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cheeks. She wanted to touch the
intriguing sword of flesh rising from the Viking’s belly. She
wanted to know if it felt as smooth and warm as it looked.
    She shivered with the thought and shot
another glance at the Viking’s face, relieved to see no hint of
awareness in the man’s impassive expression. Cautiously, she
reached out her hand.
    Silky. Hot. A faint smile curled Fiona’s
lips as she explored. The tip of his shaft was very soft. It
tapered like an arrow point, then dipped in to meet his sleek, firm
length. Beneath his shaft, his softly rounded testicles drooped
downward.
    Her fingers encircled him, gauging
thickness, weight, warmth, experiencing the wonder of supple skin
overlaying solid flesh. She imagined him inside her, filling the
passageway to her womb. Her knees went weak and her insides
clenched with yearning.
    She paused, eyes closed, her senses
intoxicated by the Viking’s glorious hot flesh. What she felt was
sinful. It was wicked enough to defy her father, worse yet that she
might enjoy the wanton thing she intended. And there were other
risks. What if the Viking’s seed took hold in her womb? It would be
disastrous to bear a half-Viking babe.
    Fiona pulled her hand away and clenched it
stiffly against her body. The further she progressed with her plan,
the more addle-witted it seemed. She meant to couple with a
barbarian, a savage, and she expected him to neither kill her nor
impregnate her.
    She stood. She should give up this folly,
gather up her things, climb the crumbling steps, and bolt the
souterrain opening behind her. Let the Viking rot.
    Fiona leaned down to grab the handle to the
cauldron. She paused. Her eyes sought the captive’s sprawled form
and perused his naked, gleaming flesh. A wild hunger unfurled
inside her. One time—what could happen if she lay with him one
time?
    Her fingers released the cauldron handle,
and she bent to kneel in the dirt at the Viking’s side. She jerked
the man’s trews down to his hairy thighs, then paused. Because of
the ankle shackles the man still wore, she would have to cut his
trews to remove them completely. Finding her knife, she used it to
sever the fabric, then alternately ripped and cut the garment the
rest of the way down his legs. Grimacing, she threw the smelly
trews aside. They were good for naught but burning now, and the man
did not need clothes for what she wanted of him. Indeed, being
naked might discourage him from escaping. To that end, she decided
to take off his cowhide boots as well. She unfastened the leather
strips from around his ankles and removed the boots.
    Fishing her cloth out of the cauldron, she
resumed washing the Viking. She went about her task rapidly; but
even so, she could not avoid noticing the muscular shape of his
long legs, the awesome size and perfection of the man’s lower body.
Every inch of him seemed as solid and strong as if honed of
tempered iron.
    Finished, she dumped the soiled water in the
corner of the chamber, then returned to the captive. Although
hardly clean, he no longer smelled of blood and sickness. She
reached to feel his brow again and noted with approval that he
seemed cooler, as if bathing him had eased his fever even more.
There was nothing else she could do for him until he roused.
    Would he rouse? If he had not stirred during
all her washing and touching, why should she think he would ever
awake? New anxieties crowded Fiona’s thoughts. The Viking had
suffered a head wound. Could that be what kept him unconscious? She
examined the gash on his forehead carefully. There was some
swelling there, but not enough to seem dangerous. Except for his
arm, the man appeared whole and relatively healthy. His breathing
was even and deep; his color appeared normal. Every moment she was
with him, she expected him to open his eyes and confront her. It
was baffling that he did not wake.
    She leaned over him and sighed. She could
not linger here. It must be midafternoon now; if she did not appear
by the