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she lost sight of land. She had never been so far from the coast before, or with men who both feared and hated her. She was grateful for Brann’s company, for Thorne had all but ignored her once they set sail. She had expected to be set upon and raped, but no one had touched her, though sometimes she caught Thorne glaring at her as if he’d like to wring her neck. She’d greatly appreciated the tent and the measure of privacy it afforded her.
    They had been at sea five days when the first storm struck. The ship was tossed about like a cork, blown hither and yon by the capricious wind. Fiona and Brann huddled together beneath the meager canvas shelter, praying that the wind and waves wouldn’t rip them away from beneath it. Brann was pale as a ghost. During the height of the storm he had staggered to the side of the ship to vomit. When he returned he collapsed beside Fiona, moaning and clutching his stomach.
    Though queasy herself, Fiona knew she had to do something to ease Brann’s suffering. She searched through his medicine chest until she located a small vial containing valerian, a potion often given to ease distress. Then she left the shelter in search of fresh water.
    Poised at the tiller of his wind-tossed ship, Thorne saw Fiona leave her shelter and experienced a moment of fear. He knew that Fiona’s small body was no match for the violent elements and he watched in trepidation as she inched her way across the windswept deck. Then Thorne becameaware of a great clamor that rose up among the crewmen when they saw her.
    “ ’Tis the witch! She has cursed us! Throw her overboard!”
    One of the crewmen seized Fiona and lifted her above his head, intending to throw her into the sea. Thorne’s heart pounded furiously as he left the tiller and shoved and pushed his way through to Fiona.
    “Put her down,” he ordered with cold fury. “The woman is my thrall, no one is to touch her but me. It does not please me to kill her.”
    Ulm stepped forward, his expression ruthless, hard. “The woman is a witch, Thorne. She has called Thor’s fury down upon us. We will all die.”
    “We have all faced storms, some worse than this,” Thorne scoffed. “Our ship is in no danger.
Odin’s Raven
rides the waves with ease. Go back to your stations. Even as I speak the storm abates.”
    Fiona was lowered none too gently to her feet as the men returned to their chores, grumbling about witches and spells. Thorne grasped her arm and dragged her back to her shelter.
    “What were you doing out there?” he demanded to know. “You could have been swept overboard. My men think you caused the storm.” He eyed her suspiciously. “Did you?”
    “Nay, I did not! Let go of me. I needed water to mix with a potion for Brann. He is ill.”
    “Stay here, I will fetch the water. The men are riled enough. Seeing you only makes it worse.”
    A few minutes later Thorne returned with a horn filled with water. He handed it to Fiona, thenturned his attention to Brann. “What’s wrong with him?” he asked.
    “He’s seasick. I found a potion in his medicine chest to ease his symptoms, but I needed water in which to mix it.”
    She poured a few drops of liquid from the vial into the horn. Then she knelt beside Brann, lifted his head and put the horn to his lips. After he took a few sips, his eyes closed and he appeared to drift off to sleep.
    “What did you give him?” Thorne asked. “What manner of magic have you brewed?”
    “No magic,” Fiona returned. “ ’Tis merely an infusion of valerian to ease his stomach. All healers know of the remedy.”
    Thorne stared at her. Even wet and bedraggled, she was lovely. Her captivating eyes seemed to have the ability to reach into his soul. He tried to look away but couldn’t. His fingers itched to touch her face, her hair, to find the sensitive places on her body and memorize them. He’d tried to ignore her these past five days, with little success. He should take her down right now and ease