Chapter Four
Halvor stared into the defiant dark eyes that belonged to the girl who wished him dead. She was a feisty little Celt, there was no denying that. She’d wriggled and squirmed and thrown her feet and fists around as if she were some wild animal captured in a snare.
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.
The Jarl commanded the longboat be steered east.
Within minutes a familiar landmark, a long wooden pier, came into view.
“Praise Odin for that,” Gustav said, putting extra effort into his rowing. “Thought we’d never get here.”
“It’s been a long trip, but fruitful.” Halvor sat up straighter, and like Gustav found the energy to row harder.
“Aye, the Jarl is a hard taskmaster, but he trades fair.”
“I’ll leave you to trade alone these next months,” Halvor said.
“What?” Gustav threw him a frown.
“I love the sea, the waves, the opportunities the longships afford us, my friend. But I need to keep my feet on dry land for a while.” He paused. “To tell the truth, I’m not good at being told what to do, and the Jarl has a habit of thinking he can do that.”
“Halvor, it’s the way of a Jarl.” Gustav hesitated. “And…”
“What?”
“Have you never thought about taking a longboat for yourself? You would make a fine captain. I would be at your side, as would many of the other men on board this vessel.”
“Aye, I have.”
“Why will you not?”
Halvor glanced at his slave. She was stirring. With her eyes closed she yawned and rolled her shoulders. The old woman next to her adjusted their shared blanket. His woman opened her eyes. For a moment disorientation washed over them, then she stared straight at him.
The sea around them was cold, but the hate in her eyes was ice. Despite her precarious situation, her discomfort, she still found the energy to despise him.
“I have things to attend to,” Halvor said.
“Like what?”
“Land, animals, my new slave. Unlike you I don’t have family keeping the farm running smoothly. One day I’ll be an older man, no longer able to pick up my sword and shield, and then I’ll need the comfort of a home.”
“That will never happen; you will be a man of fifty years and some and still hold your weapon high and fight for your people.”
“That might be the case, but I need to have roots.” The pier was getting closer. “A place to enjoy the fruits of our raids and our trading.”
“I see your sense.” Gustav huffed. “But I’ll miss you.”
“You too, my friend.” Halvor and Gustav had been on many journeys together. They’d traversed the islands to the west of home, gone farther still taking many days to reach lands of black sand and earth. On two occasions they’d sailed south, finding warmer seas, a new native tongue, and good wine.
The longboat drew level with the pier and was soon secured. Locals swarmed around them, keen to see what wares they’d brought.
The Jarl shouted orders as the boat was unloaded, puffing up his chest and boasting about the goods they’d both pillaged and traded.
Halvor set down his oar, stood and stretched his hands over his head. His spine ached, as did his shoulders. He wanted to be home, he wanted to light a fire, heat water, and bathe. He also desired soft, clean bedding, new clothing, and to walk over his pastures, inhale the scent of grass, and feel the sun of home on his face.
He dropped his arms to his sides and looked at his slave. She’d been ushered onto the pier and stood in a huddle with the other men and women they’d gathered. They were a sorry sight. Bedraggled, shivering, tattered, with scared eyes, and arms wrapped around each other.
Halvor clasped Gustav’s shoulder. “Take care.” He jumped up onto the pier and stood, glad of a moment to let his sea legs adjust. He knew he’d be swaying for a few days, in his head. The solidity of land took just as much getting used to again as going to sea.
He strode up to the Jarl and spoke in his native dialect. “I will not be on your longboat again.”
The Jarl raised his eyebrows but said nothing.
“And for this trip, my payment is the Celt woman, from the last village. Along with ten fox pelts and a barrel of mead.”
“You overestimate your payment, Halvor.”
“I do no such thing.” Halvor grimaced and unhooked the clasp beneath his helmet.
The Jarl hesitated. At an inch shorter than Halvor, although he was a big formidable warrior Viking, he didn’t possess the strength or the swing of sword Halvor did. “You can have the slave and the pelts, but not the mead.”
Halvor said nothing.
“Or the mead but not the pelts.”
Halvor glanced at the pelts. He wanted them more than the mead, though truth be told he’d have settled for just the slave as his payment. In his pocket he had ten gold coins from his own trading, so the trip over the seas had been worth his while.
“I accept.” Halvor nodded. The barrel would have been difficult to transport by horse to his homestead. He was happy to give it up and let the Jarl think he’d bargained well.
The Jarl turned. It was clear he wouldn’t miss Halvor the way Gustav would.
Halvor grabbed the fox pelts, which were held together with a large iron pin. He swung them over his shoulder, then strode toward the huddle of slaves.
“Come,” he said, reaching past several people for his Celt woman.
She evaded his grasp, slinking back three paces and putting two men between him and her.
Halvor snarled. He didn’t have time for this. He was tired, hungry for hot food, and there was still a long journey to be had. Narrowing his eyes, he gave his best withering glare and clutched the handle of his sword, seated in its sheath at his waist.
The two men slipped sideways. They were both malnourished and exhausted. He could almost have killed them with a sneeze.
Their parting exposed his woman. Reaching forward, he clasped her wrist and pulled her from the other slaves.
“No, no, don’t take her,” the older female who’d shared her blanket with his slave shouted. “Leave her be, you brute.”
Halvor ignored her. She wasn’t worth the energy arguing with and was a fool to think he’d do her bidding.
“Get off me.” Small fingers tried to peel at his hand.
He increased his hold and dragged his slave past the Jarl’s wares being unloaded, and headed down the pier.
The sun was shining and he breathed deep, appreciating the scents of home.
“I said get off me.” The wench yanked and struggled. “You savage,” she said, clawing at him.
He’d had enough.
Turning, he dragged her close and slapped his palm onto her lower back, pressing her to his body.
Her eyes widened as her chest shoved up against his and she gripped his tunic.
She was so tiny and delicate, it took him virtually no effort to move her where he wanted her. For a moment he thought of her slender limbs and pale skin hidden beneath the rags she likely called clothes. Of her young breasts and the shape of her ass… the warm tightness that sat between her thighs.
“How old are you, wench?”
“What do you care?”
“Because I do.” He frowned and resisted sliding his hand to her ass. If she was too young, he should perhaps send her to live elsewhere for a few years. One of his friends, maybe, who had a woman in the house to teach his slave her tasks.
She pursed her lips, almost a pout.
“Tell me.” Had he not been holding the pelts, he’d have clasped her chin and shook the number from her.
“I am twenty-one summers.”
He raised his eyebrows. “Twenty-one summers and an unmarried maiden.”
“I had a bad time. Not that a man like you would understand.”
“And what kind of man is that?” He adored the spark in her tone, the challenge in her eyes. He’d like to spank it out of her. Have her apologizing to him, on her knees, begging for forgiveness.
I will have that. I will have this woman submitting to me. She will come to know I am her master and she will desire to please me.
“You’re a man who is an evil monster, no care for anyone but himself.”
“Ah, that’s where you’re wrong, for this evil monster does care.” He lowered his face to hers. “I care that you are fed, have shelter, and are unmolested or murdered by other Vikings.”
“How kind.” She looked away and tipped her chin. “I guess I should feel lucky to have you.”
“Aye, you should.”