Page 5

T he Viking crumpled before her, his weight toppling across her good leg. With a despairing whimper Fiona dragged the limb free and turned to scramble up onto all fours. She tried to stand but her injured ankle gave way beneath her. Crawling was her one option, and she took it now.

The Norsemen who had been standing around shouted, one grabbed at the fur cloak draped across Fiona’s shoulders and it came away in his hand.

The garment had offered little enough protection from the bitter elements in this frigid land, but it was gone now.

She dragged her injured ankle behind her as she redoubled her efforts to escape across the scraggy grass that fringed the track.

Perhaps if she could gain some cover, find a place to hide…

Footsteps were in pursuit, a heavy, purposeful tread and gaining on her fast. In mere moments the black leather boots and leggings of the dark Viking appeared alongside her, the man strolling casually as though to escort her to safety.

Fiona harboured no such illusion. This was it.

She had attacked their leader, injured him, possibly even killed him and her own life would be forfeit.

She was to die here, in a damp meadow in a foreign land, her family never to know of her fate.

Fiona halted, her futile attempt at escape ending almost before it had begun. She collapsed onto the ground, her injured ankle throbbing mercilessly. She screwed her eyes tight shut and tensed as she waited for the man clad in black leather to conclude matters.

He laid his hand on her shoulder and pushed her over onto her back. Fiona drew up her knees into an instinctive defensive posture, and covered her face with her hands.

Nothing happened. She waited, held her breath, prayed.

Still… nothing.

Fiona cracked open her eyelids to peer up at the man who towered over her.

His silhouette shimmered in the fading sunlight, the scar that marred his face vivid despite the half-light of approaching dusk.

He would have been handsome but for that.

Fiona checked herself. The man was handsome in a cold, detached sort of a manner.

His lips were thin, and now curled almost imperceptibly as he assessed her.

His near-smile was considering, as though he sought to unravel some mystery concealed about her cowering person.

But it was his eyes that held her attention.

They were black, cold as midnight, and quite merciless.

Suddenly and without warning his features split to form a genuine grin. His teeth flashed a brilliant white as he smiled down from his height, and those coal-black orbs seemed to soften, as though he had found what he sought and was satisfied with it.

He bent at the waist and scooped Fiona up in his arms. In what seemed to her no more than a couple of paces he had returned her to the side of the track where Ulfric still sat on the ground.

He was surrounded by his men and one offered him a flask to drink from.

The Viking leader refused the proffered refreshment and raised his hand to test the damage.

His blond head was bowed and already Fiona could discern the vicious bruise on the side of his temple that appeared to swell before her very eyes.

She had done that, with the rock she had surreptitiously secreted in her skirt whilst the two brothers had been preoccupied with the fate of Mairead and her boy.

She had hurt the Viking, and now he would hurt her.

He had said as much, back there in the smoking ruins of her village.

He had warned her not to offer further resistance, but in those desperate moments when he started to lift her skirt she had acted purely on impulse, without planning or thought.

Such foolishness would have dire consequences.

The dark Viking deposited her beside Ulfric. He was gentle enough, she supposed, taking care not to place her weight on her bad ankle. The two men exchanged a few words as Fiona again curled into a protective ball.

“My brother believes I should keep you permanently bound if I care for my life.” Ulfric’s tone was bitter. He was angry, of course. “I suspect he may be right.”

Fiona groaned. Her shoulders still ached from the prolonged immobility she had endured on the crossing to reach this cursed land.

“A leather strap, if you please, Gunnar. And some linen for binding that ankle.” Ulfric reached for Fiona and patted her hip. When he spoke again his tone was softer, though not much. “So, where were we?”

She chanced a peek at him, and could swear that the angry bruise had worsened. Should she apologise? Certainly, she regretted her actions.

Her musings were cut short by the return of the dark one, Gunnar.

He tossed a length of leather at his brother still seated on the grass banking, and held a roll of linen in his hand.

He spoke again in that guttural Nordic tongue of theirs.

Ulfric replied in Gaelic, which Fiona realised was for her benefit.

“No, I can manage, though I am glad of your assistance in the matter of returning my property to me.”

Gunnar frowned, then answered, again in Nordic. Fiona could not comprehend his words, but whatever he had said seemed to amuse her captor.

“By all means, be on your way, brother. I wish you joy of your new thralls. All of them. And I thank you for the silver, naturally. I trust we shall do business again soon for I do so enjoy the satisfaction of a decent trade.”

Gunnar grinned and offered his hand to the man on the ground. Ulfric took it and Gunnar hauled him to his feet. The two embraced, then with no more than a final sideways glance in her direction Gunnar marched back to his horse.

Mairead waited for him there, her boy, Donald at her side.

Gunnar picked up the lad and passed him to one of his guards, already mounted.

He then assisted Mairead into his own saddle and mounted behind her.

With a last wave to his brother he and his party of about a half dozen Vikings cantered off along the track.

They were soon lost in the gathering gloom.

“What will happen to her? To Mairead?” Fiona feared for the woman left to the tender mercies of that heathen barbarian.

“I am really not sure,” confided Ulfric. “Perhaps he has need of a woman to tend his fires and prepare his food. Is she a decent cook?”

“I cannot say. I barely know her. Will I… Will I see her again?”

“Probably not. Gunnar does not share my home. He has his own stronghold to the north of Skarthveit and he will take her there I daresay.”

“Oh.” Fiona was sorry. She had come to like Mairead, and would miss her.

“So, you chose not to heed my warning. And this time I am the one nursing a sore head.” His tone remained gentle, but Fiona detected something more, a certain resolve. He meant to punish her.

“I am sorry. I did not think…”

“You will next time, I intend to make sure of that. But first, your hands, Fiona.”

“Please, I swear that I will not strike you again.”

“No, you will not. Your hands. Now. You may keep them in front of you this time, however.”

It was with some small measure of relief that Fiona extended her hands and allowed him to bind her once more. He concluded his task then placed his fingers beneath her chin to raise her gaze to his.

“You will receive ten strokes of the switch by way of punishment for your actions. It will hurt, but it will be quick and I trust you will find the experience memorable. Disobedience is not tolerated among our slaves, and attempting to escape will usually earn you a whipping. Any attack upon a free Viking, jarl or karl, is normally punishable by death. You will do well to keep all of that in mind, little Celt, should you be driven to resort to such extremes in the future. I will be lenient on this occasion, but do not try me again.”

Leniency was not the word Fiona might have chosen. Ten strokes! Sweet Jesus . Still, she well understood that matters could be worse. Much worse.

His gaze was stern, unwavering. He meant her to heed his words and Fiona knew she would receive no further warnings after this one.

If the Viking chief intended to intimidate her, though, he had failed.

If anything his terse threats only served to harden her resolve.

Whatever Ulfric, son of Frey might choose to believe, she was not his property. One day, she would be free.

Ulfric assisted her into a sitting position on a slight rise in the ground. He knelt before her, the roll of linen beside him. This time when he pushed her skirt up to her knee she did not protest.

Her injured ankle was now hideously swollen and sported various shades of purple and blue where the bruising had bloomed. Fiona gasped when she saw it and jerked her foot away from Ulfric’s grasp.

“Be easy, little one. I shall be gentle, I swear.”

Fiona willed herself to relax, to allow him to tend to her. Certainly, with Mairead and the other women gone, there was no one else she would prefer to have aid her.

“It is fortunate that it was not the chained ankle which you turned. It would have been extremely painful for you had we needed to hammer out the pin to remove the shackle, but there would have been no other course, given the swelling. As it is, I believe if this is tightly bound you will find some relief.”

“It hurts…”

“I know. It will not bear your weight for some time, perhaps weeks. I do not believe it is broken though, so should heal with rest.”

“I am a slave, am I not? Slaves do not rest.” Fiona could not keep the bitterness from her tone.

Ulfric wound one end of the length of linen around her ankle just above the swelling. His grin was wicked, and for the first time Fiona acknowledged that he, like his darker sibling, was a beautiful male.