
moving ever so slightly back and forth over the rivet while she spoke. She was
rewarded with the feel of the snapping of a few threads of cloth. Her eyes
fluttered over her captor’s shoulder. Without a doubt, the other ship was
gaining on them.

“And are there more
treasures like you locked away in these monasteries,” the man said huskily, his
eyes openly perusing her body.

She swallowed hard.
She’d thought she was safe from the lust that now flared in her captor’s hazel
eyes. But somehow she’d stumbled into dangerous territory.

“There are women in
every land, are there not?” she said falteringly.

“Pure women? Women for
the taking?” He reached out and fingered her hair once more.

“Indeed,” she breathed,
trying to lean away from his touch while also keeping her wrists in position
over the rivet. Another few threads snapped. “Women like me—
valuable
women.”

She held her breath,
praying that her words reminded the man that he could not touch her. The
approaching boat drew closer by the moment. It was almost within shouting
distance.

“Ja, valuable.” her
captor said, leaning back once more with a dark look on his face. But then a
sickening smile tugged at his lips. “But we can have a little fun without
harming your value, can we not?”

Her stomach squeezed
nauseatingly as he reached for her. With one hand, he flicked aside her cloak
to expose her shift-clad body more fully. As he did, Eirik’s brooch, which was
still pinned to the inside of the cloak, brushed against her chest.

His eyes hungrily
stared at her. As his other hand moved toward her, the last of the threads
holding her wrist bindings popped.

Grimar had been sure
that his plan had crumbled and that he was done in when he’d heard Eirik
calling him on the trail back to the village. He’d led Jarl Thorsten’s henchman
to Eirik’s cottage and waited with him in behind a screen of shrubs until the
girl had emerged.

He should have left
then, but he’d enjoyed watching the girl struggle uselessly against the giant
warrior. He let himself imag
ine
that he was
the one yanking her hair, tossing her to the ground, and then throwing her over
his shoulder, as he had when he’d first laid eyes on her.

Once he’d watched
Thorsten’s man and the girl move out of sight, he’d nonchalantly walked along
the path back toward the village. Thank the gods Eirik had been so distracted
by Laurel’s absence and his own wounds that he hadn’t questioned Grimar more or
challenged the tale that he was merely coming to check on him. Eirik was
blinded and made a fool by his attachment to the girl. He deserved the fate
Grimar had planned for him.

Though he’d initially
wanted to escape Eirik’s presence as fast as possible, a plan had begun to form
at witnessing just how desperate and impatient Eirik was to find Laurel.

Gunvald had been right
to caution Grimar against taking any action against Eirik in the village. The
villagers would never believe that Eirik, strong, steady, and capable warrior
that he was, would simply meet with an accident in his own cottage. Even
Grimar’s plan to stage an attack from a neighboring village that left Eirik
dead was risky. If Jarl Thorsten ever blabbed about Grimar’s hand in arranging
the attack, he’d have far worse than mere suspicion to deal with.

Yet Eirik himself
provided Grimar the perfect opportunity to end his inconvenient life.

They’d followed the
henchman’s tracks to a rocky beach along the fjord not far from Eirik’s hut. It
was clear that Laurel had been taken by water. So Grimar had guided Eirik to a
skute
moored not far from them in the fjord.