Storm Maiden Read Online Free Page A

hand, she dribbled the water toward the man’s mouth. With the
other, she touched his throat. His skin felt searingly hot. She
stroked gently, trying to coax him to swallow. Abruptly, he
coughed. The vibration echoed down her fingertips. She drew her
hand away and concentrated on holding the waterskin.
    He drank deeply, pausing occasionally for
breath, his great chest shuddering. She was so close; every
movement he made seemed to transfer to her own body. He smelled
rank, sweaty, and sick. Still, it was fascinating to be so close to
this foreign man-beast, akin to petting a wolf or a panther or some
such savage but beautiful creature.
    The skin emptied. The man took the last
swallow and sighed, still seemingly insensible. Fiona took the
waterskin away, then retrieved the one full of drugged wine.
Siobhan had warned her that she must get the man to drink some of
it before she attempted to clean the wound in his arm. Otherwise,
he might thrash around and make it impossible to aid him.
    Cautiously, Fiona lifted the wine to the
man’s mouth. He moaned, but allowed her to force the spout between
his lips. The wine dribbled down his chin at first, then he
mastered the technique of gulping as she poured it into his
mouth.
    Fiona’s hands shook and her legs ached with
the effort of standing on tiptoe. She began to worry that he
imbibed too much of the drug. Weakened as he was, it would not take
much to induce a deep and dangerous stupor. She tried to take the
wineskin away, but as she lowered her arms, the man’s shackled left
arm jerked around to grasp her by the hair. Fiona gasped and
dropped the wineskin. She struggled, but the man held her tightly
pressed against him, his massive, fevered body like a banked fire
next to hers.
    “Swanhilde, Brunhilde—what art thou?” The
Viking’s deep, gutteral voice sounded thunderously in the
low-ceilinged chamber. His foreign words meant nothing to Fiona,
but the tone of his voice reminded her of an endearment. Was he
dreaming; did he think her his lover?
    Fiona fought to catch her breath. She should
let him ravish her here and now and be done with it.
    She relaxed in his embrace, letting her body
meld to his. He mumbled something intelligible, then his fingers
moved down to touch her breast. Fiona drew in her breath. No man
had ever touched her so intimately. Even through her wool kirtle
and linen shift, she felt the heat of his fingers, the deftness
with which he teased her nipple to throbbing hardness. Her body
went limp, tingling with wanting.
    He mumbled again, then released her so
abruptly she almost pitched to the ground. She caught herself as
the Viking sagged backwards. The drug had clearly taken effect.
    She felt frustrated, aching. She glanced at
the Viking, half hanging on his shackled good arm, half braced
against the wall behind him. The pure, clean lines of his handsome
face and heavily-muscled neck sent a thrill through her. If she
could ever get him fit enough to manage it, she might actually
enjoy losing her maidenhead to this wild barbarian.
    Sighing, she turned back to her task,
kneeling down and searching her bag until she found the large iron
knife at the bottom. She raised it and again approached the
Viking.
    She had considered long and hard whether to
undo the enemy warrior’s shackles. If his arm were to heal
properly, it would have to be cleaned and stitched, and she could
not accomplish that if his arm remained shackled. On the other
hand, if she only desired the man healed enough to couple with her,
simply giving him water and easing his fever would suffice and
limiting his recovery might actually be wiser.
    Nay, she could not leave him as a cripple,
Fiona thought decisively. It would be a crime against the gods to
doom such a splendid warrior to live out his life with a useless
sword arm. Whether it was wise or no, she must do her best to heal
him.
    She carefully used the knife to pry open the
shackle around his wounded arm. Before the damaged limb could