Lord of Hawkfell Island (10 page)

He could hear her breathing, harsh and deep.

“Shall I tell you about the delicious meal we enjoyed? It was quite excellent, truth be told. The boar steaks were broiled; the fat sizzled on the sides. I decided to let your belly shrink a bit—you've eaten too well in your captivity. Now, it is your turn. Would you like to say something?”

“Unfasten the chain.”

He came up onto his elbow, weaved a bit, looking in the darkness toward her. “I just might if you would say, ‘Please, my lord Rorik, I would be your willing slave if you would free me.' Say it and I will consider releasing the chain.”

Her breathing was deeper now and hoarse. He was glad she didn't have a knife.

“Say it, Mirana, else I will leave that chain on your wrist until you do.”

He was drunk, he knew, and it was his only excuse. But he wouldn't bear more from her. She would obey him else he would make her life a misery.

“Please, my lord Rorik, I would be your willing slave if you would free me.”

He stared toward her. He couldn't believe it, yet the words he'd demanded from her hung in the silence between them. She'd done as he'd asked. He didn't understand. His brain, filled with too much mead,
suddenly rebelled. He couldn't make sense of her. He wanted to demand that she tell him what she was planning now, but his belly chose this moment to rebel as well. He groaned and leapt from his bed. He managed to run to the palisade walls before retching. His body shook and trembled. He leaned his forehead against the wooden planks and waited for his belly to calm. It had been thus all his life. He couldn't drink much of the delicious mead or even the fruity wine from the Rhineland without becoming violently ill. He would not drink more than a cup of anything for months at a time and then he would forget, and drink too much. And this was his punishment. It was the woman's fault. If she hadn't taunted him, if she hadn't then given in to him and dared to call him
lord,
he wouldn't have become so ill.

He shuddered and straightened. He was so thirsty his tongue felt swelled in his mouth. It was some time before he returned to the longhouse and to his sleeping chamber, his belly emptied of the vile mead as well as of the wonderful boar steaks, the vegetables, and the bread.

Mirana waited until he was stretched out on his bed. He'd run as if a Christian demon had been after him. She waited another minute, slapped down her pride, hating herself even as she said, “If you please, my lord Rorik—”

She heard a deep snore.

She fell onto her back. Her hand was numb, the flesh on her wrist rubbed raw. It hurt her so badly she would have begged him to release her, she would have called him Odin All-Father had he demanded it of her. She wanted to howl and cry at the same time. She did neither. She fell asleep with his snores sounding in her ears.

E
INAR CARESSED THE
soft cheek, smiled as the warm open mouth turned to him, and leaned down to kiss it. His tongue smoothed over the lips, then slipped inside. He heard the gentle sigh, took it into his own mouth, and tasted the sweet honeyed almonds they'd shared an hour before.

He drew back, patted the smooth cheek, then lay on his back, his head cradled on his arms.

“You please me,” he said.

“Aye, there's truth in that, my lord. But you are too tired to bring me much pleasure tonight.”

Perhaps in a week, perhaps even as long as a month from now, Einar would slap that smooth cheek, or wield his whip on the flawless back, rage overflowing at such impertinence, but not now, not after only three days. The impertinence, the moments of insolence, aye, it was pleasing to him now. It whetted his passion and his interest.

He said slowly, “I have brought you to pleasure two times, more than you deserve. Cease your plaints. I am thinking of my sister, Mirana. I must have her back.”

“I hear she is but your half-sister.”

“Ah, is that jealousy that stings your agile tongue?”

“She is not golden as am I, so I have been told. Her hair is black as sin—”

“Aye, like mine. And her eyes are also like mine—as green as Erin's hills after a spring rain. Her flesh is as white as goat's milk, unlike yours, which is shaded with a rather ugly olive tinge.”

“Aye, but the gold of my hair and that olive tinge is unique, quite out of the ordinary, so you said yourself when you bought me from that fat French merchant in Dublin. You have said that you could drown in my golden eyes, a gold like rich sweet mead, you said. You have endlessly admired my black lashes, so thick you've said more times than I can remember, more lush than any of your women's.”

Einar merely smiled. He enjoyed the show of jealousy, the preening vanity, the edge of viciousness to gain his attention, but Mirana—ah, where had the Viking taken her? He must find her quickly or he would surely find himself in grave difficulties. He thought of King Sitric, but didn't worry overly about him. No, it was Hormuze who made his blood slow, made his stomach curdle and cramp. Hormuze was an old man, tottering in his years, but he was still a man to fear and Einar recognized it deep inside himself. The old man's black eyes held passion and determination, not the dimming and clouding of old age. He had no desire, ever, to face Hormuze and have to admit that he'd failed. Well, he wouldn't have to admit anything. He would find her in time.

Rorik Haraldsson was the bastard's name, at least that was the name he'd told Mirana. Einar had forgotten, truth be told, about that day well over two years ago, a long time, after all. He'd done much in two
years, too much to remember Rorik Haraldsson, a man he'd never even seen, a man whose farmstead in the Vestfold he'd visited and reduced to ashes and death.

But the Viking had found him. And Gunleik, the damned old fool, had been tricked. The Viking should be dead; they could have and should have butchered him easily, but they hadn't. Mirana had even seen to his wound. He'd been pampered as a sultan in Miklagard. All that talk about keeping him for Einar's pleasure he discounted. On the other hand, Gunleik never lied to him. But still . . . He wished Mirana had been here so he could have beaten the truth out of her. Had she admired the Viking and that was the reason she'd allowed him to live? Nay, Gunleik and his men were cowards. The Viking had frightened them, made them believe he was beyond them, and thus to be respected and held in awe.

The Viking had kidnapped his sister—nay, his half-sister. He grinned, but sobered almost immediately. He had men out searching for any word of her, of this Viking Rorik Haraldsson. It could take a long time, a very long time, more time than he had. He thought of Hormuze again, and felt bile rise in his throat.

He felt long fingers stroke over his belly, downward, to tangle in the thick hair at his groin. When the fingers closed around him, he sucked in his breath, his fears momentarily forgotten. He knew what was coming and all his senses focused on the mouth that was now on his belly, wet and soft, nipping at his flesh, moving ever downward.

His pleasure, when it took him, arched his back off the bed and made him scream. He forgot Mirana in those long incredible moments. He thought only of that warm skilled mouth and knew that it would take perhaps even more than a month for him to be bored with his new slave.

“By all the gods,” he managed to say after his heart calmed, “you are a beautiful animal.”

“Aye, more beautiful than your black-haired half-sister with her flesh whiter than a virgin's teeth.”

Einar didn't even consider a slap or a whipping. He merely smiled as he stroked his hand down a slender thigh.

It was nearly an hour later. Einar was sitting in his massive oak chair, his hands curved around its ornately carved chair posts. He accepted a plate of food from a slave.

As he chewed on the leg of mutton, tougher than it should be, he thought again of Mirana. She wouldn't have allowed any meal to be served unless it was perfect. He'd remarked too that the turnips mixed with sweet onions and peas weren't seasoned properly. He frowned. Nothing was quite as it should be without her here. Damn Mirana for not simply killing the Viking. He had to get her back, by all the gods, his own life depended on getting her back. He wanted to see her again, to hear her voice as she gave orders to the slaves, a calm voice, many times gentle, but also sharp if need be.

He looked up to see Gunleik chewing on his own mutton, his face down, silent as a stone. He'd aged ten years in the days she'd been gone, and rightfully so, since it was his fault that she was taken in the first place. Einar handed his wooden plate to a waiting slave, a girl not older than eleven, a sharp-featured child he didn't like. He called out, “Gunleik, I have decided you will find Mirana. You will take three men and you will leave on the morrow. Two of these men will be Emund and Ingolf—my men—and thus I will be certain they will tell me the truth of things when you return. Aye, you will leave and you will find her.
I have no need of you here. You have proved your worthlessness as the fortress commander.”

Gunleik looked up, trying to prevent the look of joy that washed away the drawn pallor of his face, but Einar saw it. “Ah, so you would go after her, would you? You lost her and now you will find her. Kill the Viking, I care not, or bring him back to me. I wish to punish you again, but now, even though it pleases you, I don't wish to see your face until you've succeeded. Now, get out of my sight before I have you whipped anyway.”

Gunleik obeyed quickly, though it was difficult for him still to walk upright, his stride steady. The long deep welts on his back still burned and pulled, making him lock his jaw to keep his pain to himself. He'd deserved the beating. Had he been Einar, he would have done the same thing. The only difference was, he wouldn't have enjoyed wielding the whip with such ferocious ecstasy.

“I do not like that old man, Einar. I am glad that you will send him away. He looks at me with contempt.”

“I have not asked that you like him. I punished him and now he will leave and find my sister. He will go because I believe him to have the best brain of all my men. Aye, he will find her, if she still lives.” His hand clenched into a fist. “I must have my sister back here or I will lose more than I can afford to lose, mayhap even my life.”

“No one would dare!”

“You think not?”

“You are a warrior, above other men. You are strong and brave and cunning.”

“Aye, that is true, but the forces against me would be overwhelming, forces even stronger than I, forces even more powerful than I could withstand. Nay, I
must have my sister back and very soon.”

“Your half-sister.”

Einar calmed himself. He wouldn't die, for Gunleik would bring her back. As for the golden-haired quite beautiful little savage seated gracefully at his feet, he found he was still amused at the show of jealousy, at the little jabs of impertinence.

He sat back and closed his eyes. He'd done all he could. There was naught to consider now, and so he smiled, for the aftershocks of pleasure still pulled at him, making him calm and easy, despite the gnawing fear in his belly that grew with each passing hour.

“I do not like this meal either.”

“Do you not?” Einar said easily, opening his eyes. “Well, then, why don't you prepare it?”

“I have many skills, my lord. Food is something to enjoy, not sweat over.”

Einar laughed and ruffled his fingers through the golden hair, as silky as a babe's yet thick enough to wind about his hand many times. “Then pray that Gunleik finds Mirana. She is an excellent mistress to Clontarf. When she returns I daresay she won't like you at all. Mayhap she'll even punish you when I am not about to protect you. Aye, mayhap she'll take the whip to you or set you to working in the fields, ruining those soft little hands of yours.”

“You'll not let her touch me. You think I'm beautiful. You won't let her hurt me.”

“You think not? Well, perhaps you're right. We will see, won't we?”

He felt slender fingers lightly stroking his inner leg. He leaned back in his chair, closed his eyes again, and said nothing. But he thought, Were Mirana here I couldn't have allowed this. There was something about her that always stayed him, something in her eyes, the
way she looked at him. But that would change now. When she returned, he would do as he pleased, for she would be gone again from Clontarf soon enough. He looked up now and caught several looks from his men, furtive looks that held surprise and a goodly measure of disgust. She'd never looked at him with disgust, no, it was something else, something deeper, more powerful. But she'd never said anything; he'd always reined himself in when she was about.

As for his men, they'd said nothing before, they'd kept their silence. Of course they wouldn't dare say anything. He felt his power over them and was pleased. The soft hand continued upward on his thigh.

Hawkfell Island

Rorik was furious. He stared from Sculla to Askhold. Finally, when he had himself well under control, he said, teeth clenched, “Why did you not tell me what you intended? She is my prisoner, my burden, and yet you send her to the mainland to collect herbs with the women?”

“Rorik,” Askhold said patiently, wondering at him, for surely this was absurd, this worry of his. “Old Alna said she should do some work. Chaining her in your sleeping chamber gains us nothing. Let her be useful. She is a slave—less than a slave. An enemy, a prisoner. Aye, let her work.”

Rorik cursed. “Neither of you realize that she is skilled with a knife and doubtless other weapons as well?”

Sculla, bent over to protect his head from a thick fir branch, looked fit to burst with laughter, which he did, loud guffaws that made his lean belly shake. Rorik just looked at him, waiting for him to be silent. When his
laughter died down, Rorik said, “Listen, both of you. You underestimate her. It is a mistake.”

“She's a small girl,” Sculla said. “She could do nothing against Hafter. He's a powerful warrior, nearly as skilled as I am.”

“Every female is small compared to you,” Askhold said, and slapped Sculla on his broad back.

Rorik said nothing. He wanted to believe what Sculla said was true, but Mirana was smart. And her hatred probably made her even more cunning. He didn't trust her. “How many women went to the salt marsh?”

“Asta, Old Alna, and Entti. Hafter rowed them over, cursing the entire time that it was his lot to do it, but he knew that he had to watch the prisoner. He knew you would be displeased had he allowed another to take his place.”

Rorik shook his head, for a moment distracted. “I pray that Entti understands what it is she is to gather. I fear death at her hands, all a mistake, naturally.”

“Now you will cease to worry,” Askhold said. “The girl is an enemy. I dislike having my enemies lying about doing nothing, just as the women apparently do as well. You whipped her for insolence, and now she will work or she won't eat. Old Alna was right to make her work for her food.”

But Rorik was gazing toward the mainland, bathed this afternoon in thick low-lying clouds. Mallards and oystercatchers suddenly burst from the gray clouds, as if flung from a slingshot. The clouds would soon become dense, impenetrable fog, he knew the signs. They'd been gone for three hours. He was worried, though he knew it wasn't at all likely she could do anything. Still, he couldn't help it. Something bothered him, something that wasn't right, that had nagged at him for the past two days. He realized in that moment
what it was. It was the women and how they had treated Mirana, how they behaved when they came near her. It was as if she were one with them and they looked up to her, which was ridiculous, for he'd kept her chained and alone. But Sculla had said that Old Alna agreed with him, that she considered the woman an enemy. He was creating difficulties where none existed.

It was late afternoon. Rorik knew his men were eyeing him with some amusement, but he didn't care. Finally, he lowered his axe to the ground, wiped the sweat from his face with his discarded tunic, and said, “ 'Tis time to go to the mainland. She has done something. I feel it.”