Captured Read online

  He’d taken off her clothing, wanting her bare skin to be against the warm rugs. The clothing was wet, after all, and if he left it on her, she would likely catch her death, and he didn’t want that to happen. Then he’d thrown a few more logs on the fires, helping to spread warmth through the room while he’d tended to the cut on her hand.

  It wasn’t deep enough to require sewing, but it had bled quite a bit. He’d cleaned it and applied an ointment he’d made from herbs and berries before wrapping it in clean cloths.

  Now he watched her as she slept, her luscious body wrapped in the furs, her face the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.

  After all these years, had the witch taken pity on him and provided him with a companion? Somehow he doubted it. He’d asked for a mate many times, sometimes pleading with whatever invisible force that left him the food each day.

  But he’d always been ignored. When he’d first arrived here, he’d thought he would go insane. He’d hunted for a way out, exploring each nook and cave that he’d found, all to no avail. He’d been angry, shouting at his unseen jailor, whom he was sure was the witch his father had double-crossed.

  Yes, his father had killed the woman, but she was a witch after all. They had power over everything. He’d screamed at her daily, telling her that, if he ever got out of here he’d tear her limb from limb. All that had done was make his throat sore.

  As the days turned into months, and the months turned into years, he knew there was no way out. He was trapped in a prison his father had made. His life was worth nothing, and his existence would be lonely, and eternal.

  When he’d come to that conclusion he’d started to make a life for himself here, asking the witch for tools he could use to make furniture. And he’d asked for a woman. Repeatedly. Only now had his request been answered.

  But as much as he wanted to believe the dark-haired beauty was his for good, he knew that, like him, she’d been placed her by some cruel twist of fate. There could be no other answer. There was no reason for the witch to ignore him for years, and then place a beauty on his doorstep.

  He reached out and stroked his hand along her soft cheek. It was warm now, whereas earlier she’d been cold as the ice, something that had concerned him greatly. He glanced over at the strange items she’d brought with her.

  They were made of some material that was foreign to him. He was sure the strange looking devices with teeth like he’d never seen before would open the pieces of material, but what would be inside? She’d been angry with him for touching them, that much had been evident.

  The thought passed through his mind that she had something in there to harm him, that the witch had sent a female assassin to bewitch and then kill him. The beauty didn’t seem like the type to kill someone, but then again, you never knew what someone was capable of. After all, he was here because his father, whom he always thought loved him, but turned out to be the most selfish person in all the kingdom, choosing his jewels over his own sons.

  The woman stirred and Rugoff glanced around. He tried to decipher how much time had gone by since he’d heard the first sounds of something different outside, since he’d gone into the forest and seen the woman sitting on the ground, a look of horror on her gorgeous face.

  She moved again, throwing back the fur, exposing her lush and full breasts. Her nipples immediately hardened, plumping up into little hard nubs he imagined would taste like the sweetest wine.

  His manhood stirred, swelling painfully. He licked his lips and imagined himself thrusting into her, her soft folds welcoming him, her arms wrapped around his neck, holding him close.

  She’d wrap her legs around his hips and… He groaned and ran his hand over his hard length as she stirred again, a soft moan escaping her lips.

  He had to leave now or else he would lose control of himself. He stood and grabbed two heavy furs and wrapped them both around himself. He pushed aside the wood guarding the portal and stepped outside, the bracing cold slapping him in the face.

  Maybe the chill of the air would cool his lust. With the sun down, he couldn’t stay outside for very long. The weather was brutal down here, but if it could bring down the lust surging through his body it would be worth the discomfort.

  The frigid temperatures did indeed invade his body, but it did nothing to lessen the hardness between his legs. The only thing that would work for that would be the soft woman lying in his bed right now. Or, he knew, his hand. It was the only companion he’d had for thousands of years.

  As much as the idea disgusted him, he had no choice. He’d never forced himself on a woman in his life, and he didn’t intend to start now. He’d think of her while he worked himself, imagining his hand as her tight, wet channel. Afterward, a good soak in the bathing room would help relieve the tension he felt right now.

  Staying around the new arrival would only cause problems, ones that would probably cause him more woes in the end. He closed the door and bolted it tightly, then walked toward the bed.

  The beauty still slept, her face peaceful in her slumber. Maybe in the morning, they could communicate. He thought about the food he found every morning, and about the many comforts he’d asked for and received. Now that his request for a woman had been answered, he prayed to Odin that she wouldn’t be taken away. He realized, though, that he was probably offering his prayer to the wrong person.

  Please, witch, I know you’re angry with my father. But I would like nothing more right now than to keep the woman who is currently sleeping in my bed. If you can grant that wish, I would be eternally grateful.

  Chapter Three

  Venise stirred, snuggling down further into the bedding, savoring the warmth that surrounded her. In the back of her mind, she remembered the bed at the hotel hadn’t been very comfortable, and she’d had to pile on every blanket she could find in the room to stay warm.

  The blankets there had not seemed as soft as the furs that now covered her. She stirred, opening one eye as the information registered in her brain. She moved her hand out from beneath the coverings and ran her fingers over the soft down. Yes, she was sleeping under furs.

  As the idea took hold, she lifted her hand and stared at it. It was wrapped in white cloth, and it all came crashing back to her. The man in the woods, the fall from the tree, the blood soaking into the snow.

  She sat up cautiously, glancing around the darkened room. There was a large fireplace carved into the wall, and she wondered exactly where she was. The walls seemed to be made of stone.

  Was this some sort of primitive hut? No, that couldn’t be, at least she didn’t think so. She thought about it for a moment and then decided that yes, she could be in a cave somewhere. The man who had offered her the fur had brought her here, obviously. Did he live here? That much was obvious, too. That’s why there was a bed here, and the fireplace and a chair and…a large lump, covered by fur, lying on the floor near the fire.

  Her captor. Or was he? It was Mrs. Westergard who had led her into this trap. Finding a way out couldn’t be that difficult, could it? If she was quiet, could she sneak out of here and find her way back to the place she’d first seen him. And if she did, would she be able to find a portal that would take her back home? She rolled her eyes then put her head in her hands. She was thinking crazy thoughts again, about portals and other worlds, but it was obvious to her right now that she wasn’t in some sort of drug-induced haze.

  If Mrs. Westergard had drugged her, the effects would have worn off by now. The temptation to run for the door was strong, but that wouldn’t be the smartest thing she could do. Rather than face the elements again she needed to think.

  She glanced again at the lump on the floor. When he’d spoken to her, she hadn’t understood him, not totally. It was obvious he’d been speaking Old Norse. She’d caught a few words, since her knowledge of the language was very scarce. She certainly didn’t know enough to converse with him.

  Venise focused on the man. He’d been as surprised to see her yesterday as she had him. Now t
hat she was thinking clearer, she realized that. The shocked look on his face had been genuine. Either that or he deserved an acting award. Maybe he was a native who Mrs. Westergard had tricked, using the same methods she’d used to trap Venise. No, that couldn’t be right. His dialect was not of this time period.

  She needed information, and to get it she had to search. The best way to do that would be by getting up and examining things while he slept.

  If she looked for herself, she’d be able to discover things and draw her own conclusions. She’d never been one to have things handed to her. It was why she’d come to Norway in the first place.

  With modern technology, she could have done all her interviews via e-mail. But she’d wanted to see the people face-to-face, be able to conduct a proper interview. She’d interview the man who’d brought her here but first she’d look around to see what she could find out.

  She stepped out of the bed and put her feet on the floor, cold seeping into her toes and shooting up her legs. Her naked legs, which matched her—she looked under the fur she held to her breasts—totally nude body. The bastard had undressed her.

  “You son of a bitch!” The man on the floor bolted to his feet, throwing off the furs and revealing the fact that he, too, was totally naked. His cock lay soft between his legs, until his gaze fastened on her; and then it started to rise.

  “Oh no you don’t!” She pointed at his crotch. “Put that, that…thing away and bring me my clothes, this instant!”

  His frown downright pissed her off. “Don’t you stand there and act as if you don’t understand me.” She clutched the bedding closer to her body. “Bring. Me. My. Clothes.”

  He took a step toward the bed and she crouched on the bed, scooting closer to the wall that served as a headboard, which wasn’t the smartest move she’d ever made. It left her with no escape route if he decided to attack her.

  “Is there a problem with your hearing?” He opened his mouth as if to answer her, then closed it without uttering a sound. “Listen, buster, I’m not sure what the hell is going on here, but if you and the old lady are playing some trick on me, you can kiss my ass.”

  The look he gave her was one of sheer confusion and she knew it confirmed her idea that he hadn’t expected to find her here. And it was obvious he didn’t understand one word of English.

  There was one way to confirm that once and for all.

  “What is your name?”

  He opened his mouth again, but once again, nothing came out.

  “Let’s make this easy, shall we? Do you know the phrase Me Tarzan, you Jane?” Venise hoped her smile lessened the sting of her tone. She pointed at her chest. “I’m Venise, and you are?” She pointed at him.

  He shook his head, then turned his gaze toward an empty table in the middle of the room. Confusion swept over his face and Venise laughed.

  “I know exactly how you feel. Nothing is making much sense to me right now. Shall we try it again? I’m Venise, and you’re…?”

  There was a swooshing sound, as if someone wearing long skirts was inching across the stone floor. Venise watched in fascination as a plate of food appeared on the table; another soon joined it, then another and another.

  Venise’s mouth dropped open as the man walked to the table and picked up a slice of bread, offering it in her direction. He still stood naked, his cock fully erect now. She couldn’t help but look at it, long and thick as it was. He was larger than either of her two lovers, that was for sure.

  Neither of them had looked as masculine, or as appealing, as the man standing in front of her. She looked him up and down, her hands holding the covering close to her breasts. This really was too much.

  The sight of the naked aroused man offering her food was too much. Venise burst into laughter. The wounded look that came over his face made her stutter, and cover her mouth.

  “I’m sorry, it’s not you. You’re magnificent, to say the least. I mean, truly you are, it’s just, this is…” she stopped short as Mrs. Westergard’s words played back in her mind. “King Gunnmarr had three sons. Sons that were banished to the core of the Earth.”

  “Gunnmarr.” The deep voice startled her and she cleared her throat, trying to give herself time to come to terms with what she knew was reality.

  “Which one are you?” She racked her brain for the names the woman had given the King’s sons. They came to her almost instantly. “Rugoff? Benedikt? Egill?”

  “Rugoff.” His voice sounded cautious, but full of hope. He pointed toward his chest and repeated the name. Her gaze ran from his hand down to where his hard cock still jutted out. It seemed to grow even thicker and her mouth watered.

  It wouldn’t be easy but she needed to forget the physical attraction she felt and realize that the fairy tale the woman had told her was the truth, and that somehow she’d slipped right into the middle of it. Things like this didn’t happen, did they?

  She pinched herself, yelping as the pain spread through her arm. Then she laughed, hysterical laughter that threatened to steal her breath for good. When she finally got control of herself, she looked at him again. He stood in the same place, his gaze one of extreme confusion.

  Venise supposed she couldn’t blame him. After all, how many times did a woman laugh uncontrollably while a naked man stood in front of her.

  “Well, isn’t this fun? You Rugoff, me Venise.” She held out her arms to indicate the room they were in. “And this is hell.”

  How in the name of Odin did she know his name? And his brothers’ names, too? She wasn’t the gift of the gods that he thought she was. She was obviously an emissary of the witch who had sent him here.

  She thought he hadn’t suffered enough, so she sent this woman to remind him what he couldn’t have, to reinforce what he’d lost.

  He stomped across the floor, not caring that she moved away from him, obviously trying to get to the far corner of the bed before he got to her. His blood boiled in his veins as he drew nearer to her.

  Was his fervor caused by the fact the sheet had slipped, giving him another glimpse of her creamy flesh, the beautiful curves that would mold with him perfectly as he thrust into her soft, warm body? Or was it because, as he suspected, she was sent by the witch to further torment him?

  “Agent of Loki! He sent you here to deepen my anguish! Is it not enough that I feel anger every day with my father? Is it…” He stopped at the edge of the bed, staring up at her. The horror he’d seen on her face yesterday has returned. Her hands shook and if her eyes widened any more he feared they would pop out of her head.

  He took a step back, trying to get his rage under control. Screaming wouldn’t help anything. He had to find a way to bind her, and that wouldn’t be easy with one of Loki’s kind. They had all sorts of tricks they could play. He had to…

  She shot by him so fast he staggered. Pain soared through him as her fist slammed into his mouth. A second fist landed on his nose and even more pain shot through his head. The room spun. He grabbed out for something, catching the edge of the bed as he fell, the top half of his body landing on the soft down, his knees hitting the hard floor.

  Rugoff shook his head, trying to shake off the sensation that seemed to radiate through his whole body. He stood and fell back on the bed, his gaze focusing on the woman as she wrapped the covering around herself before running toward the door.

  “Oh no you don’t!” He ignored the fact his head swum and stood. Letting her go was not an option. He overtook her in seconds, wrapping his arms around her waist and wrestling her to the floor, rolling until she was on her back, her arms pinned to her sides by his legs.

  He’d show this agent of the evil one exactly what he thought of her. Her curves were meant to entice him, to throw him off guard and forget that nothing could be trusted, not even his own father.

  He’d kill her, then tomorrow, he’d ask the spirit who provided his food to take her body to Loki as a warning. He may be a prisoner here, but he was still not one to be trifled with.

&n
bsp; The witch wiggled under him and his traitorous cock responded by throbbing with need. It rubbed against her belly and he reached for her throat, intent on blocking her air, therefore putting her out of his life when her sobs stopped him. He couldn’t make out all the words, but he heard the ones, “No Loki,” well enough.

  She repeated the words and he wondered if she was to be trusted. She’d gone limp under him. She held up her hands, which shook as if in terror. The pulsing of his jaw, though, showed it hadn’t been that long ago since those hands had been balled into fists.

  “No Loki.” Her dark eyes glistened with tears and he could see fear there.

  If the mischief-maker had sent this woman, she wouldn’t be frightened. She would have his power behind her, she would know Rugoff could not hurt her unless he caught her off guard; and he’d lost the element of surprise.

  But his hands were still on her throat, and all it would take was a quick squeeze and she would be gone.

  “No Loki,” she repeated, her breasts rising and falling rapidly, drawing his eyes down.

  “Who are you?”

  “No Loki,” she said again. Then she added a jumble of words he did not comprehend. He moved his hands from her neck and took hold of her wrists, pinning them to the floor on either side of her head.

  “Who are you?” She answered with another torrent of words he didn’t understand. “Did the witch send you?”

  Tears leaked from her eyes now and she turned her head, as if she were ashamed to let him see her cry. Someone sent by the mischief-maker would not cry, unless it was a trick to catch him off guard.

  There was one way to test that theory. He let go of her hands, expecting her to once again slam a fist into his mouth. She didn’t move, however, and her chest rose and fell with gentle sobbing. She kept her face turned away from him.

  Rugoff stood, waiting for her to do the same, to attack him again. Instead she pulled the fur closer to her, keeping her gaze off him. Staring at her was doing him no good. It put two sides of him at war, his mind, which wanted the truth, and his body, which wanted to bend her over and claim her.