Viking Passion (27 page)

He, too, had bathed. His dark gold hair was
still damp, but it was carefully combed, as was his beard. He was
robed in a long, gold, velvet caftan, trimmed at neck and sleeves
with gold embroidery. When he moved toward her the fabric swished
softly against the carpets. His yellow-amber eyes glowed as he
looked at her.

“I was right. You are beautiful,” he
said.

Lenora backed away from him.

“Will you eat?” He gestured toward the gold
tray.

“I’m not hungry.”

“Some wine, then.”

He picked up a long-necked gold pitcher
encrusted with jewels and poured purple-red wine into a delicate
glass goblet. He handed it to her.

“You are afraid of me,” he said. “You needn’t
be. You will enjoy this night. I will give you as much pleasure as
you will give me.” He sat down on the bed platform, lounging
against the glowing silken pillows.

“Sit here,” he invited.

“I’ll stand.”

“As you wish. You will lie down soon enough.”
Looking amused, he leaned forward and lifted the cover from one of
the dishes on the gold tray. A mouthwatering odor of chicken mixed
with cinnamon and herbs assailed Lenora’s senses. Attair selected a
piece and chewed it thoughtfully. “This is very good. Are you sure
you don’t want to try some?”

“I want to go back to my friends.”

“Impossible. What is that you are
holding?”

Lenora held out the two leather bags.

“This is all I own,” she said. “I’ll give it
to you if you will let me go.”

Attair took the bags and opened one. He shook
it over the bed, and silver coins scattered across the soft pile of
the carpets.

“This is not enough here to buy your
freedom.”

Lenora watched his fingers tugging at the
thong that fastened the second purse. Amber flowed out of it,
filling Attair’s open hand, glowing in the gentle light of the oil
lamps; soft, rounded lumps of yellow-gold and brown-gold, blending
with his tanned skin and golden hair and eyes.

“Ah.” He expelled his breath in delight.
“Lovely sea gold.”

He selected a piece and held it up,
contemplating a tiny insect trapped forever within the translucent
globule.

“The Greeks believe sunlight shining on the
waves of the northern ocean solidifies, making amber,” he said.
“They treasure it. They believe it has magical properties,”

“Then you can sell these pieces to them.
Surely they are enough to buy my freedom.”

“I don’t want to free you.” Attair scooped
the pieces of amber back into the bag and tossed it aside. He rose
and approached her. “This amber, and the silver coins, are mine. I
bought them when I bought you, though Torgard did not know you had
them.”

“They are mine,” she declared, nearly in
tears.

“Not any more.” His large hands rested on her
shoulders. “You are not going to drink?”

“No.” Pulling away from him, she set the
goblet of wine down on the little table. She knew she could not
escape this man. It was useless to think of Erik. He could not help
her now.

Attair followed her. He wrapped his arms
about her, pulling her back against his chest, her head on his
broad shoulder.

“Don’t you like me?” he whispered. His moist,
full lips nibbled at her earlobe, then inched slowly down to the
hollow of her throat. She felt his strong, masculine body pressed
firmly against her back.

“How can I like you? I don’t know you,” she
said.

His left hand holding her at the waist,
Attair’s right hand began wandering over her, sliding under the
loose folds of her green robe to enclose one breast in his huge
grasp.

“You will know me well enough before tonight
is over,” he murmured. His hand moved lower, creeping slowly down
her body.

“Are you a Dane?” she chattered nervously.
“Did you come down the river from the northern sea?”

“I have no country. My father was a Norseman
from Birka, my mother a Petcheneg woman he captured on a journey
home from Baghdad. The Greeks call us Rus, so that is what I am, a
Rus trader.” He lowered his voice, modulating it seductively. “I am
a rich man, Lenora. If you please me, I will cover you with jewels
and silks, and furs in the winter.”

Both of his hands now worked at the golden
sash that held her gown closed. She put her small hands on top of
his and tried to stop him.

“I want to know more about you,” she said,
hoping to delay the inevitable.

“You know all you need to know for now. Be
silent, Lenora. I do not like women who talk. Do not speak again
until I have finished with you.”

Brushing her restraining hands aside, he and
went on with his explorations. He finally succeeded in pulling off
her sash. It slithered to the floor as the edges of her robe
slipped apart. Reaching beneath the soft silk he ran his
golden-haired hands across her abdomen and down between her thighs,
rubbing gently against her. She stiffened. Only Erik had ever
touched her in that way. Erik. She forced back a sob and closed her
eyes. She could not stop thinking about Erik, and how much she
wanted him. But Erik did not want her. She kept her eyes tightly
closed and bit her lower lip to stifle a cry as Attair’s determined
touch moved upward on her thighs. He held her immobilized, his
hands never stopping their motions.

Lenora did not want Attair, she wanted to
leave this luxurious prison, she wanted Erik.
Erik
! And yet,
as Attair continued to stroke and rub and press, and his breathing
in her ear quickened with his rising passion, Lenora was flooded
with an insistent, pulsing need that throbbed in rhythm with the
slow, sensuous pressure of his hands. She began to moan softly and
move herself against him. She felt a shock when she opened her eyes
and saw not Erik, but Attair. She whimpered in disappointment, then
choked back the sound.

Attair was being remarkably gentle for a man
who claimed to own her, which gave him the right to take her with
violence if he so desired. But behind every caress of his expert
hands, every sensation of purely physical pleasure those hands
imparted to her body, lay the threat of violence. She could not
forget the women who had bathed her, whose tongues had been removed
at Attair’s command. She believed that if she wanted to survive
this night, she would have to submit to her new owner.

Her
owner
. Attair was right; however
much she might protest, she was a slave once again, subject to the
desires of the man who had bought her. She hated him and hated
herself even more for the desire he was creating between them. No
man but Erik should ever make her feel this way. She should not be
responding to Attair.

He did not notice her distress. He was
concerned only with her body, with preparing her to receive him for
his own pleasure. He pushed the silk robe off her shoulders and
then, in a smooth, purposeful motion, divested himself of his only
garment. His body gleamed gold in the lamplight, covered with soft
golden hair, hard-muscled and totally, powerfully male. When he
looked at her his amber-gold eyes flamed with a fire that
threatened to burst out of control as he drew her to him and his
arms surrounded her and his mouth fixed itself upon hers and would
not let her go. She was imprisoned in his golden embrace, like an
insect caught in molten amber, trembling with fear and unable to
free herself.

She was not aware of walking or of being
carried, but by some mysterious means he brought her to his bed and
laid her there. The oil lamps above her swung on their golden
chains and the scented air filled her lungs. She knew in another
moment Attair would possess her completely, and then she would
belong to Erik no more. Two large tears welled out of her eyes and
ran across her cheeks to moisten the pillows on either side of her
head.

Attair separated her legs and knelt between
her thighs, poised to plunge into her. She saw his tongue come out
and moisten his full lips. She closed her eyes, unable to look at
him any longer.

He heard the hammering on the door before she
did. She felt him moving away from her, heard him swearing a
hideous oath. Lenora’s eyes flew open. Attair was off the bed
platform, wrapping the gold velvet caftan about his waist. She
watched him tear back the silk panels over the entrance with a
violent gesture. He wrenched open the door and shouted into the
darkness. There was an answering cry, a question, and another oath
from Attair. He came back into the room, pulling the caftan over
his shoulders as he walked. Lenora, seeing his angry face, quaked
with fear. This did not look like the same man who just a little
while ago had been caressing her tenderly and murmuring words of
desire.

“Our pleasure will have to wait,” Attair
said. “The Khazars have attacked one of my baggage trains coming
overland from the Volga River. I am needed there. I may be gone for
a day or two. The women will attend to you until I return. When I
do, we will finish what we started tonight.” A large hand reached
out and clasped one of Lenora’s breasts in a firm grip. “Do not try
to escape, my beauty. Do not even dream of it. I leave my compound
well guarded, and I have an unbreakable agreement with my men. They
never touch my female slaves, except the foolish few who try to
escape. Those women, my men are free to use as they wish. So be
wise, Lenora. Remain here, and wait for me.” Attair removed his
hand from her breast and walked out of the room.

Lenora fell onto the cushions, weeping in
shame and relief. She had not wanted Attair, but her body, starved
for so long for Erik’s lovemaking, had responded to him against her
will, had demanded release from weeks of anger and frustration. She
cried harder. She had a reprieve, but Attair would return, and when
he did he would make her his. Once Attair had lain with her, she
was certain Erik, even if by some wild chance he found and rescued
her, would never take her to his bed again. Lenora cried herself to
sleep in hopeless anguish.

She wakened, still alone, uncertain what part
of the day it was. There were no windows in this chamber; the only
light came from the ornate oil lamps. The two silent, nameless
serving women arrived with fresh food. Lenora was famished. She
downed chunks of lamb cooked with rice, nibbled pastries filled
with honey and almonds, and drank the heavy red wine the women
poured for her. Then they took her to the bathhouse, where the
routine of the day before was repeated. She was bathed and scented
and painted and dressed, this time in a deep blue caftan trimmed in
silver. The women escorted her back to Attair’s room, which had
been tidied in her absence.

Lenora waited. And waited. She was bored, and
she feared Attair’s return. The serving women brought more food.
Lenora ate again of unknown dishes redolent with spices and drank
cooling fruit juices, then fell into a deep slumber. She woke up to
a day that was a repetition of the one before. A third day
followed, equally boring, until, returning from the bathhouse in
late afternoon, she found Attair waiting for her at the door of his
private room.

He looked down at her taking in her flowing
rose-colored silk gown and her freshly washed hair. He fingered a
long, slender knife stuck into his belt, caressing it with
voluptuous pleasure. Lenora sensed a barely restrained anger in
him.

“I don’t like that color,” Attair said,
glancing at her dress again.

“I’ll change it,” she offered.

“Never mind. You won’t be wearing it
long.”

Fear stabbed through Lenora. She knew he was
going to take her in a very few minutes. Something in the way he
looked at her told her that this time he would not be stopped by
anything and, further, he would not be as gentle as he had been
before. She wished he would leave his knife alone.

“Did you catch the Khazars and get your goods
back?” she asked, hoping to distract him from the blade.

“No, I did not. An entire caravan loaded with
silks and silver, lost to me. If I had found just one Khazar, I
would feel better.” His fingers stroked the knife again.

“I’m sorry.” Perhaps sympathy would soothe
his temper. She did not want to be the outlet for his rage over his
failure. “Did you really lose so very much? Surely, if you are a
rich man, as you said—”

“Torgard is bringing me another woman
tomorrow,” he interrupted her. “After tonight, you will work in the
kitchen.”

“Have I displeased you in some way?” She did
not know whether to be relieved or more frightened. Attair smiled
at her, and fear won. When he spoke, she remembered the silent
serving women.

“You talk too much, Lenora. You ask too many
questions. I have something special planned for you tonight, to
silence your clattering tongue, and then in the morning, you leave
my chamber.”

As his hand continued to fondle his knife,
Attair‘s eyes shifted toward the door to the courtyard, where there
seemed to be some kind of excited exchange taking place. He stepped
to the door.

“What’s going on out there?” he called.

“I wish to speak to Attair the trader.”

At the sound of that familiar masculine
voice, Lenora’s heart nearly stopped.

“Who are you?” Attair called.

“I am Erik, called the Far-traveler. I need
to discuss with you a matter concerning your reputation.”

“There is nothing wrong with my reputation.”
Attair laughed.

“But there is. You have been tricked by that
weasel, Torgard. Now he is telling the story to everyone he meets,
and laughing at you.”

“You had better come in.”

Attair stepped aside and Erik entered the
house, looking calm and faintly amused.

“You, go away.” Attair jerked his head at
Lenora.

“Let her stay,” Erik said. “It’s about her
that I’ve come. Shall we go in here? You don’t want your servants
to hear this.”