Enthralled: Viking Lore, Book 1 (9 page)

She quickly pulled her
rough wool dress over her head and tossed it aside. Bringing the soap with her,
she gingerly stepped into the tub. The water was frigid, but she’d never had
aught but cold baths all her life, so she didn’t waste time shivering. She
quickly slipped in and dunked her head. She worked the soap in her hands and
then scrubbed her skin and hair thoroughly. The crisp scent of the soap
combined with the cold water made her feel cleaner than she’d ever felt before.

Once the soap was
rinsed away and she couldn’t take the cold water anymore, she stood and dried
herself with the linen cloth. Then she slipped the shift over her head and
sighed. She had never been given a shift at the Abbey. Abbess Hilda believed
that having scratchy wool against her skin would remind her of the bodily sins
of her parents.

If her wandering
thoughts of Eirik bathing in the stream nearby were any indication, Abbess
Hilda had been right about her. Mayhap she did deserve naught but scratchy wool
after all.

But nay, she was no
wanton. Eirik was different. He was kind to her when he could easily be cruel.
But would he truly treat her better than her status as a thrall warranted? The
tenuousness of her situation chilled her more that the icy stream water ever
could.

Suddenly the cottage
door opened and there stood Eirik.

Bare-chested and
dripping water.

She shrieked in
surprise and snatched up the overdress, trying to cover herself from his gaze.
She’d dallied with her thoughts for too long, and now here they stood, both in
varying states of undress, alone in his cottage.

“I forgot to bring a
clean tunic,” he said by way of explanation. Yet instead of moving to one of
the chests for the garment, he stood rooted in the doorway, his eyes piercing
her. He wore a pair of fitted leather pants she hadn’t seen before, but it was
his naked skin on which her eyes were riveted.

Like the parts of him
she’d seen already, his torso was bronzed from the sun. His shoulders seemed
even more broad and imposing without a layer of loose linen over them. She
could see every contour and corded muscle in the light streaming in from the
open door behind him. His wide chest narrowed into the hard planes of his
stomach. With each of his inhalations and exhalations, the ridged muscles on
his torso popped. Her mind skittered back to the feel of his stone-hard body
pressed against her on his bed. What would it feel like to touch his bare skin?

His damp hair was
finger-combed away from his face. She noticed the muscle in his jaw was ticking
again, as it often did when he was frustrated. She sought his eyes, unsure what
she’d find there. Instead of annoyance or even anger, she saw a raw heat
blazing in their bright blue depths.

She broke their gaze
quickly. “I…I need to finish getting dressed.”

He finally stepped
forward to one of the nearby chests and opened the lid to remove a linen tunic.
He tugged the garment over his head, then closed the chest and stood still once
more.

When she only gaped at
him, he lowered his eyebrows. “What are you waiting for?”

She felt her eyes go
even wider than they already were. “You expect me to simply…dress in front of
you?” The overdress blocked her front from his gaze. Without it, the thin linen
shift would do little to protect her modesty. This level of intimacy was surely
wrong.

Slowly, he pivoted on
his heels to give her his back. Not waiting for any more privacy, she yanked
the overdress on and tugged it down over her body. But once the finely woven
wool covered her, she twisted and turned, unable to make sense of the strange
cut. There were no sleeves, only two strips of material draping down her back.
Two fine brooches with beads strung between them sat on the front of the gown,
but they appeared only ornamental.

After struggling for
several long moments, she sighed and gave up.

“Eirik?” she said
softly.

“May I turn around?”
His voice was unusually rough, though he didn’t sound angry.

“Aye. I can’t seem
to…where are the sleeves?”

Eirik faced her and
pinned her once again with that heated stare. As he approached, her stomach
clenched.

“It is the style here
for women to wear these sleeveless overdresses in the summer,” he explained.
One of his large hands reached out and nearly brushed her damp hair. She
inhaled, expecting his touch, but instead, he grasped one of the strips of wool
dangling down her back. He pulled it over her shoulder and fastened in at her chest
with one of the silver brooches.

She held her breath as
his fingers worked the pin, which sat just above her breast. He did the same on
the other side, so that the strips sat on her shoulders and were each fastened
by one of the brooches.

He stepped back and let
his gaze trail over her. He muttered something in his own language, and that
blue fire flickered in his eyes.

She glanced down at
herself, feeling awkward in the strange garments. Her arms were bare except for
the thin linen shift, which went to her wrists but clearly showed her skin
underneath. The two brooches were intricately wrought silver, far finer than
anything she’d ever worn before. Several strings of beads were looped between
the brooches. The beads draped over her breasts, drawing attention to them.
Both the shift and the overdress fit her fairly well through the waist and hips
but were far too long on her and puddled around her feet.

“Come,” he said,
extending a hand toward her. “We’ll be late to the celebration.”

“What celebration?”

“The one honoring our
successful voyage. ’Twould be an insult to the Jarl if I didn’t attend,” he
said flatly, though his mouth turned down slightly.

“And why must I
attend?” she asked, feeling her stomach twist in foreboding. “Am I to serve
those at the feast, as my status as a slave warrants?”

The strange spell that
had been hanging in the air between them shattered. Her throat was thick with
the bitterness of her own words, yet she couldn’t simply escape to the safety
of Eirik’s arms or let herself be swept away by his kisses. She was his
thrall—the reality of her situation was still horrifyingly raw.

His face hardened. “You
must attend because I will not leave you here alone.”

“Do you expect me to
attempt escape?” she blurted.

Strangely, the thought
hadn’t crossed her mind since she’d been taken
from
Whitby
Abbey. Of course, she wouldn’t have been able to simply jump overboard and swim
to safety while they were on Eirik’s ship. But even now that she was on solid
ground, she was in a foreign land where she didn’t speak the language or know a
single soul who might aid her. Eirik had spoken of the enslaved monks from
Lindisfarne from whom he’d learned her language. Mayhap she could find them
and…

“Nei, for if you tried
to escape, you’d be either dead or captured in a matter of hours,” he ground
out.

Her spine stiffened.
“Then why? Do you wish to parade me about for all to see your helpless,
utlending thrall?”

He closed the distance
between them so fast that she gasped and took an involuntary step back.

“Nei, you are coming
with me because I fear for your safety if I leave you alone, Laurel,” he said,
his voice cold but his eyes flickering with emotion. “Grimar was not satisfied
with the Jarl’s ruling. He or his supporters may try something.”

“You said you’d protect
me,” she whispered.

“That is what I am
doing. Now come. They will be waiting on us.”

How could she have been
so foolish to let herself kiss this man, let her thoughts run wild about how he
was different from the others? He was still a heathen, a barbarian. And she was
still his property. She hardened herself to the events that awaited her. She
was among his people now, people who had no care for her and who saw her as
lower than an animal.

Laurel followed him out
the door into the slanting sunlight of the midsummer evening. She had to be
stronger than she’d ever been before—strong enough to resist her own desire to
trust Eirik.

Eirik slowed his pace
along the path toward the village. Laurel struggled to keep up with him in
Madrena’s too-long clothes. He’d told his friend to bring something she’d worn
as a younger, smaller girl. He’d forgotten that even as a youth, Madrena had
been tall.

He tried to cool the
heated frenzy of thoughts that swirled through him, threatening to make him—what?
Lose his temper at the innocent young woman trailing after him?

This situation wasn’t
her doing, he reminded himself. Grimar had captured her, Gunvald had made the
decision to sell her at Jutland’s slave market—and he had claimed her as his
thrall. He was as guilty as his uncle and cousin in this cursed tangle.

Nei, he was more
guilty, for he was the one who’d kissed her even after vowing to himself that
he wouldn’t touch her, thrall that she was. But seeing her devastation at the
news that she would remain his thrall, and feeling her small, slight, yet
womanly body pressed against him in his bed—it had been too much. The cold dunk
in the stream had done little to cool his blood.

And he’d nearly lost
all hold on his control at seeing her in Viking women’s garb. Her slim figure
was finally visible in the more fitted clothes. Her breasts were fit to her
frame, yet they were more womanly and shapely than they’d appeared in her old
formless brown dress. The traditional double brooches and strings of beads only
added to the effect. Her narrow waist flared delicately into gently curving
hips. And her pale, thin arms and shoulders were visible through the shift
Madrena had provided.

He was weaker than he’d
thought. First he was lusting after his thrall, and next he was lying to her
about his uncle’s ruling. He simply wouldn’t accept Gunvald’s decision that she
be sold at Jutland’s slave market at the end of the summer raiding season—a
little less than two months from now. He would just have to find a way to
convince his uncle that Laurel
should
be
allowed to stay—but not as his thrall, as a free woman. The task was almost too
much to contemplate, yet he wouldn’t give up until he found a way to protect
and free Laurel.

He ripped his mind from
the impossibility of the situation he’d gotten them into. It didn’t matter that
he found her so completely entrancing. He would keep trying to think of a way
to avoid the fate Gunvald had decided for her, but it didn’t change the fact
that for now, she was his thrall. It was easier to be angry about the
situation, angry at her for her sharp remarks, than to dwell on their reality.

He halted outside the
longhouse, where merriment from within could be heard. “Stay close to me,” he
said over his shoulder to her. “Keep your eyes lowered and do as you’re asked
by others, but don’t leave my side.”

She looked up at him,
her eyes wide and dark in the surrounding twilight. He couldn’t tell which
emotion ruled her—fear or frustration. It didn’t matter, he reminded himself
icily.

He opened the door to
the longhouse and was met with a blast of noise and the smells of cooking food
and ale. All the villagers were gathered for the celebratory feast, some
shouting merrily to each other, others singing over raised horns of ale. A few
near the door cheered as they spotted him.

“Remember what I said,”
he whispered once again before stepping fully into the midst of the
celebration.

He received several
pounds on the back as he made his way through the now-full wooden benches and
tables. He caught sight of Alaric’s sandy head and Madrena’s pale blond one
pressed together near the dais and weaved his way toward them.

“The clothes are too
fine for a thrall,” Madrena muttered when they reached her.

“You were the one who
selected them,” Eirik snapped back.

“I don’t
have
any clothes fit for a thrall!” Madrena hissed, eyeing Laurel. “You still
haven’t told her?”

“Nei, and I’m not going
to,” Eirik said flatly to Madrena. “She doesn’t need to know yet. There may
still be a way for me to convince my uncle to change his mind.”

“Take care, Eirik,”
Alaric said, his brow lowered. “You say you don’t want her treated as a thrall,
yet you are controlling what she knows of her own fate. This may come back to
bite you in the ass.”

“Eirik!”

Before he could respond
to Alaric, Eirik’s head snapped to the dais, where Gunvald, Grimar, and a few
others sat at the table of honor. Gunvald motioned for Eirik to join them.
Eirik cursed under his breath but gave his uncle an acquiescing nod. He took
Laurel by the wrist and mounted the stairs to the dais.

Just as Grimar took a
swig from his drinking horn, he noticed Eirik’s approach with Laurel in tow.
Grimar sputtered, sending ale spewing from his lips.

“A thrall cannot sit at
the high table with us!” he said loudly. The noise in the longhouse died as all
eyes shifted to the dais.

Gunvald’s attention was
pulled by his son’s sharp words. “What is the girl doing up here, nephew?” he
asked, frowning.

“And why is she dressed
like a free woman?” Grimar demanded as he stood, pointing a finger at Laurel.

“She is mine to dress
and take where I want,” Eirik said just as loudly. He forced himself to relax
the tension in his shoulders. He couldn’t let Grimar dictate his actions or
rile his anger.

“She is an utlending!
She deserves neither a freewoman’s clothes nor a place at the high table.”
Grimar’s ice
blue eyes flashed in outrage. “In
fact, she doesn’t even deserve the hair on her head.”

Without thinking, Eirik
shoved Laurel behind him as Grimar drew the seax at his waist. A ripple of surprise
went through those gathered at yet another spectacle involving Grimar, Eirik,
and the utlending girl.

“You’ll not cut her
hair, Grimar, unless you wish to go through me first,” Eirik said, his voice
deadly calm even as his heart pounded faster.

“What is he doing?”
Laurel breathed behind him.

“He wants to cut your
hair,” Eirik replied over his shoulder. “Thralls normally have their hair
cropped short to distinguish them from free men and women.”

“Enough!” Gunvald
shouted. “Grimar, put
down
your arms.” In a
lower voice likely only meant for his son, he hissed, “I told you to leave it
be!”

With a grumbled curse,
Grimar re-sheathed his seax and slowly took his seat.

“You tread a dangerous
line, nephew,” Gunvald said, turning to Eirik. “She is a thrall, not a
freewoman to be dressed like that, her hair still long. Do with her as you
will, but she is not fit to sit at the high table.”

That seemed to placate
Grimar somewhat, but Eirik felt his lips curl in a snarl. “Very well, Jarl,” he
managed. His uncle watched him closely. Ever since Eirik and his crew had
returned from their voyage, Gunvald seemed bolder in testing both his own power
and Eirik’s submission.

 He motioned for Alaric
and Madrena to fetch Laurel. “’Tis all right,” he said quietly to her. “You’ll
sit with Alaric and Madrena. They’ll look after you.”

“But you said not to
leave your side!” she said frantically as his friends guided her down off the
dais. The noise swelled once more as the villagers returned to their merriment,
cutting off his attempt to reassure her.

He took a seat next to
the Jarl, but his eyes trailed after her as Madrena and Alaric sat her between
them at the nearest bench.

“Forget the thrall,”
Gunvald said crossly to him.

With effort, Eirik tore
his gaze from Laurel and accepted a drinking horn from his uncle, if only to
give Gunvald the satisfaction of thinking he was obeying him.

“This night is a
celebration of your victorious voyage. To many more ahead!” Gunvald raised his
horn and Eirik tapped its rim with his own. He drank deeply of the ale, trying
to soothe his frayed nerves.

Steaming meats, fresh
bread, and a cabbage and carrot stew were soon passed around, along with many
more pitchers of ale. Eirik tersely responded to all of Gunvald’s slathered-on
praise for the voyage’s success and his outpouring of enthusiasm for future
raids on the lands to the west. Yet as the meal progressed, Gunvald’s droning
voice grew faint as his attention narrowed on Laurel’s slim back.

Her dark head remained
bowed throughout the meal. She ate and drank little, though Madrena kept
nudging food toward her. Madrena seemed at a loss when it came to interacting
with Laurel. Though he appreciated his friends’ kindness toward her, neither
Madrena nor Alaric seemed to know what to make of her—or of his strange
behavior regarding her.

The longhouse grew so
loud with gaiety that soon Gunvald was having to shout to be heard. Eirik was
finally feeling the effects of the plentiful ale, but instead of soothing his
nerves, it seemed to make him more agitated at what was going on around Laurel.

Those at her table were
already drunk. Even Madrena and Alaric were leaning across her so that they
could talk to each other. A flicker of movement behind her drew Eirik’s eyes.
Haakon, the large, aging warrior with a bushy red beard, stumbled past where
Laurel sat stiffly. The giant stopped right behind her, swaying slightly from
too much drink.

“A thrall with long
hair,” Haakon slurred. He reached out and pinched some of Laurel’s dark hair
between his fingers, giving it a tug.

Eirik bolted to his
feet so fast that he knocked over the chair he’d been sitting in. Gunvald
clamped a hand over his wrist before he could move to Laurel’s side.

“I thought I told you
to forget her for the evening,” Gunvald said lowly. Clearly his uncle was
willing to exert his authority to keep Eirik away from Laurel. The thought made
Eirik’s blood boil.

At the tug on her hair,
Laurel jerked to her feet and faced Haakon. Her eyes were wide with outrage at
his boldness, but he only laughed and then belched in her face.

“Fetch me more ale,
thrall!” Haakon said, shoving his drinking horn at her. Madrena and Alaric had
risen at her sides, unsure if they should intercede or not. Alaric made eye
contact with Eirik, but Eirik forced himself to give a little shake of his
head. They couldn’t afford another scene, especially since it was apparently
Gunvald’s goal to make Laurel’s presence a non
-
issue.

Laurel looked between
the red-bearded giant before her and the horn he’d thrust under her nose,
clearly not understanding his command.

“Utlendings…” Haakon
muttered, then snatched a pitcher of ale from a nearby table and pushed it at
Laurel, forcing her to take hold of it. “Now…refill…my…horn…thrall.” Haakon
annunciated each word as if speaking slowly would make her understand their
language.

After a moment, Laurel
tilted the pitcher and poured more ale into Haakon’s horn. He took a swig and
turned to where Eirik stood on the dais.

“You have much work
ahead of you in training your thrall, Eirik!” Haakon called out, drawing
laughter from those around him. Eirik remained silent but tried to kill the man
with his gaze. Normally Haakon’s blunt manners didn’t bother him, but something
about the sight of the man’s hand on Laurel’s hair made him see red.

Gunvald gave Eirik’s
sleeve a little yank, drawing his attention back to him. Slowly, Eirik righted
his chair and resumed his seat at the Jarl’s side. But his eyes remained locked
on Laurel. Several more villagers around her held up empty drinking horns for
her to refill. Her back stiff, she moved from one to another, emptying her
pitcher.

The villagers didn’t
mean any harm by it, Eirik tried to tell himself to cool his temper. She was a
thrall. Besides, they were likely more curious than aught else to get an
up-close look at the utlending who’d already caused so much trouble.

Yet as he watched her
rigid back, he hated each and every one of them for treating her like that.
Nei, he hated himself, for he was the one who’d made her his thrall and stood
against Grimar and Gunvald publicly over her.

He clenched his fists
as several more villagers fingered Laurel’s long, dark hair when she turned her
back on them to serve others. Some were even bold enough to feel the material
of her dress and shake their heads, either in disapproval or confusion at its
fineness.

He’d had enough. And
she certainly had as well.

“I am wearied from our
journey,” Eirik said brusquely to Gunvald as he stood. “Please excuse me for
the rest of the evening.”

Gunvald eyed him for a
moment, but then gave a little nod of permission. Not bothering to take the
stairs down from the dais, Eirik simply leapt the several feet to the floor and
made his way toward Laurel, who had resumed her seat between Alaric and
Madrena.

“…can’t fight, can’t
swim, can’t speak our language, and doesn’t even—” Madrena jerked away from
Alaric and clamped her mouth shut when she realized Eirik was practically on
top of them.

The combination of the
unspent anger at Laurel’s treatment and the ale made Eirik feel ready to
throttle Madrena. “If you have something to say, Madrena, say it to my face,”
he bit out.