Bound by the Viking, Part 2: Compelled Read online

  He breathed deeply, his beautiful chest expanding and contracting, and finally relaxed, releasing his grip on her.

  “You did well,” he said.

  She looked down at her hands, his naked body still in the corner of her vision, his strong thighs and what lay between them hard to ignore.

  He stood, towering over her, but she kept her eyes downcast.

  “I’ll send women in to dress and feed you, little one, but don’t think you’ll have it easy today. I’ll see you again soon, and we’ll see what else you can learn before the sun sets.”

  Aislin shivered against the fur brushing against her body, suddenly cold. She heard his heavy footsteps as he dressed, heard the scraping of metal buckles and the creaking of leather. Finally, the door slammed shut, and she heard his rough voice calling for attendants in his native tongue.

  She looked up, and noticed the dirk was gone, then lingered on the tattered remains of her garb from the night before. She covered her breasts then, feeling small, shame washing over her as she thought of what he’d forced her to become. A slave—nothing more than his whore.

  The sadness blended into something sharper, the anger that was always there, right beneath her thoughts, boiling, bubbling, churning inside of her like molten lead in a blacksmith’s forge. Because no matter what this man and his foul people did to her, no matter what they made her do, she held one truth closer than her very skin.

  She would make them pay.

  Aislin O’Byrne would have her revenge.

  ***

  “Burlufotr! Clumsy oaf of a girl!”

  Aislin’s cheek burned from the big woman’s slap, but she bit back the tears threatening to well up.

  Bersa, the blonde woman overseeing the cook fires, glared daggers at her, her square jaw set, her hands on her hips.

  “Fetch another pail as quickly as those skinny legs can carry you, or may Hel keep you!”

  Aislin picked up the pail she’d spilled, and scurried away, back toward the water barrels, before the woman could hit her again. The draped tunic they’d dressed her in was too long, and dragged in the snows, the wet cloth tripping her up as she worked. She swore as she marched back between the outbuildings, the wooden pail banging against her shin.

  She was no stranger to hard work, but she was used to the mild winters and easier garb of her people, and the barking tone of the women made it all the more wearisome. But she struggled on, not wanting to catch a rebuke from the chief himself. For now, she would do as they willed, be a good thrall, until an opportunity for escape presented itself.

  She would have to, if she wanted to survive.

  Who was to say Alrik wouldn’t slit her throat before their marriage day? After all, she was nothing more than property—the spoils of war. Certainly not a person of value… Although the look in the chief’s eyes when he studied her father’s sigil still stood out in her memory. Was she more precious to him than just a slave? Is that why he suddenly insisted on saving her maidenhead and taking her as his bride when he saw the silver pin?

  Still, she couldn’t risk her life on nothing more than a suspicion.

  She dipped into the water barrel, filling her pail once more, her mind barely on her task.

  If she was lucky, there would be another raiding party sent out before true winter came to these lands, back to her isle, or at least away from this place—these harsh mountains that promised nothing but suffering and death should she venture too far from the village.

  She would search for news of her sister and obey until the moment presented itself, keeping her ears and eyes open. And when the ships were ready to sail, she’d sneak aboard… somehow. She’d die trying if nothing else. It was her only hope. Her only way to escape these barbarians.

  And once she was out of their grasp, she’d sharpen a blade, and wait for them to show their faces again on the rolling hills and cliffs of her homeland. They would rue the day they ever set anchor on those shores. She’d make sure of it, if it was the last thing she did…

  She slopped near-freezing water down her dress and hissed through her teeth.

  The door to the storeroom slammed open behind her, and a hand clapped down on her shoulder.

  “You’re wanted, thrall. Put down that pail and get to the long hall. You’ll serve the chief tonight.”

  Aislin recognized the man before her, the hard planes of his face and light brown beard. He was one of Alrik’s men. She cast her eyes downward and nodded. His hand shifted to her arm, squeezing tight, and she dropped the pail. He led her roughly through the freezing wind between buildings toward the firelight glinting in the distance from men staggering to and from the great hall, horns of ale in their hands, singing and yelling, laughing and carousing.

  When she reached the chief’s seat at the head of the hall, she saw Alrik laughing next to a man with dark brown hair spilling down his shoulder, his tunic and sword different from that of the barbarians who surrounded her. The man leading her pushed her roughly, and she stumbled, banging her knee against the step of the dais and tumbling to all fours before them.

  She heard the chief’s dark laugh above her, then, and felt his eyes on her as easily as if he’d grabbed her with those rough hands of his. The other man chuckled as well, his laugh smooth and easy, like water rolling over ice. Aislin raised her eyes.

  Alrik appraised her, his chin resting on his fist, his blue eyes dancing. She flitted her gaze to the other man. His beard was just a dusting of stubble over his chin, his hair framing an angular face. Piercing green eyes watched her carefully. She shivered, feeling like she was a mouse cowering away from a bird of prey. He held out his hand, and she caught a glimpse of his ring, but she couldn’t make out the sigil, just that it bore a large, red stone.

  Whoever he was, this man was noble.

  She took his hand, lowering her eyes again, and let him pull her to her feet. Her eyes locked on the chief’s. Would another man touching her, even in this simple way, bring forth his rage? Would he hit her? Punish her right here, in front of all his men?

  But Alrik sat there, watching her carefully, his lips curving into a smirk as she steadied herself before them, her hand still held tightly inside the stranger’s grasp.

  “Thrall, this man will be sharing my hospitality for a few nights, and tonight. He’s an important man in his land, so you’ll show him the same… respect… you show me.”

  The way he said respect made her shiver. Would this new man hurt her, too? Who was he? What did he want with her? Would she just serve them food and ale, or was something else expected of her?

  She chewed her lip, then dipped into a curtsy, sinking low before them. The stranger chuckled again, the sound dangerous. Hungry. Aislin repressed a shiver.

  “Very nice indeed, Alrik. Your hall is truly like no other. Even in this bleak land, you still surround yourself with beautiful things.”

  He raised her hand up to his lips, exhaling softly. His breath tickling her made her wince, but when his lips met her skin, sensual and soft, she whimpered.

  “I think she likes you,” Alrik said.

  The stranger loosened his grip, and she snatched her hand away. The Viking chief’s face was unreadable, and still he watched, stroking his finger over his lower lip in a way that frightened her, and made her body heat all the same. How could someone so cruel be so maddeningly sexy at the same time?

  Aislin felt her cheeks heating, shame rolling over her like a fog.

  “Thrall, tonight, we wish to feast our eyes as well as our stomachs.”

  A few men behind him stopped laughing and bragging to listen. She could hear the clatter of ale horns and the scrape of knives over the wooden table.

  “Remove your garb, and bring us a flagon of mead.”

  “Re… remove my…?”

  Alrik lashed out before she could think, striking her cheek with a sharp crack. Tears welled up in her eyes, but she swiped at them with her fingertips, refusing to let them fall. He gripped her skirts, pulling her clo
se, dragging her to him until she was eye to eye with him, her slender body trapped between his powerful thighs.

  “You will obey me,” he hissed. “I am your master, and soon your husband as well. This is your chance to please me, before I show you just how hot my anger can burn.”

  His eyes flashed, his breath warm on her lips. Her jaw stiffened. She nodded, fighting to get away from that stare that held her pinned like an insect beneath the point of a dagger. It was no good to fight him now. She knew if she shamed him in front of this nobleman, in front of his warriors and their women, that he would beat her without hesitation; maybe even slay her where she stood. She knew it like she knew the sun would rise on the morrow.

  It was written in his eyes.

  “Now,” he said. “Do as I command.”

  His grasp released her, and she moved back, her heart thudding in her chest, fear coursing through her as she tried to steady her breath.

  Don’t let them see you weak, Aislin. Stiffen your spine, no matter what!

  Even if he stripped her of her honor, he’d never take her pride. That much she knew. The blood of her ancestors flowed through her, giving her strength, even now. Even as a slave.

  Her hands barely trembled as she loosed her shoulder pin and let her linens fall. Men hollered behind her now, whistling and yelling obscenities, some of them banging their fists on the table. She took a deep, shuddering breath and pulled her shift over her head, slowly, trying not to hesitate, but her body struggling against the will of her mind.

  She heard a sharp intake of breath before her as the shift covered her head, her breasts hitting the open air. She tossed it aside and brushed her hair away from her face, her curls falling over her shoulder. The stranger stared openly, his lips parted, his eyes locked on her bare skin, drinking in the sight of her nipples, now pebbling beneath the scrutiny.

  She wanted to freeze there, like a deer in the sight of a pack of wolves, trying to cover herself, but unable, but she knew she must move. Must get away from those gazes, and more importantly, obey her master if she wanted to make it to see the sunrise.

  She kicked off her leather slippers and hurried off to the side of the hall where the women tended the cook fires. Calloused, dirty hands reached for her, but one shout from the chief, and they withdrew, their owners cursing. Two women carving meat whispered together in their native tongue, and one shook her head, her eyes weary, before handing her mead and goblets.

  She pities me. Most loathe me, but not all. Some just pity me, like a kicked dog left out in the snow.

  Aislin didn’t know which was worse.

  Her bare feet slapped the cold floor, sending a chill through her body on the way back up the dais. Her cheeks burned now, but she kept her head high, avoiding the stares around her.

  The men, their beards dripping with blood and broth, weaving with drink on the benches, sickened her. No matter that many were tall and strapping, or bare chested in the heat from the fire, furs slung loosely around their broad shoulders. No matter their cool, wolfish eyes piercing her as she hurried, naked and afraid, past them. No matter that any one of them could take her if he wanted, right then and there, and there was nothing she could do to stop them.

  Only one man could.

  The man who kept her as his own. The man now looking at her, a twisted light in his eyes as he toyed with a dirk, tracing the blade with his thumb. The nobleman leaned in, whispering something as I approached, and both men grinned, looking at me like they wanted to gobble me up.

  I handed them goblets and poured, breathing deeply, so as not to spill a drop, although I felt as weak as a leaf, quivering on a branch.

  “To the joining of our power, Denholm,” Alrik said, lifting his horn. “You honor my hall and my people with your presence.”

  “It is I who am honored to be your guest, Alrik Son-of-Erik,” the man replied. “Together, we shall be as a scourge upon our enemies.”

  “Skoll!”

  The men drank deeply, and Aislin’s eyes flashed toward the ring on this Denholm’s hand. The workmanship wasn’t Celtic, but that of an English lord. She swallowed hard, but kept her face a neutral mask.

  Before the Vikings came, the English harried her clans’ lands. Her father’s people managed to keep them at bay by banding together with several other families, but last she heard, they were slaying priests on the lowlands, the messengers of her people, who brought the clans together.

  They were her enemies as much as these bastards who ripped her from her lands and left her former life a smoldering ember. They were blasphemers, thieves and murderers.

  They would pay for their insolence, their spilling of sacred blood. They would wither like the burned wick, scourged and brittle, their ashes blowing away on the winds, scattered like the O’Byrne clan from their ancestral home. They would feel her pain tenfold. A hundredfold.

  The old gods would deal with them. Every last one of them.

  They would die with her name on their lips.

  A vision of the mists rolling over the bogs filled her mind, and with it the flickering of candle flame. A beating rhythm filled her soul, and she breathed it in, breathed in the thought of the old power. The gift passed down to her as a woman of her clan.

  A shout brought her out of her thoughts with a start.

  “Thrall!”

  Her master eyed her, a cold look in his eyes, his smile gone.

  “Yes, master,” she said, and cast down her eyes.

  “Our guest wishes to eat,” he said.

  Denholm chuckled beside him, the sound making Aislin feel sick. She knew she’d have to serve him like this, shivering and helpless, her nipples peaked and rosy in the candlelight, letting his gaze crawl over her like a swamp fly.

  “What fare would you and your guest desire, my master?”

  She bowed, waiting for his command, hoping above hope that her obedience now would spare her worse humiliation. But in her heart of hearts, she feared it had only just begun. Alrik enjoyed watching her squirm.

  “I’m not hungry for food, little red,” the Englishman said, his voice a low rumble.

  His hand reached out, and before she could flinch, his long fingers stroked her belly, moving downward to the hot folds between her legs. She whimpered as his strong hand squeezed between her thighs. Her gaze flitted upward, tears stinging her eyes to meet the Viking chief’s.

  “You are to serve our guest, thrall,” he said. His voice held an odd note in it, a soft tone, almost kind. “He wants to eat, and you shall let him, understood?”

  The lord’s fingers parted her, and she gasped as he touched her deftly, his index finger sliding up and down her nethers, making her body heat. She closed her eyes and nodded to her captor, giving herself over to her fate, if only for tonight. If only to ensure she’d see the sun rise again on the morrow.

  For now, she was his to do with as he pleased, and there was nothing she could do but endure.

  The lord dipped a finger inside of her, and she moaned, her body tensing around him. A jolt of fire stabbed up through her belly, her traitorous flesh responding to him like a glove to a hand.

  Maybe she would do more than simply endure…

  Was that so wrong? So evil, after all?

  “Come,” Alrik whispered, and grasped her hand.

  Denholm stood, still touching, exploring, then pulled his hand away. She felt his absence, his touch still ghosting over her, a memory of forbidden pleasure, unwanted, but savored nonetheless. He sucked his fingers between sensual lips and groaned, tasting her essence.

  “Delicious,” he said, almost reverently. “I can’t wait to make a meal of you, girl.”

  Aislin sighed, her head reeling from what she just saw, from what he just did. This stranger loved the taste of her and wanted more… It was so vulgar, so base, and yet, the thought of it made wetness leak between her thighs, eager to please him, and her master as well.

  He bent down and lifted her up over his shoulder, and she screamed as the hall tur
ned upside down, curls falling into her face. The men behind them cheered and laughed, banging their fists on the long tables at the sight of her naked arse up in the air for all to see, being carried away like a sack of potatoes, or worse, a deer trussed by the hunter, ready to be devoured.

  A sharp hand cracked down on her backside, and she screamed again.

  “Hush now, little one,” her master’s voice rasped. “You’ll make our guest think you’re not eager to please him.”

  He hit her again, and she pressed her lips together, stifling a cry, even as her cheeks sang with pain at the blow.

  “Good girl,” he said, and Denholm laughed again, his hand cupping her aching cheeks as he carried her off the dais and to the back of the hall.

  Her head bobbed as the men swept her away, and soon she heard the creak of a heavy wooden door, and heard it slam again behind them. When strong hands gripped her and set her roughly on her feet, she saw she was once again in the chief’s room—her fire lit jail cell in the icy prison camp that made up her world.

  The lord pulled her close to him, and she stiffened, feeling his growing manhood press against her buttocks. His hands wandered over her, his palms running slowly over the peaks of her breasts, dragging maddeningly across her sensitive nipples. She leaned against him despite herself, and he pushed his hips forward, grinding into her.

  Alrik pulled his trunk away from the wall, then piled it with soft furs before the roaring fire, creating a low table. Then, before she could protest, Denholm picked her up by the waist and carried her to it. He flipped her over onto her back, and she landed with a whoosh of breath on the trunk, laid out before him. Her master grabbed her wrists, lifting them up over her head, and she looked at his face, looming over her, his blonde hair tickling her arms. He grinned, the light in his eyes unmistakable. He liked what he saw.

  Denholm’s rough hands on her thighs made her glance downward again, across her body, to see him kneeling between her legs on the other side of the trunk. His face had a ravenous look, his eyes fixed on her body as he pushed her legs wide, spreading her open beneath him. Air escaped Aislin’s lips like a prayer unuttered, watching helpless to stop him as the lord lowered his mouth to her.