Once his brother
was jarl, he would no longer have the freedom to go aviking every sunseason. He would be busy at home, negotiating alliances
and settling disputes.
“ ‘Tis not that I envy you your lot,
brother,” Dag added quickly. “I merely point out the differences
between your life and mine. A wife would only be a burden to
me.”
Sigurd nodded. “I have fared better than
most. Mina is efficient in all things and demanding in few. But it
would please me to see my younger brother wed.”
“We stray from our topic of what to do with
the Irishwoman,” said Dag. “In truth, I worry about the grief she
would cause me if I keep her. When the ale flows and the warriors’
blood runs hot, every man in the longhouse will want her, and I
don’t need the trouble of being her defender.”
“Then heed my advice and dump her over the
side of the boat,” Sigurd growled. “She’s only a woman.”
They were back to where they had begun. Dag
tried to think of another plan to protect the woman, yet banish her
from his sight. He couldn’t sell her, yet being responsible for the
untrustworthy bitch made him distinctly uneasy.
Sitting down on his sea chest, Dag let
Sigurd take the tiller. His arm ached, and he felt tense and
restless. Despite using his hand to relieve his lust only a short
time ago, his shaft was hard and ready once more. Damn the alluring
witch! He had only to close his eyes against the sea glare and see
the image of her naked body—the supple curves, the contrast between
her creamy skin and ebony hair.
Dag glanced toward the prow and cursed
again. The woman had left the tent. She was dressed and her hair
demurely braided, but that hardly diminished her allure. The snug
gown only reminded him of the lush curves beneath, and nothing
could reduce the impact of her exotic face. Such pale, wild-looking
green eyes, dark brows, and crimson-tinted lips—she was like a
siren, luring a man to an unbearably pleasurable doom.
He watched her glance around warily, as if
she might flee back to the safety of the tent. He prayed she
would.
“Ho, lass!” Sigurd’s voice boomed over the
deck. Dag’s body went rigid as out of the corner of his eye he saw
his brother beckon to the Irish wench. Thor’s fury! What did Sigurd
mean to do?
Fiona stiffened as Sigurd motioned to her.
She had found some water to wash her face and arms and Duvessa’s
kirtle covered her decently; but despite being better prepared to
face him, she didn’t want to be anywhere near the man called Dag. A
quick glance told her he was seated close to where his brother
steered the ship.
“Come,” Sigurd called insistently. “My
brother has need of you.”
Aware that she had no choice, Fiona stepped
gingerly among the clutter of sea chests, booty, and men. She kept
her own gaze fixed on the swaying deck. Not all of it was to keep
her balance. She also feared to meet the lustful looks that
followed her.
She reached the stern of the ship. Avoiding
the fair Viking’s gaze, she met Sigurd’s. He reached out and
grasped her by her shoulder, thrusting her toward the other man.
“Make yourself useful and look to my brother’s arm, wench. See that
it heals so he can use it as before.”
Dag didn’t look up as Fiona reached for his
injured arm. Pretending a calmness she didn’t feel, she unwrapped
the bandage and examined the wound. The stitches were still intact,
despite the Viking’s rough treatment. The angry redness around the
sword cut had faded, and there was no other sign of infection.
Fiona couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction. Without her
aid, this man would have died. Her skill and patience had not only
saved his life but preserved the use of his sword arm.
She raised her eyes to the dark Viking.
“Tell your brother that his injury heals well,” she said. “In a few
days, I will remove the stitches.”
Sigurd grunted in apparent satisfaction, and
Fiona refastened the bandage, then released the Viking’s arm.
was jarl, he would no longer have the freedom to go aviking every sunseason. He would be busy at home, negotiating alliances
and settling disputes.
“ ‘Tis not that I envy you your lot,
brother,” Dag added quickly. “I merely point out the differences
between your life and mine. A wife would only be a burden to
me.”
Sigurd nodded. “I have fared better than
most. Mina is efficient in all things and demanding in few. But it
would please me to see my younger brother wed.”
“We stray from our topic of what to do with
the Irishwoman,” said Dag. “In truth, I worry about the grief she
would cause me if I keep her. When the ale flows and the warriors’
blood runs hot, every man in the longhouse will want her, and I
don’t need the trouble of being her defender.”
“Then heed my advice and dump her over the
side of the boat,” Sigurd growled. “She’s only a woman.”
They were back to where they had begun. Dag
tried to think of another plan to protect the woman, yet banish her
from his sight. He couldn’t sell her, yet being responsible for the
untrustworthy bitch made him distinctly uneasy.
Sitting down on his sea chest, Dag let
Sigurd take the tiller. His arm ached, and he felt tense and
restless. Despite using his hand to relieve his lust only a short
time ago, his shaft was hard and ready once more. Damn the alluring
witch! He had only to close his eyes against the sea glare and see
the image of her naked body—the supple curves, the contrast between
her creamy skin and ebony hair.
Dag glanced toward the prow and cursed
again. The woman had left the tent. She was dressed and her hair
demurely braided, but that hardly diminished her allure. The snug
gown only reminded him of the lush curves beneath, and nothing
could reduce the impact of her exotic face. Such pale, wild-looking
green eyes, dark brows, and crimson-tinted lips—she was like a
siren, luring a man to an unbearably pleasurable doom.
He watched her glance around warily, as if
she might flee back to the safety of the tent. He prayed she
would.
“Ho, lass!” Sigurd’s voice boomed over the
deck. Dag’s body went rigid as out of the corner of his eye he saw
his brother beckon to the Irish wench. Thor’s fury! What did Sigurd
mean to do?
Fiona stiffened as Sigurd motioned to her.
She had found some water to wash her face and arms and Duvessa’s
kirtle covered her decently; but despite being better prepared to
face him, she didn’t want to be anywhere near the man called Dag. A
quick glance told her he was seated close to where his brother
steered the ship.
“Come,” Sigurd called insistently. “My
brother has need of you.”
Aware that she had no choice, Fiona stepped
gingerly among the clutter of sea chests, booty, and men. She kept
her own gaze fixed on the swaying deck. Not all of it was to keep
her balance. She also feared to meet the lustful looks that
followed her.
She reached the stern of the ship. Avoiding
the fair Viking’s gaze, she met Sigurd’s. He reached out and
grasped her by her shoulder, thrusting her toward the other man.
“Make yourself useful and look to my brother’s arm, wench. See that
it heals so he can use it as before.”
Dag didn’t look up as Fiona reached for his
injured arm. Pretending a calmness she didn’t feel, she unwrapped
the bandage and examined the wound. The stitches were still intact,
despite the Viking’s rough treatment. The angry redness around the
sword cut had faded, and there was no other sign of infection.
Fiona couldn’t help feeling a sense of satisfaction. Without her
aid, this man would have died. Her skill and patience had not only
saved his life but preserved the use of his sword arm.
She raised her eyes to the dark Viking.
“Tell your brother that his injury heals well,” she said. “In a few
days, I will remove the stitches.”
Sigurd grunted in apparent satisfaction, and
Fiona refastened the bandage, then released the Viking’s arm.
Similar Books
