The Viking's Captive(31)

“And when I want something, I, Halvor Stein of Gorstein, take it.” He banged his fist on his chest. “You should learn that about me.”

She stared ahead. Remembering his big cock and knowing if he decided he wanted to stick it in her, the way he had the ginger root, there’d be nothing she could do about it.

An image flashed through her mind of him naked, over her, making those guttural noises as he pumped his seed into her, not onto the shoreline. A shiver of something, she wasn’t sure what, wound its way up her spine. She didn’t abhor the image, as she probably should.

What does that say about me?

“I know you hate me,” he said, “and think me a man of no morals, and that I’m a harsh master. But you would see, mark me, that another Viking would not be so kind to you.”

“Kind, my bottom was bright red for days and that ginger root burned a part of me that shouldn’t have had your attention.”

“I own you, all of you. No part of your body is undeserving of my attention.” He paused. “And remember, you have food in your belly, a warm home, we are preparing for harsher weather, and you have my word I will fend off anyone or anything that tries to hurt you.”

“And I am thankful for the food and shelter you provide.” She hesitated. “What else, Master? What else would another Viking do that you would not?”

He navigated through a small stream and past several boulders. She hadn’t thought he’d answer, but then, “He would have forced himself on you, done what every man carnally desires should the mood have taken him.”

“Yet you have not.”

“No.” He paused. “I prefer to have my women willing.”

For a while they traveled in silence. She mulled over what he’d said and it started to make sense to her why he’d worked his own cock. It was to take his pleasure without taking her.

A strange emotion grew in her chest, one she tried to beat down, but couldn’t. It was gratitude that he hadn’t taken her virginity, and also, with it, a whisper of respect.

A virile man like Halvor must have struggled to control himself. Especially with her offered up to him, her ass red, squirming with the heat of the ginger and for some reason, her cunny damp as if to ease his way into her.

“Ah, look.” He pulled Ivan to a halt. “Wild celery, let’s take our fill.”

She shook the erotic thoughts from her head and reached behind for a basket, glad of something to do other than think of Halvor, his need for a willing woman, and her virginity.

Will I ever be his willing woman?

They filled the basket. Duna also spotted horseradish, which seemed to particularly please her master and they loaded a basket with that too.

An hour later and after following the meander of a fast flowing river, they came across farmed land and another longhouse.

“Asmund was friends with my father,” Halvor said. “For many years.”

“What happened to your father?” Duna asked, for she knew nothing of his family.

Halvor raised his eyes to the sky. “He died a warrior, on foreign shores, and is now with the Valkyrie in Valhalla.”

“I am sorry you lost him.”

“My loss was the gods’ gain.” He drew Ivan to a halt, and then jumped down. Instantly he turned and reached for her. Gripping her waist, he lowered her gently to the ground.

She clasped his tunic, aware her weight was nothing to him. “Thank you.”

He didn’t release her; instead he stared down at her with gentleness in his eyes as his hands spanned her waist. “I’ve enjoyed our journey here together. The hills are beautiful, and the sun warm.”

She studied the ink around his right eye—the ends of the swirls were shaped like tiny spearheads—and the darker blue lines around his irises, and the shape of his nose and lips.

He lowered his head.

Duna pulled in a breath. He was so close, and there was something softer and more courteous between them, something she hadn’t felt before.

“Halvor!”

He released her and stepped away. “Asmund.”

It was strange, but she missed his closeness.

That is foolhardy, he’s your capture.

Asmund was elderly but still tall and broad. He had a thick gray beard and wore brown leather breeches held up with a thick black belt. His top half was bare and his muscles still evident despite the wiry patch of silvery hair on his sternum.

Halvor spoke in his native dialect.

Asmund replied, smiled, and studied Duna.

“Come here, slave,” Halvor said. “Meet my old friend.”

Duna walked over the graveled ground.

Asmund was smiling broadly and showing off a mouth that had only a few top teeth. He took Duna’s hand in both of his and spoke words she didn’t understand.

“He says you have hair the color of a crow, and eyes the color of chestnuts,” Halvor said.

“I suppose that’s true.” She smiled at Asmund.

Asmund’s grin widened and he spoke again to Halvor, gesturing to the longhouse.

Within minutes they were sat beside a waning fire, and drinking mead with Asmund and his wife.

To Duna’s surprise, his wife, Nadir, spoke reasonable Celt. Enough for Duna to have a conversation about her new clothes and her boots.

“There are few women in these parts,” Nadir said. “I feared Halvor would always live alone.”