Free Storm Maiden by Mary Gillgannon Page A

shoulders
flexing as they rowed, the sun gleaming on their fair hair. Beyond
them, a ship’s prow rose high above the horizon. Fiona shrank back
into the corner where she lay among wooden chests and bulging
sacks. She was a helpless prisoner on one of the Vikings’
monster-headed ships!
    Cold terror filled her body, blotting out
the pain of her head. There was no escape. They had kept her alive
so they might ravish her repeatedly. The image of a dozen naked,
grinning Vikings coming toward her made Fiona’s limbs go rigid.
Better to jump off the side of the ship and sink into the sea. She
gained control of her trembling body and rose, determined to seek
out death by drowning before her nerve gave out.
    She had barely taken two shaky steps when
she heard a man’s voice behind her. She turned, responding to
something familiar in the guttural tones, and her gaze met cold,
gleaming blue eyes.
    Fiona’s heart twisted in her chest in
recognition. It was the Viking from the souterrain! He watched her,
his face as unfeeling and impassive as when he’d lain unconscious,
but his eyes blazing with intense emotion. Although she tried, she
could not read any sense into the turmoil of his gaze.
    She put a hand to her head, abruptly aware
of how shaky and sick she felt. Her vision dipped and swayed as
though the ship itself had tilted upside down. She sat down where
she stood, her legs useless. The blue-eyed Viking took a step
toward her, and a look of concern crossed his face. Then it was
gone, and he glared down at her. Fiona felt too sick to care. Her
head throbbed as if it were being pounded, and her stomach felt
none too steady.
    Rough hands pulled her up, and she felt a
skin being pressed to her lips. She drank greedily and her
disorientation eased. When she could see clearly, those
wintery-blue eyes again gazed into hers. The Viking’s left arm
cradled her shoulders, and she could feel the strength of his
muscles and the warmth of his body. The sensation evoked a pang of
memory. A few days ago, she had held this man’s head as he drank. A
few days ago, she had caressed his sleek shoulders and marveled at
the muscled heat of his chest.
    Tears filled Fiona’s eyes. Now everything
was changed. Because of this man, her father was dead, her kinsmen
and loved ones murdered. She had been a fool to succor him. Better
that she had let him die in his dank prison.
    The Viking seemed to guess her bitterness,
for he released her. She fell back limply onto the bottom of the
ship. The impact made Fiona’s head throb anew, and she closed her
eyes, seeking the comfort of oblivion.
    When she next awoke, her first sight was of
a bright, red- and-white-striped sail billowing out from the tall
mast of the ship. Fiona sat up and saw that the Vikings around her
no longer rowed. Most of them slept, curled up awkwardly between
the large, heavy chests that lined the deck; a few men remained
alert, busy adjusting the sail. Deciding that she was not in
immediate danger of ravishment, Fiona stood unsteadily. Someone had
thought to cover her with a cloak, and she picked it up and wrapped
it around herself, hiding her torn shift.
    Her gaze took in the long narrow ship
crowded with her enemies. Panic started to set in again; she fought
it. She had survived, so far relatively unscathed. It would be
senseless to throw her life away.
    She turned. Behind her, in the stern, stood
the bronze-haired Viking from the souterrain. He appeared to be
steering the ship by means of a rudder mounted at the rear of the
hull. He did not see Fiona but stared off toward the starboard
side. She followed his gaze and felt a sick ache in her belly. In
the distance, a blue-green shape floated on the horizon. Eire—her
homeland, her people. Would she ever see Duvessa again? And what of
her aunt? Had Siobhan—hidden away in her little hut in the
woods—survived the Viking attack?
    For a moment, grief struck Fiona another
blow and she had the urge to leap over the side of the ship