She had no idea if it was someone’s idea of a joke, a warped reenactment event, a primitive society that had escaped detection like those tribes in the Amazon rain forest, or a big, bad nightmare. Or could it possibly have something to do with the Arab terrorist threat and slave trading?
With a deep sigh, she resolved that she would somehow get herself out of this mess, like all the others in her past. But for now, she was hungry and thirsty, she had to pee, and she was in a locked room with a girl who was gaping at her like she was Elvira the witch just come through the arrow hole window on her trusty broom.
She explored the room and found a pot with a lid behind a folding screen. Once she relieved herself, she washed her hands in a brass bowl of water and dried them on a piece of linen cloth. Coming out, she extended a hand to the girl on the bed, “Hi! I’m Joy Nelson.”
The girl flinched and edged away to the other side of the bed, refusing the handshake.
“I’m not going to hurt you, Liv. That is what your name is, isn’t it?”
The girl nodded.
“Honest. I would never hurt you. I do fight, but only in self-defense or to eliminate bad men.”
Liv’s blue eyes brightened. She could be pretty if cleaned up with that long, blonde, almost white hair. She had pretty facial features and a tall, slim body.
Reflecting on what she’d said that would cause the girl to brighten, she concluded, “You don’t like bad men?”
Liv nodded hesitantly.
“I heard that you won’t leave your bedroom. Is it because of all the men downstairs?”
She nodded harder now.
“Has some man hurt you?”
Liv held up one finger and shook her head in the negative. Then she held up the fingers of both hands and nodded.
Joy’s skin went cold. “Many men?”
She nodded again.
Oh, my God, no!
“Rape?”
The girl groaned and nodded.
“Oh, sweetie!” Despite her resistance, Joy crawled up onto the bed with the girl and held her in her arms. At first, she squirmed and shoved at her, trying to get away, but then she relaxed in Joy’s embrace and began to weep softly.
Joy had studied about and actually worked with rape victims, both as a psychologist and a crisis center volunteer. Liv’s retreat into herself, refusing to speak, was not unusual. The scars of such an experience, especially if multiple rapes were involved, stayed with a woman forever, but there were ways of getting past the trauma. Joy could help the girl; she was sure of it.
“Liv, honey, you are not to be afraid of me. I’m not going to force you to do anything you don’t want, but I can help you. That’s my job, what I’m trained to do. Do you understand?”
Liv nodded against her chest, then glanced up, a hopeful expression on her face, which clouded over as she looked toward the door.
“No, you don’t have to go downstairs until you’re ready.” She eased herself off the bed and took Liv with her, still holding her at her side with an arm over her shoulder, intermittently stroking her back in a soothing manner. Liv pulled against her hold, unsuccessfully, when Joy unlocked the door, but stepped only as far as the open doorway. With a yell that jolted Liv, she called out, “Igor! Get your butt up here!”
Almost instantly, Brandr was up the steps and rushing toward her, a crowd of other men behind him.
She held Liv tightly at her side. “Don’t be afraid. No one is going to touch you. I promise.”
Brandr came to a screeching halt, his eyes going wide at the sight of his sister standing next to the wench from Hel.
“Your first mistake, wench, was opening the door for me.”
She used her free hand to wave dismissively. “Don’t come any closer, or you’ll scare Liv.”
“Liv is
my
sister,” he roared.
“Right now Liv is a rape victim who needs my help.”
“
Your
help? You overstep your bounds, thrall.”
“Thrall shmall,” she chirped. “Do you want your sister to get better?”
He straightened his shoulders with affront. Was she hinting that he did not care about Liv? He would kill any person who said such, even a woman. “Of course I want Liv to get better.” He looked at Liv, who for the first time in such a long time met his gaze, but immediately she looked to the wench for help.
“I need your help,” Joy said.
He would like to pick up the wench, toss her over his shoulder, and either take her down to the fjord and feed her to the fishes or take her to his bed furs and swive her silly. But he restrained his baser urges, both kinds. “What help?”
“A maid or two to help clean Liv’s room. Frankly, it stinks. All that hay on the floor should be swept up, the floor scrubbed, and a carpet laid down, if you have one. The chamber pot should be emptied
and
cleaned. There are cobwebs in the corners a year old. The bed linens are so old and worn they’ll probably rot in the wash water. A tub—no, two tubs of hot water for bathing. And don’t forget the soap, washcloths, and towels. Also, bring clean clothing for me and Liv.”
“Is that all?” He folded his arms over his chest, his ankles crossed as he leaned against the opposite wall.
“For now, Igor,” she said, putting in that name just to annoy him and remind herself that he was the enemy, not a six foot four, dark-haired hunk of a Viking. The belted tunic and slim pants with cross-gartered half boots couldn’t hide a buff body that would put some SEALs to shame. Not that any of that mattered.
“You and I have a score to settle,
wench
,” he said, emphasizing without words that if she continued to call him Igor, he would call her wench, “but I am willing to put my grievances aside for the moment if it will help Liv. Just know that you will not escape my punishment.”
There was a gleam in the brooding man’s eyes that told her what form that punishment might take. She didn’t need to peer downward to see that her nipples reacted to his promise, and not with fear. Brandr saw, too, and he nodded at her with satisfaction. “Methinks you need no fine garments. Those you wear are sufficient.”
Only then did it register that she wore only the bra and panties. “You would think so!”
“What manner of dress is that?”
“Underwear.”
“I cannot help but wonder about what is beneath.”
“You’ll never know.”
“You think not?” Then, without further word, he turned to the astounded crowd behind him, motioning for them to leave with him. Already he was barking out orders to fulfill Joy’s requests . . . uh, demands.
She took Liv back into the bedchamber.
And the most amazing thing happened. Liv grinned at her.
“You like the way I held my own with your brother?” Liv gave her a full-fledged smile, then nodded.
“I have a big brother, too. Two, in fact. I used to have three, but that’s another story. Bottom line: I know what big brothers are like.”
Liv patted her bottom.
Joy laughed, understanding completely. “Yep. They’re a pain in the ass.”
Chapter 7
He was becoming en-thrall-ed . . .
Brandr sat before the fire at a far fireplace, nursing a silver goblet filled with a fine red wine from the Franklands. His brothers had bought several barrels of the wine as a special treat.
He’d checked outdoors last time he used the garderobe, and the snow was already knee-high. ’Twas a blessing that his brothers had returned when they had. Not that a good longboat couldn’t travel in snow. Nay, it was the freeze that would close up the fjord in a short time. Still, there would be much work to do on the morn, and it would be hindered by the snowfall.
Most everyone was asleep, or leastways abed. He could hear snoring, loud and soft, from all around. Not sleeping were those lucky enough to have someone to share their bed furs. Those sounds, too, he could hear.
He was ashamed of himself and embarrassed that a stranger—a thrall, no less—had pointed out the condition of his sister’s bedchamber. Because Liv hadn’t wanted any men coming into her presence, including him, he hadn’t made the effort to determine how his household was treating her. A mistake, one that would not occur again, considering the tongue-lashing he’d given to the lazy lot of them. Then he’d made them work for hours putting the bedchamber in a state befitting the sister of a high chieftain.
If that was not bad enough, the woman—a thrall, no matter what she claimed—had made more inroads with Liv than anyone since she’d been taken from Bear’s Lair. For that, he had to be thankful, but it was hard being thankful to a person who challenged him at every step, and more than that, gave insult. Igor, indeed!
Joy, she called herself. What a misnomer! More like Pain, her name should be. Pain in the arse. And, yea, one of the maids had reported that as being the selfsame way that the wench had described him to Liv.
Tossing back the remaining wine, he stood and walked across the hall and up the stairs. Sleep did not come easily for him. Too many night images haunted him. Usually he had to drink ’til he nigh fell over, but tonight the ale and wine had failed to numb him.
He passed the solar, the small room occupied by Arnora, his aunt by marriage, the three large sleep closets assigned to Tork, Arnis, and Erland, and started to go into his own bedchamber, then hesitated. Instead, he treaded softly down the rest of the corridor to Liv’s room. Easing the door open—thank the gods it had not been locked again—he peeked inside.
The air smelled fresh in here now. Floral. Ah, must be it was the lavender-scented soap his mother had favored. It was one of the few things the Sigurdssons had missed on their brutal raid.
Liv was sleeping peacefully, more like her old self with clean, plaited hair and a soft white night rail. She was cuddled up against the thrall, who wore similar night attire . . . Liv’s, no doubt. But, unlike Liv’s slim, almost boyish frame, Joy’s breasts and hips were clearly those of a woman grown. Her clean, red hair was no longer a wild, tangled bush, but sleek, flame-colored silk left loose to spread about the pillow. She snored softly through lips that were rose-hued and moist.
An immediate shock of a reaction hit below his belt, which surprised him. Erotic pulls this fierce had been rare in his life for years. Oh, he liked copulating good and well, but for the most part any reasonably attractive female would do, and when under the influence of the alehead and a darkened bedchamber, appearance mattered not a whit to even the most finicky Norseman. This was different. And he did not like it. Not one bit.
Liv made a snuffling sound in her sleep and rolled over and away from Joy, leaving the thrall practically hugging the edge of the mattress with space enough for another body betwixt them. Without thinking, he walked over, picked Joy up, and put a hand over her mouth, quickly moving out of the bedchamber, closing the door behind him. Pulling her tight against his chest, he inhaled her scent—lavender and sweet woman skin—then whispered against her ear, “Stop struggling. I am not going to hurt you. I just want to talk.”
She kicked up with her knee and almost clipped him in the chin.
He chuckled. The wench was e’er a combatant. Edging the door of his bedchamber open, then edging it closed, he noted that a candle had been lit, and there was a thin stream of moonlight coming into the chamber from the arrow slit window.
Quickly, he tossed her onto his bed furs, following after and over her, pinning her to the mattress. He put a hand once more over her mouth just as she’d been about to scream. As if that would gain her aught! The only one who would heed her call would be Liv, and Liv did not leave her room.
She struggled wildly, trying to shove him off. When she bucked up, actually moving him, his raging “enthusiasm” caught her attention, and she stilled.
“I will remove my hand if you promise not to scream. Otherwise, I will put a gag between your teeth and tie you to the bed. Then you will have no choice but to listen. Agreed?”
She hesitated, her green eyes flashing murder, but then she nodded.
“Wise wench!”
She growled.
“You promised.”
“I promised not to scream. That does not mean I have to like it. Get off me, you big gorilla.”
“Say please.”
She said something else.
“Tsk, tsk. That is a word ladies rarely use, but then I forgot. You are not a lady. You are a wench . . . a thrall.”
“Read my lips. I. Am. Not. A. Thrall.”
He lifted the amulet from her neck. “Dost know what these rune letters say?”
“N . . . no.”
“I belong to Brandr. That is what it says.”
“No way!” She yanked the amulet out of his hand and tried to undo the thong, to no avail.
After watching her struggle in vain, he took both her hands and placed them above her head and out of the way. To keep them there, he laced his fingers with hers.