The Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger Page A

sleep, at the very least recall her
name and that of her master by the time they reached Chernigov, three days hard
journey from here.
    If that failed . . . the thought of taking her home to
Novgorod was enticing. Yet he hoped, for the sake of his liege lord and the
critical battle to come, that she did remember who she was. There was too much
at stake for him to indulge his own selfish desires. She was only a woman,
after all, and the world was full of those who could please him.
    Rurik ran his palm across her forehead, marveling
despite his resolve at the smoothness of her skin. He was pleased to see that
some color had returned to her cheeks, and her shivering had ceased. "Sleep
now," he bade her as he tucked the blanket once more beneath her chin.
    "Yes . . . sleep," she said drowsily, closing
her eyes.
    "You are safe here. No one will harm you."
    "Safe," came her reply, a whispered echo,
then suddenly her eyes flew open and she clutched at Rurik's hand. Her gaze was
wide and fearful. "You will not leave me?"
    "No, little one. I will not leave you."
    But he did exit the tent a short while later when he
knew from her steady breathing that she was fast asleep and probably would not
wake again until the morning. In the night air, his tunic felt cold and clammy,
the fabric clinging to his body. Moments before he had barely noticed his
sodden state.
    Staring at the woman's face—the soft curve of her
cheek, thick, sooty lashes so long it was easy to imagine them playing like the
finest silk against his skin, graceful gull-winged brows, a patrician nose
saucily tipped at the end, and rosy lips so lush and full he longed to press
his own against them and tease them open with his tongue—was enough to make him
wish she were nothing but a common slave possessing no ties that bound her to
another man . . .
    "Is she well, my lord?" asked Kjell,
interrupting the sensual turn of Rurik's thoughts.
    "She sleeps." Deciding the untested warrior
was displaying too much interest, Rurik looked at him sharply. He had brought
Kjell along on the journey only at the special request of the man's father,
another member of Yaroslav's senior druzhina ,
who believed his son needed toughening. Now Rurik could see why. "And
sleeping is what you should be doing. The hour will come soon enough when you
must take the helm from Leif."
    With that, he strode to the prow and stripped out of
his wet clothes, his mood growing dark indeed. But he wasn't so much angry at
Kjell as he was at himself. He dug in his sea chest for another tunic and a
pair of trousers and yanked them on, then throwing his heavy fur mantle around
his shoulders, he sat down and stared out across the black water.
    By Odin, had madness seized him? He had six concubines in
Novgorod, each one a beauty in her own right. There was nothing special about
this wench . . .
    "You were a bit harsh with the lad," came
Arne's reproachful voice behind him.
    "He has the look about him of a lovelorn pup,"
Rurik said caustically. Running his hand through his damp hair, he did not turn
as the warrior took a seat across from him. "Kjell would be wise to keep
his thoughts to his duties and not upon fantasies that cannot come true."
    "He is young, my lord. Wenches to him are still
creatures of fascination and awe, worthy of adoration. He has not yet learned
that their fickle hearts are not to be trusted . . . as have some of us."
    "It is not only women's hearts that cannot be
trusted, old friend. As for the wench, she remembers nothing thanks to her
mistreatment at the trading camp, not her name, not her master's name. She's
taken on the manner of a child. Only the gods can say when she may recover."
    "Yet that is not what's troubling you."
    Frowning, Rurik could not see the warrior's expression
in the dark, yet he knew Arne looked in sympathy. The grizzled bear could read
him as few could; not even Rurik's own father understood him as well. Yet he'd
be damned to admit that the woman was behind his