The Viking's Captive(14)

Briefly he wondered how other masters managed their slaves. Did they keep them tethered, like a horse? Perhaps they held the threat of death over them.

Halvor didn’t want to do any of that. She wasn’t an animal, even if she did perform like one at times, nor did he want her to think he’d kill her. He wouldn’t, ever. His role was to protect her, and as such he needed her near. How could he fend off other men, wolves, and wild boars if she wasn’t in his sights or her whereabouts known?

He grabbed a fishing line from the barn, and retraced his way to the lake. This time of year it didn’t usually take long to make a catch and then they’d both have full stomachs at nightfall.

He ran his hand over the wispy grass at the side of the path, enjoying the delicate, feathery seed heads on his palms. Rowing for weeks on end had made his skin rough and callused. A skylark rose upward, delivering a sharp series of reprimands at him traveling too close to her nest.

Reaching for the base of his woolen tunic, he stripped it off, wanting to feel the sun on his back. It would make a change from chilled sea spray. He abandoned the tunic on a juniper bush, with a plan to collect it upon his return. There was no one around for miles, so he didn’t worry about it being taken. The only other person he ever saw was the elderly farmer who cared for his animals, for a price, when Halvor was sailing and trading.

The lake glistened as if inviting an unknowing visitor for a swim. But Halvor had made that mistake before; this time of year it was ice cold. It would be a few months before he’d even dip his toe in it.

After settling on his usual fishing rock, Halvor cast his line.

It was good to be home. And with no plans to go anywhere, he should feel doubly content.

But he didn’t and he knew why.

Her.

“Damn it. I don’t even know her name.” He frowned and let his gaze follow a line of bubbles popping on the surface of the water.

He made a decision to find that out. It was only fair; after all, she knew his. Thanks to Gustav.

As he waited patiently, for that was the only way to fish, he wondered if he’d been wise to bring her. Maybe the barrel of mead from the Jarl would have been a better payment, despite it being awkward to maneuver on his horse.

He sighed. No, he’d wanted her, from the minute he’d seen the defiance in her eyes. She was like a wild stallion who needed taming. He shook his head. No, that wasn’t right, she was a feral cat. Much like the ones at the port who would hiss and spit until fed and stroked and they began to trust. Then they would slink around legs, jump onto laps, and seduce whoever had been foolish enough to care into providing more.

“As if.” He tutted. This woman of his would never trust or slink… would she?

His line tugged. Carefully he checked the tension, then believing his luck to be in, lifted it.

The sun glinted off silver scales, creating a stunning rainbow effect and telling him he’d be eating well that evening.

It was a big catch too, and as he unhooked it, then gutted it, he found himself hoping she would enjoy the tender white meat it would provide. He was intending to put some weight on her; she’d need strength to work. Right now she looked as if she might snap, and he could testify she weighed no more than a feather.

After carefully rolling up his line, he slipped his fingers into the gills of the fish, and strolled back toward the homestead. He couldn’t help glancing around the surrounding hills, wondering if he’d see her small figure rushing and stumbling into the distance, desperate to get away from him.

When he reached the longhouse, and after checking Ivan had water, he entered the dimly lit doorway. The fire was still going strong, the window open allowing a gentle, flowery breeze to slip through the air, and on the bed, furthest from the door, his woman slept.

He placed the fish on a slab of stone, ready for cooking, then walked over to the bed.

With her eyes closed, her dark lashes cast small shadows on her white cheeks. Her lips were slightly parted, and shone, as though she’d just licked them. And her jawline was so smooth and delicate, he wondered if she were made of the fine porcelain he’d come across once.

He glanced lower and spotted a brooch holding her woolen clothing together. It was steel, held a cross in the center, and had ornate detail around the outer edge, which reminded him of petals.

She had her arms folded, gripping her elbows, as though hugging herself, and her legs were drawn up. He worried her belly hurt and that was why she slept like that. If it did, it was likely due to hunger more than anything else.

An ache grew in his chest. He didn’t want her to be in pain, or hungry. He could do nothing about her being scared, for now at least. But her hunger he could fix.

A sudden worry reared up. Would she eat if he cooked? She’d thrown everything he’d offered her on the boat over the side. Was she suspicious of anything he gave her, fearing it poisoned?

There was only one thing for it; she’d have to cook the fish herself, he wouldn’t get involved, then there would be no way she could refuse the food she clearly needed.

Resisting the urge to move a strand of her hair, which had fallen over her left eye, he turned.

Now it was time to do what he’d been longing to do… bathe.

He retrieved the tin bath and set it on the stone floor in front of the fire, surprised when she didn’t wake with the clang it made.

Then he set to filling pails of water from the spring and heating them over the flames. He threw several more logs on, not bothering to keep the noise down, for he wanted her to stir so she could cook and they could eat.