The Viking's Captive(9)

Her hair was matted, long, and several strands plastered against her cheeks. Her clothes were tattered and of poor quality, and she had nothing on her feet.

But there was something about her wildness that thrilled him. To tame her would be a challenge, of that he was sure. There would be nothing easy about bending her to his will, teaching her to conform. He got the feeling she’d battle him every step of the way.

Every step of the way.

So he was going to keep her? It had been his intention when he’d grabbed her from her home and hoisted her over his shoulder. But even so, he had thought about dumping her in the gorse and heather-strewn landscape, wondering if he could be bothered with the trouble of a slave in his home when he was quite capable of managing his farmstead himself.

Though now, looking at her determination to hate him, to disobey him, he knew he wanted her; he wanted her submission, her compliance, and, dare he say it, her respect.

Respect!

He didn’t need that. He was Halvor Stein of Gorstein. Respect from women wasn’t something he required, least of all from a heathen slave woman from another land.

He released her chin, grunted, then threw his weight into shoving the longboat back out to sea. His crew were around him, pushing with all their might and harnessing the skill of having done the task a thousand times.

As soon as the keel was free, and the aft breached the furthest wave, he leaped on board. Landing beside Gustav, he grabbed his oar.

“Fuck. Let’s get back to familiar shores,” Gustav said, already toiling on his oar.

“Aye. These filthy crofts and wild Celts will be the death of me.” Halvor fell into time with his crew, the rhythm of rowing coming easily to him.

“That one might be.” Gustav laughed and nodded forward at the slaves.

They were huddled together. Halvor’s new wild woman had been taken into their embrace and sheltered as if she were one of them. Which she was. She wasn’t a Viking, which made her some other race. To Halvor they were all the same, whether they were from Gall, England, or the Highlands.

But maybe she wasn’t the same? Perhaps she had different blood? Something inside her that made her wild and untamable.

“Heave. Heave,” the Jarl shouted. “Hoist the sails.”

Several of the crew rushed to do his bidding.

Halvor kept his attention on his woman. Her eyes were wide, her knees bent so she was curled over them. An older female, to her right, had shared a ragged blanket with her and it draped over her shoulders.

A sudden pang of protectiveness came over him. She might be wild, but she was scared and cold and he wanted to fix that.

And he would, as soon as he could.

But for now she’d have to trust him. Accept that he was her new master and within that title there would be his promise to ensure she had sustenance and shelter. He’d also warrant her safety… he’d kill any man who took it to mind to shove his cock into her.

Kill.

Yes, he would. That sudden knowledge came over him. She wouldn’t be raped or molested. There were brutes on this boat who’d happily do that, here now, on the waves, if they thought they could get away with it.

He shot a glare around the other Vikings as they worked their oars. Several were looking at the slaves. Were they eyeing her up? His slave? Anger burned inside him. He wanted to smack his shield over their helmets, give them a pain in their head they wouldn’t forget in a hurry.

But he didn’t. That would be a waste of energy right now. What he needed to do was get the damn longship back to home waters. Then he could make his way, with his woman, to his land and train her to be his, and break that defiant streak he was sure burned through her.



*



The night became dawn, the weak morning sun glinting off the water. Halvor had rested for a short while, taken his fill of mutton and mead, then continued to row. He wondered if his slave was hungry; she’d refused the chunk of bread he’d thrust into her hand, tossing it over the side for the fish. There’d been no thanks, just a look that could wither a summer flower. Foolish woman. Everyone needed to eat. Even Celtic heathens.

Finally, after two days and two nights at sea the land he loved came into view. They rowed parallel to it for some distance, were greeted with one squally shower, which tipped the mast and made the ropes around the barrels of ale strain against their weight. Other than that he enjoyed the view.

Fjords rolled into green hills; the blue sky, dotted with frothy clouds sent shadows skittering over pastures, settlements, and farmland. He spotted sheep, horses, and crofts huddled together. It made something inside of him warm and content, despite his weariness. Soon he’d be home, and he’d be staying for a while, unless wanderlust got the better of him again.

He looked at his slave girl. She was sleeping, so it seemed, her head resting on the shoulder of the woman at her side, and her eyes closed. Even from here her pallor was apparent. She was in need of nourishment, he could see that plainly. And she would eat; if she didn’t she’d be over his knee for a spanking.

He briefly took his right hand from his oar and smoothed his fingers over his palm. The remembered sensation of her flesh smacking against his, even through clothing, was pleasant. Her ass was small, taut, and he’d bet it would pink up nicely.

He shifted on his wooden strut, an ache going to his groin. It had been many months since he’d been with a woman and found release.