Chapter Thirteen
Lorna froze on the top step when a figure lurched out of the shadows at the end of the gallery.
A hard knot gathered in her throat as Ivar stepped forward.
His gaze glittered in the torch light. She considered turning around and scurrying downstairs, but that meant she risked meeting Logan again, and at present her heart could not bear it.
She glanced behind her and let out an unsteady breath.
Most were abed and even if they were not, none would interfere with this Viking taking whatever he wanted.
And he wanted her.
She already knew that, but dark lust simmered in his gaze now and it seemed he did not intend to wait to take her away from here before indulging that need.
Shoulders tight, she considered running again—Logan be damned—but her room was closer.
If she was quick, she might make it into her chamber and be able to shut the door on him.
They eyed one another and he licked his lips, a grin flickering on them.
He enjoyed this—the thrill of the chase.
Like prey toying with his food. The faint trudge of feet outside the keep and the occasional pop of wood punctuated her thickening breaths.
Around her, servants slept on, men continued to patrol the walls.
Life continued, oblivious to the peril she was in.
Hand curled tightly around the banister, she watched the Viking crook his neck and seem to shake loose his muscles, as if readying himself for battle.
He knew. He knew she intended to run. So why not make a move and take her now?
Lorna released the wood, finger by finger, and tensed. She snaked one hand down to grip her gown and sucked in a breath. Held it. Ignored the sweat prickling down her spine. Tried to suppress the sickening thud in her chest. Ivar’s grin widened.
Heart in her throat, she lunged, racing across the wooden floorboards to her chambers. So close. The door was mere paces away now and she did not even know where the Viking was.
Until his hand closed around hers as she gripped the door handle.
She went to let out a scream, an instinctive reaction but a meaty hand closed around her mouth.
The slick texture of it meant she almost managed to slip her face free, but he gripped tighter and she battled to draw in breaths.
His body came next, pinning her to the door.
Her breasts crushed against the wood while he eased his hips against her rear.
Her stomach bottomed out and bitter liquid rose in her throat.
He was aroused. Through her skirts and his thick jerkin, it was obvious how much he wanted her—how he enjoyed the game.
The shock of his attack dissipated and her head cleared.
Forcing her thoughts away from what he intended for her, quashing the images of bruised, naked skin and a hulking Viking on top of her, she freed a hand from where it was trapped between her body and the door and flailed for some kind of purchase.
Her fingers met rough fabric, and she gripped and tugged it. This apparently only drew amusement from him as he chuckled and grabbed the hand, drawing it up painfully behind her back.
“Do not move, my lady. I would not wish to break your arm,” he hissed in her eat. His warm breath made her shudder and the sting in her throat increased.
She protested against his hand, begged him to release her, but the words were muffled and useless.
Once again, she was at the mercy of a man.
And he would take little pity on her. Her sister by marriage had nearly been a victim of the Norse and Scotland had suffered their ambition for hundreds of years.
Would she be yet another victim of a Viking?
“I am going to release your mouth,” he told her, “so I can open this door. A noble lady like yourself at least deserves a bed, do you not think? Should you make a noise, I will break your arm.”
The cold way he said it left her in no doubt he was serious.
The urge to fight burned strong in her chest. She had to keep herself from trying to bite his hand or scream to the rafters as he lifted it away, but if she was to fight him off, she needed to be in a less vulnerable position.
A broken arm was the last thing she needed.
Lorna remained tense, aware of the throbbing pain in her shoulder while he slowly twisted the door handle.
Metal clunked and his breaths rasped in her ear.
Ivar kept himself pressed against her, and his lips teased the back of her neck.
A shudder ran through her, but this was no pleasurable shudder.
When Logan’s mouth touched her skin, her skin blazed and a beautiful unfurling sensation eased into every inch of her, but these lips made her grit her teeth as chills traversed her spine.
Her body shook more than she would have liked.
Courage, bravery. Those were the traits she relied on.
When her husband lashed her and broke her skin, she remained stoic.
When he died and left her alone, she refused to reveal any emotion.
And when her lover had been killed, even though inside she had withered and died, she remained strong.
So where was her strength now? Gone when Logan disappeared from her life perhaps and reappeared as another man.
The hinges groaned, and Ivar pushed open the door.
She tensed, ready to be pushed forward but the hold on her arm loosened.
She tripped when Ivar seemed to stumble against her.
Her palms slapped against the floor of the chamber and stung.
She swept loose strands of hair from her face and twisted to see Ivar being dragged back by Logan.
The two men vanished around the side and Lorna scrabbled to standing, her foot catching in her skirts and nearly making her trip again.
“Wretched gown.”
She righted herself and clasped her gown before spilling out of the door.
Logan had Ivar pinned against the wall. Lorna felt her eyes go wide, and her heart pressed against her ribcage. The large Viking struggled as Logan spat at him, “Ye dinnae touch her, ye understand?”
Ivar grunted and pushed Logan back, sending him back against the railing.
Lorna clapped a hand over her mouth to prevent a startled cry.
Both men were large, easily matched. But Logan had suffered an injury.
In any other circumstance, she would have staked her claim on the dark haired, incensed Scot, but who knew if his injuries had taken their toll on his skill as a fighter.
She had seen him at weapons practice many a time and occasionally engaged in the odd drunken brawl.
He fought with little finesse—his upbringing as a poor, starving child had taught him all he knew—but what he lacked in grace, he made up for in determination and pure brute strength.
However, he wasn’t that man anymore. Would Ivar be the victor?
“You cannot command me, Scot. I shall take her soon enough. Why not now? Surely you would not begrudge a man the spoils of war?”Ivar pressed away from the wall.
Logan raised his fists and widened his stance. “She isnae a spoil of war. And I willnae let ye harm her.”
“She is your prisoner, why should you care what becomes of her?”
“Prisoner, aye, and under my care.”
Lorna flattened a hand to her thundering heart and eased back against the wall as the men eyed one another.
Her mind raced. What could she do to help?
If she flung herself between them she’d probably end up in the way and injured.
She could think of nothing she could use as a weapon.
The torch flickered on the wall, not far from her head.
Her gaze latched onto it but she dismissed that idea.
It had not worked for her before and no matter what had occurred between her and Logan, she did not wish him burned or worse. ..
If they would just move away from her chamber, mayhap she could dash in and snatch something. A poker mayhap, if one had been left behind, or even a chair.
“I’ll have her eventually.”
His words rang in her ears. If she stayed, he would. She would be taken far from here and would never see her son again. Mayhap he would keep her as his slave, or tire of her and pass her around to the other Norsemen.
Logan lunged at this, his jaw tight and his eyes full of fire.
Ivar blocked his punch easily enough and returned with one of his own.
She winced when it caught Logan’s jaw, but he appeared not to notice and came back at him.
Several swings and grunted curses later, they had their hands wrapped around each other’s necks.
Lorna swung her gaze between them, unable to see who might be the winner.
Who would win? They were so evenly matched, what if it ended with one of their deaths?
Without thinking, she leaped forward and latched onto Ivar’s back.
She added the weight of her fingers to his neck.
She had little intention of killing him—she had never killed a man in spite of her reputation for being a bold leader, and she had no taste for it—but Logan must not die.
If he died, her hope died with him. Lorna prayed the added pressure of her small hands would force the Norseman into releasing Logan.
Ivar reared against the extra weight on his back and stumbled, slamming her into the wall.
Her head struck stone and it sounded like the crack might crumble the walls and send the keep tumbling down around them, but in her ringing head she suspected the sound only echoed through her mind.
He could crush her if he tried yet she hung on, unwilling to relinquish the fight to the men.