Free Storm Maiden by Mary Gillgannon Page B

to
drown her pain in the depths of the gleaming blue waves. Then her
reason reasserted itself, that and a cold hard anger. If she died,
there would be no one to avenge her father’s death. No one to make
the Vikings pay for the destruction they had so casually
wrought.
    Fiona braced herself against the wicked sway
of the ship and made a vow. “Da,” she whispered, “I shall avenge
you. Somehow I will make up for what I have done.”
    Tears streamed down Fiona’s cheeks. She
brushed them away. She could not afford the luxury of self-pitying
sorrow; from now on, she must concentrate on survival.
    She glanced back at the Viking at the
rudder. His very existence infuriated her. She had cared for him
and saved his life, and he had repaid her by killing her kin and
burning her home, then taking her prisoner. For such treachery and
betrayal, he deserved to die a gruesome death.
    Fiona sighed. She could not kill him
herself, especially weakened as she was. Her head still ached. Her
limbs were stiff. Worst of all, she had a terrible need to relieve
herself. It was a petty problem, but on a ship full of lecherous
Vikings, real enough.
    Her eyes perused the craft, searching for
some sort of shelter. There was a leather tent near the bow of the
ship, although it was too small for even her to stand up in. Fiona
guessed that it must be the sleeping area of one of the Vikings or
it might be used to protect valuable goods from the weather.
    She gauged the distance to the tent,
wondering if she could make her way there without attracting the
notice of her captors. If there were a jar or vessel inside, she
might use it in private, then empty it over the side of the
ship.
    She took a step, but as the ship swayed, she
lost her balance and found herself smack on her bottom. She
grimaced at the sting of solid timber against her flesh, then tried
once more to rise. Bracing herself against the roll of the vessel,
she took several more wobbly steps. With her eyes focused on the
pitching ship bottom, she did not see the man step in front of her
until his bare, sweaty chest loomed inches away from her face. She
raised her eyes and stared into the leering countenance of an
unknown Viking.
    The man responded to her horrified gaze with
a harsh laugh then lunged for her. Fiona shrieked and stepped
backwards, losing her balance. As she was tossed to the ship’s
bottom once again, her captor grabbed at her clothes, tearing off
the cloak and very nearly yanking off her shift as well. Fiona
clutched the ruined garment to her body, closed her eyes, and
screamed again.
    She heard harsh, angry voices, then the
smack of a fist against bare skin. When she finally summoned the
courage to open her eyes, she saw two men standing over her—the
bronze-haired Viking and, next to him, the gigantic fiend who had
attacked her in her father’s fortress. She looked from one to the
other, speechless with mingled terror and relief.
    The huge man turned to his cohort and spoke
abruptly, then walked past Fiona. As his bulky form moved out of
the way, Fiona caught a glimpse of a third man, the one who had
grabbed her. He sprawled on the deck of the ship, rubbing the side
of his head and looking dazed. Fiona felt a grim satisfaction. She
knew exactly how the monster Viking’s blows felt, and she did not
sympathize with the man’s misery one whit.
    * * *
    Dag glowered at the woman lying at his feet.
“Take her,” Sigurd had ordered him. “Sink your shaft between the
little witch’s white thighs before the other men start snarling at
each other like hounds fighting over a bitch in heat. If you think
you owe her privacy, seek your pleasure in my tent. But make
certain she screams a little. Leave no doubt in any warrior’s mind
that I have given her to you and she is yours to do with is you
will.”
    Take her. Ja, Dag wanted to do
exactly that. He would make certain she knew who her master was,
inspire enough fear in her weak woman’s heart that she would not
dream of