Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (13 page)

Yet everyone wanted
Grimar to be different, to be softer. Eirik thought him lawless, while his
father was always insisting that he plan and plot instead of act. Well, perhaps
he would show his father that he was just as capable of political maneuverings
as he was at wielding his sword.

Gunvald was always so
cautious, always thinking ten steps ahead. According to his calculations,
Eirik’s distraction from the Jarlship was supposed to be a good thing for
Grimar. Yet Grimar doubted how much Gunvald understood the bond that was
forming between Eirik and the thrall girl. When the time came to sell her,
Eirik wouldn’t take it well, if his current behavior was any indication.

But apparently the Jarl
hadn’t considered what it would mean for their plans if Eirik longed to keep
the girl enough to oppose Gunvald’s ruling. Mayhap Grimar would have to take
matters into his own hands,
to
act
rather than plot.

The two in the water
were beginning to emerge, and Grimar stilled behind the tree line where he
watched them. Even from this distance, he could see the contours of the thrall
girl’s body, the dark patch between her legs, and her two rosy, hard nipples
through her wet shift. His cock stirred. She was supposed to be his. Yet his
rage flared hotter than his desire.

He wanted something far
more important than a warm place to bury his cock—he wanted the Jarlship and
all the power that came with it. If it meant getting rid of the girl sooner
rather than later, so be it. And if it meant going farther against his own
kin—well, his father had proven that such a path was viable.

He
had power over both the girl and his cousin’s fates. Grimar smiled. Eirik and
the girl moved away, completely unaware that he lurked so close.

“Good. Now how would
you say, ‘I would like to buy three goats’?”

“I want to work.”

“What?” Eirik’s head
snapped up from the block of wood he’d been about to chop. Laurel sat on a
nearby rock with her hands in her lap.

“I want to work,” she
repeated, her eyes on her hands.

“You are working,” he
replied, raising his ax once more and taking a swing at the wood. Even though
they didn’t need a fire burning continuously in the cottage at this time of
year, there was always much to be done during the summer in preparation for the
coming winter. “You are learning my language. ’Tis enough for now.”

It was strange to
exchange so many words with her that didn’t involve the instruction of his
language. Nigh a sennight had passed since their day at the lake, and an
uncomfortable tension had settled between them. They still lived in close
quarters within his cottage, but beyond necessary communication and her lessons
in language, they rarely spoke. And now she was asking to get away from the
cottage—to get away from him.

She traced one booted
foot along the moss in front of her. “I do not enjoy sitting idly by while
everyone else in the village is occupied,” she said quietly.

He tossed the pieces of
firewood he’d just cut in a pile near the rear of the cottage. “I don’t think
you understand how important you are to the village, Laurel.”

“Why? Because I am an
utlending?” Her eyes flickered up to his, but they were unreadable.

“Ja, because you are an
utlending. You’ll learn our language first, but eventually I want you to teach
us your tongue as well.”

“So that you can
conquer more of my lands and enslave more of my countrymen?”

This time he had no
difficulty interpreting the barely contained hostility and frustration in her
voice. He sank the ax into the block on which he’d been chopping and turned
fully toward her.

“Mayhap. And mayhap
also to trade with your people, or to settle—peacefully—in the west.”

She let that subject
drop but tried a different tack.

“I know that you do not
wish to treat me like a thrall, but I am not afraid of hard work. In fact, I’m
used to it. I find it shameful to sit with idle hands all day.”

He sighed. She was too
astute by far. Although everything he’d told her about the importance of their
language exchange had been true, he’d also hoped that keeping her thus occupied
would shield her from the need to stoop to thralls’ work.

He didn’t doubt her
capability—he’d seen the small calluses on her palms and heard her explanations
of the work the nuns and monks at the monastery had put her to. Rather, he
hated the thought of how the villagers would view her—and treat her. To them,
she was just an utlending thrall who’d been put above her place through Eirik’s
attentions. He didn’t need them abusing their power over her. Though she
couldn’t know all the subtleties of the village’s social order, she’d clearly
picked up on the fact that he was shielding her from thralls’ work.

Before he could form a
suitable response, she interjected.

“Would you deny me
this?”

She didn’t say the
words, but a silent
as well
hung at the end of her question. His mind
leapt back to that afternoon at the lake. He’d been sure he was doing the right
thing by rejecting his desires for Laurel. After all, she was his thrall. Even
if she had been the one to ask him for a kiss, she was in no position to choose
in such matters. What if he’d gone farther than she’d wanted? What if she
feared saying no to him?

Of course, he’d come to
know Laurel well enough to trust that she would voice her wishes. She wasn’t
one to cower or remain silent. And he knew himself well enough to be certain
that if she had indicated she’d wanted him to stop, he would have—he’d never
forced himself on a woman, nor would he ever.

Yet he still clung to
the principle of the matter. As a thrall, her desires meant naught and she had
no choices. He’d never push himself sexually on a creature with no power.

But he’d never
considered her role in this mess. She’d kissed him back willingly that first
time on his bed. And she’d asked him to kiss her again in the lake. Luckily,
he’d gotten a rein on his lust and stopped things before they went too far. But
he’d never considered what she said—that she should at least be granted the
freedom to make her own choices in such matters.

He never wanted to
treat her as his thrall, an object to do with as he wished. Yet by protecting
her from his lust, was he also taking away her ability to choose desire for
herself? He had been tugging on this tangled knot for the last sennight with
little to show for it—except that the code of honor he prized so highly in
himself had fallen into doubt.

Her question still hung
in the air: would he deny her this, as he denied her the ability to choose for
herself what she wanted from him?

He opened his mouth, still
unsure of how to explain his thoughts.

“Eirik!”

Madrena’s voice floated
from the front of the cottage, cutting him off before he could speak.

“Around back!” he
shouted in response, his face falling into a frown. He couldn’t decide if
Madrena had terrible or perfect timing.

“At least you’re not
cooped up inside again,” Madrena muttered as she rounded the corner of the
cottage. She wore her practice garb, with her skirts cinched up to expose the
boots that encased her calves and her bare knees above them. A padded vest
covered her torso, and her pale hair was braided back from her face. She had
her bow and quiver slung over one shoulder, and a short sword fitted to her
frame over the other.

“You haven’t trained
with us since we returned home,” she said, her eyes drifting to where Laurel
sat.

“I’ve been busy,” he
said flatly.

“So everyone says.”

Eirik yanked his ax
from the chopping block. “What does that mean?”

Madrena shrugged
casually, though she gave Laurel another sidelong glance. “It means that people
are talking about you and the utlending thrall spending all your time inside
your little hut.”

“You think I care about
some flapping jaws?” Eirik bit out. In truth, he should pay the gossip more
heed, he knew. Sooner or later there would be trouble.

“I can’t seem to tell
what
you care about these days,” Madrena retorted, finally letting her underlying
frustration show clearly. “I thought after our successful voyage you’d be eager
to make plans for the next raid, or at least keep up with your training. But all
you do is stay in your cottage with the girl.”

“Are you jealous,
Madrena?” He knew the question was a low blow, but he was sick of her
questioning and finding fault with him when it came to Laurel.

“Jealous? Of being
forced to share this hovel with your stinking hide?” Her pale eyes flared.

He kept his ax in his
hand just in case she decided to draw a weapon on him. It wouldn’t be the first
time they’d had to settle their differences with force. Of course, they usually
called it off when they’d both gotten out their pent
-
up
energy. But something had been building between him and Madrena ever since
Laurel appeared.

“Nei, I don’t envy her
your attention,” Madrena went on, eying his ax. “I only wonder what’s happening
to you. Where has your wanderlust gone? What of your drive to make Dalgaard and
its people better?”

“What do you think I’m
doing with her?” he nigh shouted, gesturing with the ax at Laurel, who sat
wide-eyed watching them. “We can’t simply raid our way to a secure, prosperous
future. We need to learn, to adapt. She can teach us!”

Madrena opened her
mouth to shout something back, but before she could form the words, Laurel
stood abruptly.

“I…want…work?” she said
brokenly in their language.

Madrena rounded on her,
mouth agape.

“Work,” Laurel repeated,
mimicking the motions of sweeping and scrubbing.

Madrena turned back to
him. “She’s a thrall after all. Why not put her to work?”

“Madrena, nei,” Eirik
said darkly. “I’ll not allow her to be mistreated—”

She sighed with
exasperation. “I don’t want her to be harmed either. Alaric and I might as well
be your kin, remember? If she is so important to you, then she’s important to
us too.” The last was said grudgingly, but Eirik nodded slightly to acknowledge
her effort.

“Can you help me with
her?” he said quietly. He doubted Laurel would be able to piece much together
from their conversation, but even still, she was learning his language faster
than he’d expected. “We’ve both been cooped up too long, and there is
some…tension between us.”

“Tension?” Madrena
actually shot a cocky smile at him. “So why don’t you just…relieve it?”

“Madrena, you know—”

“I know, I know!” She
rolled her eyes at him. “But it is plain to see that you are
both
drawn
to each other. Doesn’t that circumvent your code?”

He hefted the ax in his
hand as a warning. She was far closer to knowing his thoughts and desires that
she realized, but he didn’t want to get into it with her.

“She wants to work, but
I don’t want any of the villagers mistreating her.”

Madrena snorted in
frustration. “You put her above all other thralls. You’re asking for trouble.”
But before Eirik could respond, she turned to Laurel.

“Can you weave?”
Madrena asked loudly, motioning with her hands.

Laurel looked puzzled
for a moment, then seemed to comprehend Madrena’s question. “Nei,” she replied.

“Can you cook?” She
mimicked eating and stirring a pot.

Laurel shook her head,
her brows coming together in despondency.

“Can she do anything?”
Madrena said to Eirik in exasperation. She exhaled. “Just go get into your
practice gear and meet me in the training fields,” she said under her breath.
“I’ll come up with something.”

Though Laurel only
understood bits and pieces of Eirik’s conversation with Madrena, she was sure
she’d won a minor victory when Madrena took her roughly by the elbow and
started pulling her toward the village. Eirik remained behind, watching them
with a creased brow as they went.

“Work?” Laurel huffed,
resorting to the word that seemed to have come through the clearest earlier.

“Ja, work,” Madrena
said sourly, never slowing her long strides.

They traversed the
distance between Eirik’s cottage and the more densely packed village quickly.
Madrena made a straight line for the long wooden building where the council
meeting and the feast had taken place.

“Longhouse kitchens,”
Madrena said by way of explanation as they entered the dim interior. The tall
Viking woman made her way to the back of the structure where a narrow door led
to a separate cooking area. Unlike the longhouse, the kitchen walls were made
of stone, likely to protect against the dangers of fire.

The kitchen was mostly
quiet, and only a few women moved about, some chopping vegetables, others
preparing flatbreads to be cooked on an iron griddle on the far wall. She
noticed that half of the women had their hair cropped almost to their s
k
ulls. Thralls.

Laurel hesitated for a
moment. She thought she’d made it clear that she had no skill when it came to
cooking, but perhaps she’d gotten her words confused.

Madrena spoke rapidly
to one of the women with longer hair. The older woman motioned toward a bucket
in the corner and then to Laurel. The woman’s pale blue eyes flickered over her
in disdain before dismissing her altogether.

“Clean,” Madrena said
bluntly, picking up the bucket and thrusting it into Laurel’s chest.

Laurel’s heart sank.
So, it was to be like the Abbey all over again. But she had been the one to ask
for work. Even scrubbing floors was preferable to living in such close quarters
with Eirik.

Madrena muttered
something under her breath, and Laurel caught the words “too busy,” “warrior,”
and “nursemaid” before the Viking spun on her heels and exited the kitchen.

The older woman, who
apparently hadn’t completely forgotten her after all, pointed toward the door
at the back of the kitchen. Laurel went outside and quickly spotted a stream wh
ere she could
fill her bucket. When she returned,
the older woman, who was apparently in charge of the kitchen, handed her a lump
of lye soap and a coarse bristled brush. The familiar scent of lye filled
Laurel’s nostrils. At least she knew how to clean.

The woman nodded with
her square jaw toward an enormous iron cauldron near the cooking fire. Laurel
needed no more instruction. She emptied half the bucket of water into the
cauldron and set about scrubbing it.

The mindless labor was
surprisingly soothing. It gave her a chance to chew on the uneasy routine she’d
settled into with Eirik ever since that day at the lake. As he’d vowed, he
hadn’t touched her since then, but the memory of what he’d stirred in her still
rose fresh to the surface several times each day. She’d catch herself watching
his hands as they ate in his cottage, or see the bunching and shifting of his
muscles beneath his linen tunic, and an unbidden flush would come over her
skin.