She forced the hot, moist air in and out of her lungs, her head lolling. Shadows gathered at the edge of her vision. A slow spiral pulled her into the irresistible tug of blackness. She winked out like a candle flame pinched off between two fingers.
When her head slammed into the wooden bench with a thud, she didn’t feel a thing.
* * *
Rika came to herself with a start, disoriented and gasping at the water. She was up to her chin in one of the cooling barrels, the excess liquid surging over the sides and splattering onto the stone floor. Bjorn stood over her, a deep furrow between his dark brows.
“You’re awake.” His eyes blazed. “Good. When you threatened to drown yourself to avoid my bed I thought you were just bluffing. If you really are trying to kill yourself, you've made a pretty good stab at it. Another stunt like this and I may even decide to help you with it myself.”
Rika’s eyes started to roll back in her head, but Bjorn grabbed the nape of her neck and splashed water on her cheeks. “No, you don’t. You’re not getting away that easily.”
Her eyelids fluttered and then she focused on his face.
“Have you any idea what the jarl would’ve done to you if he’d been the one to catch you spying on him like that?”
“I wasn’t—” Rika gulped at the fresh air.
“You have no business being in there. What you heard wasn’t intended for just anyone’s ears.”
“I’m not just anyone. I’m no one.” She swallowed the hard knot in her throat. “You’ve made me a thrall. I know no one here. Who could I tell?”
“That’s what I'd like to know.” He leaned toward her, hands on the edge of the barrel.
“I wasn’t spying.” Her voice caught. “I just wanted to get clean.”
His gaze swept over her and she remembered with a jolt that she was nak*d.
She hugged her forearms across her chest and tucked her knees up to shield herself from him. Her chin quivered. She’d lost her father, her freedom, and now the last trace of her dignity. A tear trembled at the base of her lashes and then slid down her face.
Bjorn cupped her cheek with his rough hand, smoothing away the tear with his thumb. Rika was too numb to pull back from him. His touch was almost gentle. Then he turned away from her and strode across the room for a towel.
Rika decided that if he could look on her nak*dness, she could stare at him as well as he scrubbed himself unselfconsciously with the cloth. His chest was dusted with dark hair. Years of living on the sea had bronzed his exposed flesh and sculpted his muscles into hard masses. A livid scar snaked across his ribs on the right side. Even with that flaw, Rika conceded that Bjorn was well-made.
When he propped a long foot up on a bench to run the towel down his heavily muscled thigh and calf, his sex dangled between his legs. She’d seen statues of Frey, god of increase, with his outsized phallus proudly erect. The quiescent Bjorn didn’t look so dangerous.
He pulled another towel from the stack of fresh ones and strode back across to her barrel.
“Get out.” He held out the cloth for her. “You’re looking a little . . . cold.”
Rika followed his gaze to her bobbing br**sts. Her n**ples had puckered into hard pink pebbles. She stood and snatched the towel, wrapping it around herself. Just before she climbed out of the barrel, she noticed a startling change in Bjorn’s male member. It swelled and rose, as though possessed of a life of its own. He looked as though he might indeed have modeled for the statues of Frey, potent and virile.
Definitely dangerous. She slid her widening eyes away from him before he caught her staring.
Too late. To her surprise, he laughed.
“Don’t worry. I still don’t intend to force you.” Bjorn closed the distance between them. He leaned toward her with a long arm braced on either side of her, pinning her against the wall. “Even though losing the dirt is a real improvement, my little mud-hen.”
“Stop calling me that. I’m not a mud-hen,” Rika said. “And certainly not yours.”
“What shall I call you then? She-wolf?”
“I have a name.”
“And you’ve yet to tell it to me,” Bjorn said. “Though I gave you mine at our first meeting. Who are you?”
She straightened and mustered all the dignity she could when wearing only a towel. “I am Rika Magnusdottir.”
“Rika.” He caressed her name as he ran a hand over her close-cropped hair. “Who did this to you, my Rika?”
She cringed under his touch, a small swelling lump leaving her head tender. “Who do you think?”
“Astryd, of course.” Bjorn leaned closer and inhaled her freshly washed scent. “I’m sorry she cut your hair. I didn’t think about that when I let her take you. It was a thing of rare beauty. But ‘twill grow back.”
“If I’d known my hair pleased you, I’d have hacked it off myself. It’s good for a thrall not to possess any beauty.” She forced herself to meet his eyes. “If it keeps her from the unwanted attention of her master.”
“I didn’t say you weren’t beautiful.” Bjorn frowned. “You twist my meaning.”
“And you ignore mine.”
“I let you work for Astryd today for a purpose.” Bjorn traced one of his fingers along her jaw line. “I figured that if you had to choose either serving that dragon or serving me, I’d win the contest.”
He caught up one of her hands and uncurled it. Bjorn shook his head at the rough, reddened skin. A blister festered at the base of each finger. He pressed a soft kiss into her palm. “You were not made for hard labor, little one.”
“Better hard labor than your bed-slave.”
“And how would you know enough to make that choice?” Bjorn clasped her palm to his bare chest, covering it with his warm, dry hand. His face hovered near hers. “You’ll find my bed is full of delights you haven’t imagined. You see, my pleasure is only complete in giving an equal measure to my bedmate. And that means you have to be willing.” His eyes widened, urging her to tumble into their black depths. “You don’t know enough to choose between me and hard labor. Why, I haven’t even kissed you yet.”
Rika felt his heart pounding beneath her palm. Her breathing went shallow as she pressed herself against the rough planks of the wall. She backed away as far as she could, but he advanced steadily toward her. His breath was warm and moist on her lips.
She couldn’t let it happen. Rika turned her head away and squeezed her eyes shut. If the beast was going to kiss her, he’d have to force her. But closing her eyes didn’t make him vanish.
She heard his uneven breathing. Smelled the clean scent of his male flesh. Felt the tickle of his hair against her bare shoulder. The solid thump of his heart under her palm sent a message up her arm and her own matched his quickening rhythm. A strange stirring ruffled through her belly, clenching her gut, and sending alarming signals to her skin. A shiver rippled down her body, but she didn’t feel cold. She felt warm.
All over.
Rika sneaked a peek at him. Bjorn was just looking at her, intent and sure of himself. One corner of his mouth ticked upward. He reminded her of a great tom cat waiting at a crack in the wattle-and-daub, body tensed and ready to pounce. The only trouble with that picture was that it made her the mouse. No, she’d have none of that.
“What are you trying to prove?” She opened her eyes wide and shoved against his chest. “That you’re bigger than me? Stronger? That you can take me whenever you like whether I will it or no?”
Bjorn stepped back half a pace, stunned by her outburst.
“We both know all those things are true.” Rika hurled the words at him. “For all your fair speech about pleasuring, we both know that while I wear this collar, you hold all the power. But there is one thing you don't control. My hatred of you. I despise you, Bjorn the Black. And if you take me unwilling, I’ll hate you all the more with every rutting thrust.”
For a long moment, Bjorn did nothing. Then he cupped her face with both hands and planted his lips on her forehead. A dismissive kiss, like one bestowed on an errant child. He turned away from her and stalked over to his pile of clean clothes.
“Get dressed, Rika.” His voice was flat. “You’ve naught to fear from me. I’ll not bed you till you beg me.”
The tightening in her gut loosened. She breathed a sigh, but she didn’t feel relieved. Her insides still writhed like a ball of snakes, first surging in defiance, then wilting in confused disappointment. But she squared her shoulders and glared at him. “In that case, I’ll die a maiden.”
His dark gaze slid over her, a slow, deliberate search. “That would be a terrible waste.”
Chapter 4
When Bjorn and Rika entered the great hall, the meal fires had smoldered to glowing embers, producing just enough heat to keep the soapstone kettles warm. Torches burned at intervals on the walls, making the long room even brighter than during the day. Scores of burly fighting men swilled mead and gnawed on dripping haunches. Loud conversations buzzed all around Rika, men swapping insults and bawdy songs. A fistfight erupted in one corner.
Rika passed Ketil, who was seated next to Surt. Her brother had a bowl set before him, filled with a thick porridge of cracked grains and seasoned with a big dollop of butter. At least the thralls of Sognefjord ate well. Ketil smiled, lifting a hand to wave at her. She started to join her brother, but Bjorn caught her arm.
“Your work is not yet done, Rika,” he said. “You’re to fill my trencher and don’t stint on the portions. I’m a man of great appetite.” His tone left no doubt that his appetite included more than food.
She gave him a mock curtsey. “As you wish, master.” The word dripped venom as it slid through her lips.
One corner of his mouth twitched, but he seemed willing to let her insolence pass unremarked.
She retrieved a wooden trencher and bowl, then made the rounds of the cooking fires. By gathering the choicest offerings she’d give him no cause to rail at her publicly. She filled his bowl with nettle soup, her own mouth watering at the thought of fresh greens after the long winter. Then she selected half a fat chicken cooked in beer, a meat pasty, two gulls’ eggs, honey-glazed root vegetables, and rye bread that she slathered with elderberry preserves. The trencher groaned under the weight of the portions.
“Here now,” one of the fighting men said, stopping her with a hand on her hip. “You’re a pretty thing. Isn’t this the redhead we saw today at the ironmongers, Kormack?”
“Leave her alone, Canute,” his friend said. “She belongs to the jarl’s brother.”
“Then let her say so.” Canute’s mouth twisted under his heavy blond mustache. He ran his hand down the length of her thigh. “Do you belong to Bjorn the Black?”
“He seems to think so.” She directed her gaze toward the dais where Bjorn was seated beside Gunnar. “Why don’t you ask him?”
Canute swiveled his head around and met Bjorn’s scowl. The intense dark eyes sent a clear warning. It reminded Rika of the wild-eyed glare of a stallion to another male who’d come sniffing around his mare. Bjorn claimed her from across the room. Canute jerked his hand away, evidently deciding not to challenge the jarl’s brother.