Ravished by a Viking Read online

  “I will know who your captain is,” he shouted, “or she will be the first to die.”

  Honora tipped back her head to glare at the odious man, her body growing calm as she breathed slowly, filling herself with rage to stave off a crippling fear. He meant it. He’d kill her. She saw it in his hard, blue gaze.

  “So be it.” He drew back his arm and sliced toward her neck.

  “She’s the captain!” two of her crew burst out.

  The sword stopped an inch from her flesh, and Honora didn’t blink. Wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of showing him her fear—or her soul-deep relief that she’d lived past that moment.

  A dark brow rose, and he swept her body again with a ruthless glare. “You will relinquish control of your ship.”

  She jutted out her chin, hoping that pretending she wasn’t fearful for her life would lend her more courage. Maybe no one would notice that her knees were knocking together.

  He slid his sword into its scabbard and fisted his hands on his hips. “I will have your hand on the controls,” he said slowly, as though she were dim-witted. “You will then transfer command to my man.”

  She raised her chin higher, relieved she was finally getting pissed. “Make me.”

  He grunted. “Very well.” His gaze cut toward one of his own men and he jerked his head.

  The man he signaled grasped the collar of one of her crew and dragged him forward.

  The Viking narrowed his gaze, not letting her look away. “Every time you refuse me your hand, one of your men will lose his. Don’t doubt that I will be ruthless.”

  Shock at the barbarity of the threat shuddered through her. Her gaze wavered; her cheeks cooled as a sickening image of crewmen cradling bloody stumps flashed through her mind. “Taking this ship is a big mistake. You and every one of your men will be hunted down like dogs. You still have a chance to save yourselves—if you leave now.”

  His mouth firmed. “We are wolves, not dogs. Make your choice. Save your pride at the cost of your men’s hands or transfer command to me.”

  She couldn’t do it. Couldn’t risk such grievous injuries for her pride’s sake. Her crewmen weren’t warriors; they were merchant marines.

  She gave the barbarian a small, almost imperceptible nod, and stepped toward the captain’s seat, settling into the cool leather. Then she slowly lifted her left hand to slide it over the controls. Light burst around the silhouette of her hand as the computer verified her identity.

  The Viking came behind her. His large hands clasped her shoulders and squeezed until she winced. “No tricks. My man will know if you try anything.”

  She glanced up to see a Heliopolite, one of her own people, dressed in furs, his dark eyes glittering as he stared with ill-concealed excitement.

  “I will know if you try to hail another ship,” he said, his voice even, his face lowering to hers. “You know that I will.”

  Honora blinked, recognizing him beneath the paint. “Cyrus,” she whispered, shock holding her still for a long moment. “You would ally yourself with these men?”

  “What choice was I left with?”

  She shook her head, knowing she couldn’t fool him. They’d served as ensigns together on the same ship after graduating the academy before being promoted and separated. He’d been among the best of her class until his fall from grace.

  He’s a pirate now—just a pirate. All he wants is ransom. Cyrus knew as she did that her superiors would prefer to pay rather than see one of their precious ships damaged. She had no alternative but to concede.

  Her middle finger tapped the release. “Speak your name,” she said, her voice tight. “The ship is yours.”

  Cyrus’s gaze lifted to his leader’s. The tall Viking nodded, and Cyrus spoke, “Cyrus Tahir assumes command.” He gripped her hand, lifting it from the control grid, and placed his own over the indentations. Light flared around the edges of his palm as the computer imprinted his whole hand and DNA into its database.

  Then he grabbed her arm and pulled her from the chair. He seated himself, his jaw rippling with tension. “Lord Dagr,” Cyrus said, turning toward his leader. “We have control of the ship’s systems.”

  “I would send a message to those who still fight.”

  Cyrus nodded and pressed the universal comm switch. “Just speak.”

  The black-haired Viking’s gaze settled on Honora.

  Her breath hitched, and she acknowledged deep inside that she’d been beaten and was completely at the Viking’s mercy. Her life had changed, veering on an uncharted course.

  Satisfaction gleamed in the warrior’s ice blue eyes as his stare bored into hers. Tension rippled along the edge of his jaw. “This is Dagr, clan-lord of the Wolfskins. We’ve taken your ship. I have your captain. Surrender your arms or die.”

  Honora stood beside the captain’s chair while the Vikings seized her ship. Through force of will, she kept her back straight, her chin high, and her expression ruthlessly neutral.

  Inside, acid gnawed at her stomach, making her nauseous. She clenched her hands together at the small of her back to hide the fact they trembled. Not from fear. Death would be easier to face.

  She’d failed. And her blunder was far worse than the one committed by her father. An act that had hounded her all her career. While he’d had his command romanced from beneath him by a rival, his honor compromised beyond repair, she’d allowed her entire ship to be stolen by a primitive band of barbarians using only metal swords.

  As the first captain of a Consortium ship to lose her command to pirates, she knew her career was ruined, her name destined to be listed among the commanders whose failures were a lesson to all—unless she could find a way to retake the Proteus.

  But how? Close-quarters combat had failed to defeat the invaders. They were simply too powerful. The stunners, her crew’s only onboard weapons and only worn by officers to stave off mutiny and protect crewmen traveling to hostile planets, had been seized and stuffed into the pirates’ belts and pockets.

  Superior intellect and cold, calculated cunning were now their only weapons. A conspiracy of silence had already begun.

  Since their surrender, the crew had stayed off their communicator patches, knowing their use was the only advantage they still held. The touch-sensitive circles built into the collars of their uniforms looked like an adornment. And they were so new that Cyrus might not know their function.

  However frustrating it was not to know what was happening throughout the ship, she took comfort in the fact every Heliopolite aboard the Proteus was ready to do their part. Even if their only strategy now was silence.

  The Vikings had boarded an hour ago, but already, the changes were profound. The atmosphere felt thin and cold, likely because the atmospherics computer was struggling to compensate for the extra men. The noises, the creaking of the ship, the whir of the venting, even the chirps from the navigator’s and security officer’s panels seemed overloud.

  No one tended them. No one poised around the deck knew how.

  Most of the crew members who’d been on the command deck when the ship was attacked had already been led away. Only Turk, Baraq, and the shift engineer remained, all seated cross-legged on the ground. All sported bruises and split lips. Baraq looked the worst, his face misshapen from blows to his cheeks and lower jaw, blue and purple bruises mottling his skin. However, his pride never wilted. His hot glare followed the warrior who’d bested him.

  Honora wished she could mirror his strength of will, draw on a belly-deep hatred and stay focused, but her mind and body were confused—out of sync with what was happening around her. All the while she cast around her head for a plan, a strategy to resolve this disaster, her body reacted to the presence of the Vikings on an unexpected level—and to their leader in an all-too-familiar way.

  She found herself unaccountably aroused. Curious about his body and superior strength. It didn’t seem to matter that he was a barbarian with a primitive brain. Watyie! she cursed the traitor residing insid
e her skin. Maybe she was just like her father—weak of flesh.

  “Milord, the crew has surrendered,” Cyrus said, glancing past her as he addressed the tall, silent man who stood at her back.

  Did Cyrus gloat? Or did he feel a smidgeon of guilt? Once upon a time when they’d both been fresh from the academy, they’d dreamed of sharing a captaincy before they’d realized their partnership would be a never-ending war of wills.

  “Any injuries?” the Viking asked from closer than she’d expected.

  His words stirred her hair and caused the finer down on the back of her neck to rise. Her hands curled, nails digging into her palms.

  “No injuries worth noting to your men, sir,” Cyrus said.

  A grunt sounded behind her, but she didn’t turn, didn’t want the leader of the pirates to see the defeat in her eyes—or question the glow heating her cheeks. The only injuries “worth noting” had been to her own crew and their pride. The raiders’ victory had been decisive and humiliatingly swift.

  Cyrus glanced at the panel before him. “The ship’s surgeon has been identified and escorted to the makeshift brig in the ship’s hold.”

  Another soft grunt. “Begin the search. We will need the woman’s next in command to assist.”

  “Navigator!” Cyrus called out.

  Turk, who sat on the first step of the dais cradling his head and using his shirt to wipe the blood from his nose, straightened and cast a glance at Honora.

  Her lips curled in self-directed disgust. She wasn’t his captain anymore. “Cooperate. This will soon be over.” At least, she hoped that was true.

  Turk uncrossed his legs and pushed up from the stair.

  Dagr moved from behind her, his hip nudging her backside, reminding her of her unwanted attraction. “We’ll scour the ship for the captives you are hiding.” He tucked a finger beneath her chin and raised her face. “You could make this easier on yourself and your men by telling me where they are.”

  Shock caused her to rock on her heels—from the flare of heat that left her sweating because he touched her and from realization of what he sought. But she remained silent, wondering why the hell he cared about the savages who’d been plucked from the planet’s surface.

  Pirates weren’t known to be sentimental and wouldn’t care that their land-bound brethren had been spirited away. Perhaps they intended to ransom them back to the kingdoms below. The wealth of the planet’s fiefdoms was immense—considerable enough to keep a Consortium ship in their planet’s orbit at all times, ostensibly to protect the ore shipments leaving the planet, but in fact to remind the rulers that they were once slaves and would be again one day.

  She held the pirate’s icy gaze, fighting her growing alarm at the intensity of his expression.

  When his thumb swept her bottom lip, she fought the inappropriate urge to lick it. Balls!

  Captives, she reminded herself. He searches for the captives.

  She dragged her gaze from the Viking’s and slammed it into Baraq’s. She read the quiet fury there. He’d argued bitterly for her to raise a complaint over the nature of their mission to this planet after she’d confided what she’d discovered in the ship’s hold.

  It was one thing to conduct an attack, he’d argued, but there was no honor to be found in kidnapping men. And for what purpose? She hadn’t been willing to ask the high command why, believing they had reasons, that they kept the greater good in mind.

  And her crew hadn’t extracted the Norsemen. They’d only housed the bounty hunters, fed them food and ale. Given them access to the teleport. The Proteus’s crew wasn’t directly responsible.

  A distinction this pirate would probably not allow, she was sure. Not that she would admit a thing. The longer she and her crew held out, the longer they stayed out of communication with the Consortium, the better the chance they could solve this problem themselves.

  The rasp of his callused thumb scraped her lip again. Honora swallowed hard and glared.

  “Perhaps you aren’t so eager for us to quit your ship,” he murmured.

  Honora’s breath hitched. She didn’t dare breathe, didn’t want to inhale the scent of him—sweat and male musk, yes, but the underlying freshness, an herbal scent she couldn’t quite place, drew her. She swayed closer.

  “Breathe,” he whispered. “Or you’ll faint.”

  She tugged her chin from atop his fingers and turned away her face. “I won’t faint. I don’t fear you.”

  “I know.”

  Her gaze shot to his. His eyelids dipped as he raked her body with an assessing glance.

  Baraq’s low growl pulled her back. He was the only one who understood what was happening. Being lovers in the past clued him in to her body’s reactions to an aggressive male.

  Dagr’s hand fell away and he tipped his head to Turk, telling him to follow. Only when they disappeared down the corridor leading to the lifts did she drag in a deep breath.

  Cyrus’s low chuckle made her cheeks burn. “Good to know some things never change.”

  “And you’ve come so far?” she sneered.

  “Careful, kitten,” he said, his voice soft. “You wouldn’t want Lord Dagr to return to punish you.”

  “I’m not afraid of him.”

  His head tilted as he studied her features. “No, I don’t suppose you are.”

  “Tell me, Cyrus, since you seem to be the brains of this operation, do you really think this is going to end well?”

  “The brains?” He chuckled. “Sweetheart, you’ve a thing or two to learn. Just a friendly warning—from an old friend—don’t underestimate them.”

  Honora scoffed. “Don’t count me out either.”

  Five

  Dagr, his patience at an end, pushed the navigator against the wall of the last cabin they’d searched and gripped his throat. The smug little rodent had shown him every closet, every latrine and storage bin. “The men who were taken—where do you keep them?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the slender man gasped. “We’ve been over every inch of this ship. You know they aren’t here.”

  “But they were.” He squeezed harder.

  The navigator’s face turned red, then purple. His lips pulled away from his teeth, but he didn’t try to fight Dagr’s hold. Wouldn’t give him the battle he wanted. He likely knew Dagr was ready to strangle him.

  “Dagr, you will kill him,” Frakki said beside him, although there was no chiding in his tone. His oldest friend, Frakki didn’t care whether he killed the little man or not, and left the choice to him.

  Dagr growled. He’d hoped his mission would be simple. Board the ship. Free the men. Disable the ship and send it hurtling toward the Helio sun—the Consortium warned not to send another of their prized fleet to rape his world. But nothing had been simple and clear-cut since he’d stepped aboard this metal, star-jumping boat.

  Dagr released the navigator’s neck and turned on his heel as the man wheezed and slid to the floor.

  Frakki kept a step behind him as he stomped away. “The men aren’t here, milord.”

  An obvious statement, but Frakki was reminding him that they should think of next steps.

  Dagr slammed his fist sideways against the metal wall, the sound ringing up and down the corridor. The impact vibrating through his arm and shoulder felt good. “Do you think he still lives?”

  “I am sure of it, milord. Eirik’s too valuable for them to slaughter.”

  Dagr tightened his jaw. “We will bring war on Helios if I find him harmed.”

  Frakki grunted. “However outnumbered we may be?”

  “They cannot stand against our wrath.” His fists clenched.

  This time Frakki laughed. “They are a puny race. The battle didn’t give our men a chance to even break a sweat.”

  “They are slender, barely muscled.”

  “Are you speaking of the female?”

  Dagr shot a glare over his shoulder. He was, but didn’t like the fact Frakki had noted his interest. />
  “Interesting where your mind traveled,” Frakki drawled, his tone teasing. “Did Astrid not dull the edge of your sword?”

  “My sword doesn’t dull with use,” he bit out.

  Frakki laughed again. “I’ll head to the brig and see how our prisoners are faring.”

  Frakki’s footsteps veered away, and Dagr strode back through the narrow, suffocating corridors, up a ringed, metal ladder to the bridge, ready to unleash his anger and frustration—and he knew exactly whom to punish.

  Her head snapped toward him the moment he stepped onto the deck. The ship captain’s gaze swept his face, and her expression shifted from shuttered to wary in the space of a heartbeat. She knew he’d found nothing.

  While frustration fueled the anger boiling inside him, the woman herself provided another source of consternation. Physical awareness itched along his skin. Her slender frame, so delicate in comparison to the women of his clan, gave him pause, made him subdue the violent tension in his body. Which infuriated him. He didn’t want to show restraint toward any Outlander.

  Her short, dark brown hair was smooth and shiny as any subterranean crow, feathering against her cheek whenever she sharply turned her head. And her golden brown eyes, tilting at the corners, gave away her wariness every time her glance rested on him.

  Even in the midst of the fighting, he’d noticed her creeping toward the chair, her slim body crouched low, her bottom and even the outline of her pussy so perfectly revealed by the black skin-suit. He’d clipped the large warrior, sending him to the ground, and stalked toward the woman whose attention was so focused on the indentations on the chair’s arm that she never noticed him behind her until he grabbed the back of her neck and shook.

  As well, her courage when he’d swung his blade toward her neck had impressed him. Although her golden skin had drained of color, she hadn’t flinched. That she’d betrayed attraction even while he’d threatened her existence only fueled his lust. Her amber gaze had raked him head to toe, her nostrils flaring in her small oval face, her pupils dilating. Her nipples had sprung, the areolas swollen and outlined. She’d been aroused, which had sent an unwanted spike of desire south to harden his cock.