A Viking’s Captive

Springtime in Orkney Island, Kingdom of Norway, 1225

Springtime in Orkney Island,

Ilona, working peacefully alone in her garden, was nae aware that her life would be irrevocably altered tonight.

The winds of change blew in from the sea, filled with a sense of expectancy as it whispered softly across the moors and meadows of the island of Orkney.

What portent did it hold as the spring breezes whispered to the forest, and the trees murmured back?

Ilona was a child of nature. Spring was a time of change, with new life and growth. Plants sprouted in the garden, trees held dear fragile blossoms to their bosoms in cradled branches, and heather bloomed on the hillsides. Ilona wondered what this year would bring.

Restlessness tugged at her, making her wish for an exciting adventure or the romance she read about in books.

But those stories were fantasies—dreams. Work and chores filled her days, monotonous like the ceaseless waves lapping at the shore.

Ilona heard the insistent mating call of the lapwing bird.

Other birds chirped and twittered in response.

The hair on her arms stood up as if she were being watched.

Who would be here, far from the village?

She stood in the twilight as a lavender veil gradually covered the previous orange and tangerine sky as day yielded to night.

Maybe just a wild animal had been gazing at her ravenously? Mayhap it only her imagination?

In the quiet, still night, Ilona gazed at the night sky.

She enjoyed the solitude, and it gave her parent’s private time together out of their busy day.

In a mercurial mood, Ilona danced under the stars, practicing her steps, and dreaming of a someday love.

Soon the stars emerged, twinkling overhead, and Ilona studied the constellations for a few minutes before retiring for the night.

It hadn’t been her imagination. Someone had indeed studied her like a predator.

Although a man of action, the lone figure sat on a sturdy tree branch to view her without obstruction.

Far from home, the fierce Viking warrior intently studied the woman.

Weary of war, battles, and tired of incessant raiding, Rathnon longed to settle and take a wife.

Plagued by nightmares of battles won and lost, he hoped a wife could ease his nocturnal torment.

Although surrounded by companies of men, he was lonely.

There were no maids in his village who would serve well as his wife.

He wanted a woman to warm his bed every night instead of rare ventures to a tavern to find a willing bed partner for a few hours to slake his raging need.

More than that, he wanted a woman who would be a partner in life and one who could come to love him. Now he longed for a family of his own.

Rathnon had served the king of the Kingdom of Norway since a young lad.

He hoped this raid would be his last. This mesmerizing woman, who danced in the night under the stars, represented his dream come true.

The light of her soul illuminated her face and actions.

Without a doubt, Rathnon knew her light could also illuminate the darkest corners of his soul where he suffered, lost in the darkness of past battles and death.

He had never been so sure about anything in his life as having this woman for his wife.

He did not want to be discovered. The young woman was tall with copper- colored hair.

Transfixed by her beauty and grace, he observed her every move.

He wished he could be closer to see the woman more clearly in the night.

Rathnon hoped she had qualities of tenacity and strength. She would need to call upon those soon.

After the woman returned inside the stone cottage, he jumped down to the forest floor and made an overnight camp.

The next morning, Rathnon arose well before dawn and cared for his Fjord Friesian horse.

He saddled the stallion, ready to leave at a moment’s notice.

For now, he tied the reins to a tree where his horse could glean shoots of green spring grasses.

Rathnon crouched in the forest and waited, but not for long.

An older man and a woman strode out of the house, carrying what he presumed held a sack of food along with fishing poles.

He surmised they were the young woman’s parents.

It seemed they intended to go fishing on the loch.

That suited his purpose well, for his intended would be alone.

The lovely young woman emerged after her parents left, with her hair bound in braids that wound around her head like a crown.

It kept the hair out of her way while laboring in the garden.

Picking a fragrant sprig of heather, she wove a few pieces through her braids.

Dressed in a simple long-sleeved green gown, a long strap crossed her body, leading to a sack hanging at her left hip, accessible to grab the seeds inside.

The alluring woman moved to another area of the garden before sowing the seeds.

She picked up the hoe and struck it into the loosened, rich earth, then raked the tool in lines over the dirt from one end of the garden to the other.

Finally, she sowed her seeds next to the rows of plants that had already sprouted.

Graceful as a dancer, she dipped her hand in the bag and sprinkled the seeds.

Although mesmerized by her graceful movements, Rathnon needed to enact his plan quickly.

As soon as her back was to him, he emerged running from the forest stealthily and nearly soundlessly.

A highly skilled and mighty warrior, he was light on his feet.

In battle he was ruthless and fearless. Rathnon possessed the skill of approaching potential enemies—and his prey—silently enough that the sounds of nature covered his steps.

As a first line of defense, he never underestimated his opponent and left nothing to chance.

And Rathnon had rehearsed this woman’s capture in his mind many times.

In a flash, he picked her up as if she were weightless and slung her over his shoulder, gripping her legs against his chest, eliminating the possibility of escape.

His arms were iron, binding her to him. The woman gasped in alarm, stuck in an unyielding vise.

She yelled at him and tried to beat him with her fists in protest, but he’d held stronger people than her in place without trouble.

Unable to use her arms or legs to free herself, she used the only other weapon available to her.

She bit him anyplace she could reach. The warrior chuckled to himself.

This wee woman could not harm him, as he had thick clothes to protect himself.

He admired her tenacity and determination. But it would not help her.

Swiftly, he ran to his horse and sat her upon his saddle, quickly flinging himself into the seat behind her.

As she tried to scream, with lightning speed, he placed a cloth over her mouth and tied it behind her head to muffle her cries.

He hated to use it on her, but speed and remaining undetected were of the essence.

His horse, fleet of foot, galloped to the shore and along the coast to waiting Viking ships.

The beach teemed with his fearsome comrades.

As Ilona glimpsed the Viking ships in the distance with their fierce dragon heads, terror pierced her heart.

What type of man steals a woman from her family?

She didn’t even ken what her captor looked like.

Everything had happened in an instant. A brutal barbarian had captured her.

Vikings were savage. Fierce. Ruthless. Everyone kent Vikings were lethal warriors.

They raid, pillage, and plunder, and who kens what they do to women? I cannae let him take me.

Enraged, Ilona struggled in his arms and tried to kick and scratch—anything to free herself.

She shifted her weight in the saddle to fling herself to the ground, but the man who held her seemed to expect her every attempt to escape.

Who is he? Where is he taking me? Dread, like a bitter pill in the pit of her stomach, threatened to overwhelm her.

Her father’s lessons in confronting fear when he had taken her hunting returned.

She refused to let her fears engulf her.

“Breathe, focus, confront yer fear. Act.” Her fighting seemed feeble compared to the massive strength in the sculpted muscles clasping her. The man seemed oblivious to her attempts to pummel him with her fists.

The warrior held her in such a way that her attempts to free herself were in vain; Ilona exhausted herself with her struggles.

While she fought with all her heart, he remained calm and intractable, his immovable arms binding her to him.

His warm breath on her neck tickled as he spoke to her in a soothing tone, which reverberated inside her body, making her tremble.

Ilona did nae understand his language. Nor could she decipher where he would take her if he managed to get her on one of the ships she saw.

Viking raiders came from several countries.

He tried to calm her with gentle squeezes to her shoulder despite his tight grip across her chest, which intensified Ilona’s struggles even more.

Hot and sweaty, even with the cool sea breeze, she pounded him again and again, only earning his chuckle.

Despite her valiant struggles, with his nearness, Ilona could nae help but smell his rugged scent of spruce, sea, and a spice uniquely his.

The warrior’s scent evoked a sense of being wild and free—yet he would try to cage her.

His scent intrigued her. Men of her acquaintance smelled sour and of sweat after their labor.

But this man smelled fresh, as if he had just bathed in the loch. Perhaps he had.