Storm Maiden by Mary Gillgannon Page B

stand for it.” He laughed. “It will be
entertaining to see how long he persists in his stubbornness.”
    Grunting, Sigurd pushed his bulk into the
tent. Fiona crawled away from him as he settled into the pile of
furs she had just abandoned. Her heart racing, she made her way
toward the tent entrance, dragging the bedsack after her.
    The sea air was cool, and she shivered
violently as she left the tent. Above her, a veil of stars
glittered across the heavens, and the soft sound of snores greeted
her ears. She took a deep breath and began to edge past the
sleeping Vikings. Harsh anxiety filled her as she neared the stern
of the ship. Dag hated her; his brother had said as much. Yet, she
was to lie near him, for protection.
    She couldn’t see him, but it seemed she was
near the sea chest where Dag had sat earlier as she’d tended his
arm. Surely this was close enough to satisfy Sigurd.
    Shaking out the bedsack, she lay it down on
the hard ship bottom, then found the opening and crawled in. The
bedsack was made of otter furs stitched together; it smelled musty
and old. She rubbed her arms and squirmed around trying to generate
some heat so she could be comfortable.
    The strange sounds of the sea disquieted
her. The creak of the mast, the whipping noise of the sail, the
splash of waves against the keel of the boat—they all reminded her
of the foreign, threatening world she now dwelled in. Her life had
been spent in the timeless, soothing realm of Eire, a land of warm
mists, gentle hills, and water-smoothed stones whispering of the
past. All that was behind her now. The Viking world was filled with
the sting of the sea wind, the blinding glare of the waves, and the
sharp odor of stale fish and sweaty men.
    She thought with longing of the warm snug
bed she had shared with her foster sister. Burned. Destroyed. Her
father, little Dermot. Dead. Murdered. Duvessa, Siobhan—perhaps
alive, but lost to her forever.
    Fiona’s throat burned and tears seeped into
her eyes. She had not known until now how much she had to lose.
    Memories of her father swam before her
closed eyelids. She recalled his teasing her as a child, gently
tugging her dark braids and calling her little
darling— acushla. There had been a gentleness in Donall, a
tenderness most warriors lacked. Mayhap that was what Fiona’s
mother Aisling had seen in him, why she had left the world of trees
and spirits to wed a Christian warlord.
    Fiona had never appreciated her father; now
it was too late. Or was it? The priests said a man’s soul went to
heaven when he died. Was her father there now? Could he see her and
understand her troubles? If only he could tell her what to do. This
time she would listen. She would not be so stubborn and
willful.
    She choked back a sob. Her former life was
ended, gone as if it had never been. The concerns and troubles that
had once obsessed her seemed hopelessly petty now. To think she had
been consumed with loathing at the thought of marrying Sivney
Longbeard. She had not known then what true misery was. Although
Sivney might be disgusting and crude, he would never have denied
her physical comforts. He would have protected her, even pampered
her. Now she was to be reviled, treated as if she were no more
important than a dog.
    The harshness of her new life had only
begun. She knew the Northmen used slaves to do the hard labor on
their farmsteads. Would that be her fate—cursed to a life of
endless servitude in the fields? Or would she be used as a
bedslave, a vessel for the Vikings’ lust, then tossed aside when
she lost her looks or her body thickened with a Viking offspring?
Once she had dreaded the thought of lying beneath Sivney’s
repellent body; now she might be forced to endure the attentions of
many men.
    Fiona let loose a sob, her throat choking
with grief and despair. She had been a fool of the worst kind, a
spoiled, misguided child. She had failed her kin, her father. The
terrible pain of regret pierced her, and she could