Stolen By The Viking

One of the men inclined his head and departed, but they were forced to wait until he returned with Styr’s permission to enter. Only then did the guards allow them inside the settlement.

By now, the inhabitants had begun to stir. The guard led them towards one of the longhouses near the centre, and they passed by men carrying peat for the outdoor fires. An old woman stirred a pot, adding raw meat to the stew as she stared at them.

Weariness made his vision blur, but Alarr continued walking with Breanne’s ropes in one hand and Rurik at his side. Although he had never met the Norse leader, he hoped to learn if the man had any connections to King Feann or if he had any knowledge to share.

They followed the guard inside and passed by several tables as they approached the dais. Styr Hardrata rose from his chair and came to greet them. The leader was tall, with dark-blond hair and a light beard. His brown eyes held a welcome, but there was also a sense of caution, as if he would not hesitate to strike them down if they were a threat.

‘We bid you welcome, Alarr and Rurik, sons of King Sigurd.’ His gaze narrowed upon Breanne, and he exchanged a glance with his wife. ‘Who is your hostage?’

Alarr jerked the ropes forward. ‘She is a concubine I bought from Áth Cliath. I intend to ransom her to her foster father, King Feann of Killcobar.’

Styr’s wife appeared unsettled by their captive. Her long brown hair was braided and bound at the nape of her neck, and she wore a cap. Her violet eyes softened with sympathy. ‘Let me take her, Alarr. She is hurt. I will see to her needs and talk with her.’

The leader introduced her, saying, ‘This is my wife, Caragh. Will you allow her to tend your hostage?’

Alarr considered it a moment. ‘As long as she is not permitted to leave the settlement.’

Styr gave the orders to his men and nodded. ‘If she tries, they will bring her back again.’

‘Untie her,’ Caragh ordered. ‘She will come with me. You may speak with Styr a while, and I will make a place for all of you in one of our longhouses. I know you will be wanting to rest after your journey.’

Alarr could hardly suppress his yawn, and the young woman smiled. ‘Perhaps on the morrow, you can help our men with the harvest. We would welcome your assistance.’ There was no doubting that this was how she intended them to repay their debt, by offering labour in exchange.

Even so, Alarr was uneasy about letting Caragh take Breanne with her. He didn’t trust his slave not to flee, but neither could he insult his hosts by implying that they could not keep her hostage.

‘Bring her to me as soon as you can,’ he agreed. It was the only thing he could say without offending Styr’s wife. He could only hope that allowing Breanne some small measure of comfort would be the first step towards earning her trust.

‘You must be weary,’ the woman said. Breanne was startled to hear the Irish language flowing so easily from her. Her expression must have revealed her shock, for the woman introduced herself. ‘I am Caragh, formerly of the Ó Brannon tribe. My husband is Styr Hardrata.’

‘I am Breanne Ó Callahan.’

‘And your foster father is King Feann, is he not?’

She nodded, wondering if Caragh could help her. ‘He is. I am trying to get home again. I was taken captive and sold into slavery.’

‘These men are taking you home,’ Caragh said. ‘Did you not realise?’

No, she hadn’t. But then, the men had told her nothing at all—not even their names. ‘I cannot speak their language. They have said nothing to me.’

The young woman’s eyes turned sympathetic. ‘Well, I would not say that they are bringing you home out of kindness. More that they intend to ransom you.’

That sounded more realistic. But even so, Breanne could hardly believe what she was hearing. She had tried to escape, and the Lochlannach had bought her. ‘Why would they do this? They don’t even know me.’

‘They are mercenaries. And you’re wrong—they know exactly who you are.’

Now, it made more sense why the Lochlannach had taken her captive, if he had known that she was the foster daughter of a king. But how? She had never journeyed to Áth Cliath, nor had she seen this man before.

Perhaps they had overheard something in the marketplace. Someone else might have recognised her, or he might have heard a rumour. There was no way to truly know. But the realisation that they were bringing her home—even for a ransom—caused such a wave of gratitude, she could barely suppress her smile of relief.

‘Who are they?’ she questioned. ‘They have not even told me their names.’

‘The older man is Alarr and the younger is Rurik. Both are from the kingdom of Maerr.’

She had never heard of it, but then, she had never left her homeland or travelled anywhere outside of Éireann.

‘Would you care to bathe and change into a clean gown?’ Caragh offered.

‘I would be so grateful.’ Breanne had only the rough shift that the slavers had forced her to wear and the seal fur that the men had given her to keep warm.

‘I will take you to one of the longhouses. I fear we have only begun building our settlement, and there are many shelters that are still unfinished. We hope to have them completed before winter, but we need the help of every man.’ She offered a slight smile. ‘I had thought, for a time, that Styr and I might travel across the seas. But now we decided to stay here for the winter…’ She rested her hand upon her stomach, and Breanne understood her unspoken blessing of a child to come.

Caragh led her back towards a small partitioned room that contained a wooden trunk. She opened it and sorted through garments until she chose a green gown. ‘Here. This might fit you.’ She held it out, but Breanne was reluctant to take it.

‘It’s too fine,’ she argued. ‘I cannot accept something so beautiful.’

‘You may wear it until you are home again,’ Caragh said. ‘And then send it back to me.’ There was no other choice, so Breanne accepted the woollen gown. The stitching was delicate, and she had no doubt it would be warm and comfortable.

Caragh led her back outside towards a different longhouse that was partially finished. On the way, she caught the attention of a young man and gave him orders in the Norse language. Then she took the gown from Breanne. ‘I will send you a maidservant to tend your bath. I will give her the gown, and she can help you dress afterwards.’

Breanne thanked her, and Caragh brought her towards the far end of the longhouse. Another partition hid the wooden tub from public view. It was not large, but the idea of warmed water was a luxury that she welcomed.

While they waited for the servants to fill the tub with the hot water, she told Caragh of her foster father’s ringfort where she had grown up. A hollow feeling seized her inside. Had anyone searched for her? Or had they given up, believing she was dead or ruined? It hurt to imagine that Feann had turned his back on her and discarded her as a foster daughter. But it was a real possibility, one she had to accept. She was not of his bloodline. An ache settled within her heart at the thought of being forgotten and alone.

After the tub was filled with hot water, Caragh added scented oil to the bath. A young maidservant joined them, and Breanne allowed them to strip off her garments before she settled into the steaming tub.

The warm water consoled her, and she kept her knees drawn up, sinking down as low as she could to immerse herself. She leaned back, dipping her hair into the water, and the maid gave her soap for washing. She scrubbed away the dirt, wishing she could scrub away the memories of captivity so easily. Her wrists and ankles burned from the sores made by the manacles and the ropes. The maidservant brought a linen drying cloth, but before she could help her out of the tub, the Lochlannach returned.

She covered herself and glared at him. If he had come here intending to glimpse her naked body, it would not happen. ‘Get out,’ she ordered.

His blue eyes stared at her, but instead of leaving, he turned around. ‘If you want to return home, you must learn to obey.’

It was the first time she had heard him speak her language. The sound of his words had a foreign cast to them, and she suddenly realised that he had kept silent on purpose. She motioned for the drying cloth and the maid brought it to her. In a swift motion, Breanne shielded her body and wrapped the drying cloth around herself, before she stepped out of the tub.

‘I have no reason to obey,’ she countered. ‘And I am not afraid of you.’ It was a lie, but she spoke the words with mock confidence, hoping he would believe them. It unnerved her to realise that he had understood every word she had spoken.

‘What is your name?’ she demanded, wanting to hear it for herself.

‘Alarr Sigurdsson,’ he answered. ‘Of the kingdom of Maerr.’

‘I am Breanne Ó Callahan,’ she answered. ‘My foster father is King Feann MacPherson of Killcobar.’

‘I know who he is.’ He turned at that moment, and his gaze fixed upon her. ‘I recognised you the moment I saw you. And you are worth more than a slave.’

‘How could you possibly know me?’ she demanded. ‘I would have remembered you.’ Heat flared in her cheeks when she realised what she’d said. But it was too late to take back the words. Breanne tightened her grip upon the drying cloth, and in that heated moment, she grew aware of his interest. He studied her face, his gaze drifting downward to linger upon her body. There was no denying that he wanted her.

But worse was her own response. She was caught up in his blue eyes and the dark hair that framed a strong, lean face. There was a slight scar on his chin, but it did nothing to diminish his looks. The Lochlannach warrior was tall and imposing, his physical strength evident. Only the slight limp revealed any weakness.

‘What do you want from me? A ransom?’

He reached out and cupped the back of her neck. It was an act of possession, but instead of feeling furious, his sudden dominance made her flesh warm to the touch. His blue eyes stared into hers as if he desired her, and she was startled by the unbidden response. Though she tried to meet his gaze with resentment, her imagination conjured up the vision of his mouth descending upon hers in a kiss. This warrior would not be gentle…no, he would claim what he wanted from her. Heat roared through her, and she thought of his hands moving down to pull her hips against his.

That might be what he wanted from her, after all. She was well aware of how female slaves were used as concubines. The thought shamed her, but another part of her was intrigued by this man. She could not deny the forbidden attraction, and she had the strange sensation that his touch would not be unwelcome.

As if to make his point, Alarr stroked the nape of her neck before releasing her. ‘You will remain with me at all times, obeying everything I ask. If you do this, then I will remove your bindings.’

‘When?’ she demanded.

‘When you have earned my trust. Not before.’

His arrogance irritated her. Was he expecting her to become a slave in truth, subservient to every demand? Never. She could not pretend to be someone she was not. The instinct arose, to tell him that he would be waiting an eternity. Then again, if there was any truth to his words, she would be hurting her own chances of getting home.

‘You ask a great deal of me,’ Breanne said at last. ‘I do not know you, and I do not trust you at all.’ He was no better than a mercenary, and she had no doubt that there was a great deal he had not revealed. But then, what choice did she have? She needed an escort to bring her home.

‘I have not forced myself upon you,’ he pointed out. ‘This, I could have done many times. I could also have given you to my brother.’

She reddened at his words, for they were true. He had treated her with honour, though he had kept her bound. She would not have trusted him either, were their situations reversed.

‘I am grateful,’ she said honestly.

‘If you do not run away, we will take you home to your father. But if you defy me, you will face consequences.’

She stiffened at the overt threat. ‘If you beat me, he will know of it. And you will not be rewarded.’

‘I never said I would harm you.’ His voice had gone deep, almost seductive. She took a step back, fully aware of her nakedness beneath the drying cloth. Never had a man looked at her in this way, and she could hardly breathe. His hand moved to her face, drawing an invisible line down her jaw. Beneath the drying cloth, her breasts rose up, almost aching to be touched.

And suddenly, she realised that this man was dangerous in ways she’d never even imagined.

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