Viking

Legends of the North

by Glynnis Campbell, Shelly Thacker, Miriam Minger, and Tanya Anne Crosby

Viking: Legends of the North by Tanya Anne Crosby, Miriam Minger, Shelly Thacker and Glynnis Campbell

Published by Oliver-Heber Books

The Shipwreck COPYRIGHT © Glynnis Campbell

Viking’s Prize COPYRIGHT © Tanya Anne Crosby

His Captive Bride COPYRIGHT © Shelly Thacker Meinhardt

The Pagan’s Prize COPYRIGHT © Miriam Minger

ISBN 9781942820154

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be used or reproduced or transmitted in any manner whatsoever, electronically, in print, or otherwise, without the prior written permission of both Oliver-Heber Books and Tanya Anne Crosby, Miriam Minger, Shelly Thacker and Glynnis Campbell, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

PUBLISHER'S NOTE: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Jafnan er hálfsögð saga ef einn segir.

(A tale is but half told when only one person tells it.)

—The Saga of Grettir the Strong

TABLE OF CONTENTS

- Title Page

- The Shipwreck by Glynnis Campbell

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- More Books By Glynnis

- About Glynnis

- His Captive Bride by Shelly Thacker

- Prologue

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- An Asgard Island Glossary

- More Books By Shelly

- About Shelly

- The Pagan's Prize by Miriam Minger

- Author's Note

- Quote

- Prologue

- Quote

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- More Books By Miriam

- About Miriam

- Viking's Prize by Tanya Anne Crosby

- Chapter 1

- Chapter 2

- Chapter 3

- Chapter 4

- Chapter 5

- Chapter 6

- Chapter 7

- Chapter 8

- Chapter 9

- Chapter 10

- Chapter 11

- Chapter 12

- Chapter 13

- Chapter 14

- Chapter 15

- Chapter 16

- Chapter 17

- Chapter 18

- Chapter 19

- Chapter 20

- Chapter 21

- Chapter 22

- Chapter 23

- Chapter 24

- Chapter 25

- Chapter 26

- Chapter 27

- Chapter 28

- Chapter 29

- Chapter 30

- Chapter 31

- Chapter 32

- Chapter 33

- Chapter 34

- Chapter 35

- Epilogue

- Author's Note

- More Books By Tanya

- About Tanya

The Shipwreck

By Glynnis Campbell

Chapter 1

The Ninth Century

Off the Eastern Coast of Pictland

The last ominous sound Brandr heard, before the icy ocean closed over his head, blocking out the roar of the storm and the crash of the waves, was the deep crack of his longship splitting apart.

The current dragged at his sealskin cloak and boots, pulling him down. But with his one still useful arm, he managed to claw his way to the surface. Gasping frosty air into his lungs as he broke through the waves, he blinked back the stinging saltwater, trying to see in the relentless black night. The ship’s lanterns had gone out. No light came from the distant shore. Even the trusty stars were hidden behind thunderheads.

“Erik!” he bellowed. “Erik! Gunnarr! Haral—“

A gulp of seawater choked off his cries. He fought to stay afloat in the paralyzing cold, turning in the water, listening for his shipmates. But all he could hear was the howl of the wind, the pounding of the sea, and the splintering of wood as his ship was dashed against the rocks.

A flash of lightning split the sky, zigzagging down like Thor’s avenging spear to blacken the timber of the mast. Before Brandr could wonder what he’d done to offend the god, thunder rocked the heavens, and the top of the mast exploded into sparks, igniting the square sail. For a moment it looked as if the dragon painted on the canvas was breathing fire.

By the light of the flaming sail, Brandr could see the extent of the damage to his ship. The hull was broken. Ropes snapped wildly in the shrieking wind. Chests and oars slid into the sea. And his crew…

Shuddering with cold and pain, fighting the tide, he called over the roaring of the storm until he was hoarse. He found four of his men. They were dead.

The rain eventually arrived to extinguish the fiery wreckage. Brandr—beaten by the storm, devastated by loss, and too exhausted to care what happened to him—used the last of his strength to climb atop the splintered prow of his ship and resigned himself to the whim of the gods.

Death was following him. It had already come for his wife and children. Now it had come for his men. Soon it would come for him. And as far as Brandr was concerned, it could have him.

“Stay close!” Avril called after Kimbery, shaking her head as the four-year-old raced ahead of her across the wet sand. Her intrepid daughter possessed insatiable curiosity, incurable wanderlust, and a stubborn will that left her deaf to her mother’s warnings.

Not that there was much to warn her about. Here in their seaside home, they lived far out of everyone’s way. No one would stumble across their stone cottage or cross their stretch of beach by accident. Their exile to the eastern shores had left them in a location that was remote, isolated...and far enough from her ancestral home of Rivenloch to satisfy the brothers who’d stolen it from her.

In the distance, Kimbery squealed as she bent over some treasure along the tide’s edge—probably a pretty shell or a starfish washed ashore in last night’s storm. Avril kicked off her boots and hefted up her basket. With any luck, the wild tempest had stirred up something edible from the sea.

The brothers who’d banished her had probably expected her to starve, her and her “bastard Viking spawn,” as they called Kimbery. Certainly, her death would have been convenient for them.

But Avril hadn’t obliged them.

As willful as her daughter, she’d persisted, refusing to die. The land was hostile to crops, but she’d adapted to it. She’d learned to fish, to dig for clams, to pry mussels from rock, to snare coneys, to raid seagull nests, to make broth from seaweed and pottage from oysters. She’d even traded a silver cloak pin to her closest neighbor for a ewe that had lost its lamb, so she had milk, butter, cheese, and wool for clothing. A stream emptied into the ocean a short distance from the cottage, giving her ample water for drinking and bathing, and trout for supper.

But none of it was easy. So when the weather turned violent as it had last night and the ocean’s belly roiled, spewing its contents onto the beach, Avril considered it a gift from the sea. She might find a few stranded fish not yet picked apart by the gulls, a sizable clump of kelp, a useful shell, or even an odd tool or bit of line lost from a fishing boat.

Kimbery, of course, was convinced she’d unearth a mermaid’s jewels or Poseidon’s trident or an otter to keep for a pet. She’d learned to relish the flash of lightning and the crack of thunder that foretold a day of treasure-hunting on the beach.

The wee lass didn’t know any different. But Avril was well aware of how wrong their life of scraping and scavenging was. If she thought too deeply about what had been taken from her—her maidenhood, her lands, a proper family and playmates for her daughter, and about the fact that she’d been groomed from birth, not to dwell in a hovel, but to command a sizable holding—she’d be filled with constant rage and an unquenchable thirst for vengeance.

But there was nothing she could do. Invading Northmen had left her with child and killed her father. And once he was dead, her four younger brothers, racked with jealousy over the favoritism their father had shown her as the rightful heir, declared Avril unfit to rule Rivenloch. All the years her father had spent training her to take over his command—schooling her in the law, teaching her to wield a sword, bringing her up to be a moral, fair, honest leader—had been wasted. She was sent into exile with her daughter and what little she could carry on her back. And not a soul in Rivenloch had had the courage to face her thieving brothers and come forward in her defense.

Still, not a day passed that she didn’t think about winning it all back. It was only concern for her daughter’s welfare that kept Avril from taking up her sword and marching boldly to the gates of Rivenloch to demand the return of her keep.

“Mama!” Kimbery cried, draping a piece of dark seaweed over her sun-bright curls and skipping along the sea foam. “I’m a selkie!”

She smiled. She often wondered if ocean-loving Kimbery might indeed be half-seal. It was the little girl’s inventiveness that kept her own bitterness at bay and kept her fighting for survival. Sometimes Avril thought that being impregnated by a Viking berserker was the best thing that had ever happened to her.

She scanned the rocky tidepools as she walked toward the ocean, searching for periwinkles, glancing occasionally up at Kimbery to be sure she wasn’t straying too far. The wee lass had a healthy respect for the sea, but the tide could be unpredictable and unforgiving.

The air was calm today, and the sky was an unchanging gray, but evidence of the storm littered the beach. Avril picked up a piece of driftwood and poked at a clump of kelp on the sand. A fat abalone was attached to one of the strands, and it would make a nice supper tonight. She cut it loose, plopping it into her basket. A small purple starfish with six legs was stuck to the kelp, too. Though it was inedible, she added it to the basket to show to Kimbery, knowing she’d like its color. Closer to the water, she found a few crabs, but their shells had been picked clean by the seabirds.

She glanced up. Kimbery was hunkered down beside a tiny crab on the sand, and when the tide rushed in to cover it, the lass shrieked and leaped up, running and giggling as the ocean chased her.

Avril was still grinning when her attention was caught by something floating off the rocky point that jutted into the sea. It looked like a substantial piece of wood, maybe a crate or part of a cart, something that might prove useful. As she gradually made her way toward the point, she collected a few mussels for pottage and a large clamshell suitable for a bowl.

“Mama!”

Avril narrowed her eyes at the wood bobbing in the water. What was it? Though one end appeared to be splintered, the other sides were finished. Maybe it was a broken chest or a table.

“Mama! Look what I found!”

“In a moment!” she called back, studying the piece as it was tossed by the current.

“Mama! It’s my da!”

That got her attention. Avril whipped her head around and peered down the shoreline to where Kimbery was squatting beside a furry bulk on the sand.

It looked like a dead seal.

“See, Mama?”

Of course, Avril realized—Kimbery was pretending she was a selkie, so the dead seal must be her da. The lass had a vivid imagination. “I see!” A seal was indeed a good find. If it was freshly killed, its meat could keep their bellies full a long while. And she could make coats and slippers out of its fur. “I’ll be right there! Don’t touch it!”

A few more yards and she’d get a good look at whatever was floating off the point. If it wasn’t worth salvaging, she’d leave it be and see what she could get off the dead seal.

A broad wave caught the wood and turned it on its side. The instant she saw the design, her heart dropped to the pit of her stomach. A great round knob rose above the water. Painted on its surface in hues of red and blue was the face of a snarling dragon. It was the masthead of a longship.

Time slowed as she dropped her basket and turned toward Kimbery.

“Nay!” she screamed.

She picked up her skirts and tried to race across the beach, but the air suddenly felt heavy, and the sand dragged at her heels. Kimbery seemed impossibly distant and far too close to the body that Avril could see now was not a dead seal, but the remains of a man.

The bloody images of the berserker attack were as clear and fresh as that day five years ago...

Wild-eyed, axe-wielding giants bursting through the gates of Rivenloch, roaring and foaming at the mouth, hacking at everything in their path, smashing pottery, splitting furniture, slicing flesh...

The hounds’ yelps, cut off abruptly as their throats were slit...

The steward falling as his legs were cut out from under him...

A shrieking serving woman losing her arm...

One fleeing child axed in the back while another was trampled beneath heavy boots...

A young lass, frozen with fear, snatched up and carried off, never to be seen again...

It was happening again. The Northmen had returned. Avril staggered onto one knee.

Then she looked up at Kimbery, still yards away, and bit out a curse. She wouldn’t let the bastards have her daughter. She was no longer the innocent lass she’d been five years ago who’d become a victim of rape. She was prepared for them this time. Clenching her jaw in determination, she scrambled to her feet again and hurtled forward across the sand.

At last she reached Kimbery, sweeping her into her arms and clutching her so tightly that the wee lass squealed in complaint.

“Shh!” She spun, searching the boulders and clumps of sea grass lining the shore. The longship must have crashed in the storm. But what had become of its crew? Where were the dead man’s shipmates?

Everything seemed normal, undisturbed. Waves lapped at the beach, leaving arcs of foam. Gulls screed and soared overhead. Crabs skittered over the rocks. No strange footprints marred the virgin stretch of sand.

“Mama,” Kimbery whimpered impatiently. “Put me down.”

“Hush.” Avril scoured the beach once more. The Vikings had come again. There was no mistaking the origin of the carved dragon’s head. But they weren’t here now. Either they’d bypassed her cottage and moved inland already, or their dead bodies would be washing ashore soon. But for now at least, it appeared she and Kimbery were safe.

“Maaaamaaa,” Kimbery whined.

She let Kimbery slip to the ground. The lass immediately skipped over to the dead man.

“Don’t touch him,” Avril repeated.

Kimbery crouched a few feet away from him, resting her elbows on her knees and her chin in her hands, peering curiously into his face. “Is it my da?”

“Nay!” Avril replied, a little too vehemently, though she could see why the lass would think that. The man’s face was hidden behind strands of long blond hair that was the same pale color as Kimbery’s. He was covered in a cloak of seal fur, and his sealskin boots looked much like theirs. But there the resemblance ended. He was a giant, a head taller than any man she knew. His shoulders were broad and his feet huge. A silver cuff in a dragon design encircled one thick wrist, and hanging around his wide neck from a leather thong was a hammer of silver with foreign runes carved into it.

Thank God he was dead. His kind—the invaders from the North—were bloodthirsty, vicious, ruthless murderers.

She shuddered. Despite the value of all that silver, she had no desire to loot the corpse. She didn’t want to touch a Viking at all. Then she frowned in distaste. What would she do with the body? She didn’t want it rotting on her shore. She’d have to bury it, she supposed. It was a pity it wasn’t a beached seal. That much meat would have seen them through the winter.

Kimbery, flouting Avril’s instructions, picked up a club of driftwood and began nudging the man’s bloody shoulder. Avril shook her head. The lass might not openly disobey her by touching the dead man, but even at four years old, she had an annoying habit of stretching the rules as far as she could.

“Wake up!” the lass shouted into his unresponsive face.

“He’s dead, Kimmie.”

“Nay, he’s not.”

“Aye, he is,” she said, though Kimbery’s yelling was fit to wake the dead.

Kimbery curled her determined lip and nudged him again.

Avril raised a sardonic brow. Maybe she could cook him up for supper. There was probably a few hundred pounds of muscle on his large frame.

Then again, Viking meat was probably tough and foul-tasting.

“Wake! Up!” Kimbery punctuated each word with a hard poke of her driftwood.

“Kimbery, leave the poor—“

Then he groaned.

Avril froze. Shite. Kimbery was right. He wasn’t dead.

“See, Mama? I told you he was—“

She snatched the lass up so fast, the little girl’s head snapped backward.

The man groaned again. Avril snagged the driftwood out of Kimbery’s hand and held it in front of her like a weapon.

Then Kimbery began to wail, which caused the man to rouse.

“Sh-sh-sh-sh-sh.” Avril bounced the lass on her left hip, hoping to quiet her, to no avail. Damn! What would she do if the man regained consciousness? She wished she’d brought her sword. He’d swat away her driftwood club as easily as a piece of straw.

She could run. If she hurried, she could make it to her cottage with Kimbery before the man found his feet. But that would only delay him. Eventually he’d come and knock down her door, probably with one solid punch of his oversized fist.

Kimbery, enraged at being thwarted and oblivious to the danger, squirmed out of Avril’s grip just as the man’s eyes fluttered open.

“Run!” she screamed at Kimbery, who was already tearing off toward the cottage in fury.

Avril turned back to the man. She just glimpsed the ice-blue hue of his opening eyes before she swung around with the driftwood, clubbing him in the head as hard as she could.

Chapter 2

Avril was glad Kimbery hadn’t witnessed her mother clouting a helpless castaway.

She winced as she used the pointy end of the driftwood to cautiously sweep aside the unconscious man’s hair. Blood tricked down his temple where she’d struck him, but his pulse still beat steadily in his throat.

Thank God she hadn’t killed him. True, Northmen were degenerate and insidious and evil. But slaying an unarmed man went against everything her father had taught her about honor.

Now what was she going to do with him? He might wake again at any moment. She couldn’t keep clubbing him. But she had to keep him subdued. And she had to get him out of sight.

She didn’t really want him in her home, but she didn’t have much of a choice. She couldn’t afford to have him roaming loose. At least in the cottage, she could keep her eye on him.

Dropping the driftwood, she separated out one long strand of tough kelp caught on his boot and wrapped it around his ankles several times. She wrapped another thick strand around his wrists, noting that his left forearm was bruised and swollen.

She scowled. It looked like he’d broken his arm. Then she remembered he was the enemy and it didn’t matter to her if he’d broken his arm. She only hoped the bonds would hold until she reached the cottage and could tie him up with something more substantial.

Dragging him up the beach by his ankles was harder than she expected. His legs were leaden, and in his waterlogged clothing, he was as heavy as a walrus. With every backward step, the wet sand sucked at her feet, hampering her progress.

Halfway up the shore, she stopped to rest. Kimbery was safe now. She’d slammed the door behind her, and Avril could hear the little girl’s muffled wailing coming from inside the cottage.

While she caught her breath, Avril wiped the sweat from her forehead and took a moment to study her captive. A light growth of beard covered his chin, but he looked considerably younger than the savage who’d raped her five years ago. His face was not unhandsome. His skin was darkened by the sun and salted by the sea, but he lacked the heavy lines of age. His nose was straight, his cheekbones were unbroken, and his brow was strong. If his size didn’t give him away, the brief glimpse of his bright blue eyes confirmed he was a Northman.

She blew out a long breath and looked out to sea. In the distance, she could see refuse bobbing atop the waves and drifting toward the shore. Soon, splinters of his ship would make landfall, along with broken oars, bits of rigging, and, she thought with a shudder, the waterlogged corpses of his shipmates.

It took every bit of Brandr’s willpower to play dead. He still couldn’t believe the sweet-faced maiden had clubbed him with a cudgel of driftwood. But he didn’t want her to club him again, not while he didn’t have the strength to fight her. So he remained quiet as she began dragging him across the sand.

His head throbbed where she’d hit him, his muscles ached, and the deep-seated, dull pain in his left forearm told him he’d probably broken it.

It was still his heart that hurt the most. In the past year, he’d lost everything…his wife, his children, his ship, his men. It must be some cruel trick of the gods to keep him alive to endure such anguish.

After a while, the woman, panting heavily from her exertions, dropped his feet onto the sand and stopped to catch her breath. Even with his eyes closed, he could feel her gaze upon him like the searing touch of the sun.

What did she intend? She must not mean to kill him. Otherwise, he’d be dead by now. He figured he was somewhere along the Pictish coast, though he wasn’t sure where or how he’d washed ashore. Until he got his bearings and regained his strength, he was better off feigning unconsciousness.

Which was even more challenging when the woman resumed dragging him, this time up a stone pathway and over the threshold of a cottage, jarring his ribs and banging his skull on the hard rock.

At least it was warm indoors. He thought his bones would never thaw. He heard the comforting crackle of a fire and smelled pottage simmering on the hearth. And then he heard something that wrenched at his memory—the quiet sobbing of a child.

Unbidden, the faces of Sten and Asta appeared in his mind’s eye, and unbearable pain seized him as he realized he’d never see his children or his wife Inga again. The last time he’d seen them alive was when he’d set sail on a raiding voyage with his brothers, Ragnarr and Halfdan. By the time he returned, his family had been dead two months, stolen from him by a sickness that had swept through the village. His brothers’ families had succumbed as well, and even though they’d never said so, he was sure his brothers regretted going on that last long raid with him.

“Shh, Kimmie, it’s all right now,” the woman murmured in Pictish. It was a language Brandr had learned as a boy from the slaves his father had brought home.

“You hurt me,” the little girl sobbed.

“I didn’t mean to hurt you, wee one,” the woman replied. “But I’m very proud of you for running home. You did just the right thing. You were very brave. And you ran very fast.”

The pain in Brandr’s chest deepened. The woman might speak a different language, but her motherly voice reminded him of his precious Inga.

The little girl came closer, her voice hitching with spent tears. “Will my…my da…live with us now?”

“He’s not your da.”

“He is.”

“Nay.”

“Aye.”

“Nay, he’s not,” the mother replied testily as she began cutting the bonds around his ankles. “Why do you keep saying that?”

“He is my da. He is,” the little girl insisted, starting to cry again.

“Kimmie, I’ve told you a hundred times. Your da is dead.”

“That’s what you said about him.” Brandr imagined the little girl was sticking out a pouty lip the way Asta always did when she knew she was right.

The woman, unable to come up with a suitable reply, changed the subject. “Look in the chest beside the bed and see if you can find Finn‘s leash.”

Leash. Leash? That didn’t bode well. What was she up to?

He didn’t find out until it was too late. As she started sawing at the kelp bonds around his wrists, she wrenched his broken arm, and the pain was so severe that he blacked out.

When Brandr awoke again, he was bound in a leather collar and leashed tightly by his neck through an iron ring attached to the wall. His sealskin cloak was missing, leaving him sitting in his tunic, trousers, and boots. His bound legs stretched nearly to the hearth, his arms were secured to his sides by a rope around his midsection, and his wrists were tied before him.

Fury surged through his veins. By Thor! He’d come here to conquer, not to be conquered. How could he have wound up a prisoner—the prisoner of a woman?

While his rage simmered, he perused the room through narrowed eyelids. His cloak had been hung on a peg near the fire. And his captors supped at a table across the chamber, unaware that he’d roused.

He could see why the little girl thought he was her father. They shared the same blond hair. The girl was younger than his daughter, but in her dust-colored kirtle and bare feet, she reminded him of Asta.

Though he hated to admit it, the mother was breathtaking. Her hair, an intoxicating color of golden mead and ruby wine combined, hung in thick waves down her back, and her skin was as golden and radiant as flame. Her face was artfully sculpted, with generous lips and finely arched brows, and her snugly-laced, faded blue kirtle revealed pleasing womanly curves.

But this was the same lovely temptress who’d clubbed him, dragged him home, and tied him up like a dog. He wasn’t about to be fooled by her pretty face.

He studied the stone cottage, which was well-kept and welcoming. Its curious furnishings appeared to be made mostly of scavenge from the sea. Odd pieces of driftwood were fitted together to form stools, and candles were set in holders made of mussel shells. A bit of fishing net tacked onto one wall held hair combs carved out of abalone, and on a shelf fashioned out of an oar sat an assortment of clamshell bowls and dishes. A fishing pole and a net were propped against the hearth. But it was what was leaned against the corner that interested him most.

It was a nobleman’s sword, a magnificent blade. Its pommel was set with gems, the grip was wrapped in seasoned leather, and the guard was carved with designs that intersected, weaving complex knots. The sword looked well cared for. The steel was highly polished, the edge keen. He wondered where the man who owned the weapon was.

“Mama,” the little girl said, picking up her clamshell bowl, “my da wants some, too.”

“He’s not your da, Kimmie, and he’s not even…” She ended on a gasp as she glanced his way.

It was too late to feign sleep.

She rose suddenly, knocking over her stool. “Awake.”

“He’s hungry, Mama.”

Brandr swallowed, and his throat clicked. He didn’t feel like eating, but he was as parched as winter tundra.

The little girl started toward him with her bowl, but her mother hauled her back.

“Listen to me,” she said sternly. “He is not your da. He’s a bad man, a very bad man. Promise me you won’t go near him.”

“But—“

“Promise me, Kimbery.”

Kimbery sighed unhappily and put her bowl back on the table. “I promise.”

A very bad man. Brandr supposed he was that. After all, a good man would never have deserted his wife and children to go a-Viking.

Avril righted her overturned stool. Then she picked up Kimbery and sat her atop it. “You stay here.”

She straightened and took a steadying breath. The Northman looked much more menacing now that he was awake. She’d already decided he was astonishingly handsome, but his fierce frown made him look dangerous as well. She glanced at the hound collar and leash, hoping they’d hold. She’d managed to keep their great wolfhound, Finn, at heel on that leash until he’d died last year. But the man probably outweighed the hound three times over. And she’d seen, once she removed his cloak, that he was all muscle and bone. She shivered at the thought of all that male strength.

Still, if her father had taught her one thing, it was never to show fear to the enemy. So she raised her chin and confronted him with a stern scowl. “You. Can you understand me?”

He glowered at her through the strands of his hair, but didn’t reply.

“Your ship.” She pounded one fist into her palm, then exploded her fingers outward to indicate a crash. “How many men were on board?”

He continued to glare at her.

She counted on her fingers. “How many?”

He could understand her. She knew he could. Hell, even Kimbery could understand what she was asking. But he stubbornly refused to answer.

She narrowed her eyes at him. “Damned Viking,” she sneered, biting out a word he’d surely recognize.

His lip curled slowly into a grim smile.

An uneasy tremor slithered up her spine, but she refused to let him frighten her. The man was chained to the wall, after all. She had the upper hand. He was at her mercy. She was in control. She’d been trained for command, and she knew how to wield it. If only he wouldn’t stare at her with those piercing blue eyes.

She picked up the fireplace poker. It felt good in her grip, like a weapon. “I know your kind,” she told him, smacking the poker against her palm in threat. “You’re not the first Viking I’ve met.”

His gaze slipped to Kimbery, as if he understood her perfectly and had divined her entire sordid history. Avril’s nostrils flared, and her cheeks grew hot. She leaned forward out of Kimbery’s hearing to snarl under her breath. “That’s right. After slaughtering half my people—men, women, and children—one of your kind took me by force and left me with a babe.” She licked her lip, inventing a more satisfactory end to the story. “When I was through with him, he was unable to breed again.”

A long silence followed as he stared at her, his face expressionless. She decided he must not be able to understand her after all.

She backed away, turning to jab at the coals on the hearth. “How unlucky for you, Viking,” she said with a self-satisfied smirk. “You come to invade my land and end up shipwrecked on my beach. Maybe that will teach you savages to stay where you belong.”

Brandr creased his brow. Where he belonged. He didn’t belong anywhere. He had no home, not anymore. The place he’d once called home was full of painful memories, and he had no wish to return there.

Had he come to invade her land? Aye. Had he meant to plunder it? Absolutely. But he’d come to settle here, not to wage war. He only meant to kill if he had to. He wasn’t a savage. Of course he’d taken slaves before. But none of his men brandished their weapons without good cause. And none would ever bed a woman against her will.

The Vikings who’d come before must have been berserkers. Such men ingested peculiar mushrooms that made them crazed and violent, driven to mow down everything in their path. To Brandr, they were worse than wild animals.

“I expect your shipmates will be washing ashore soon,” the woman mused, replacing the poker. She gazed into the fire, adding sardonically, “I hope I have enough leashes.”

Brandr tightened his jaw. He doubted any of his shipmates were alive. No one should have survived that storm. The fact that he’d been spared was proof that Loki, that mischief-making god, wasn’t finished torturing him.

He didn’t know what had happened to his brothers’ ships. The tempest had roared to life halfway through the voyage, and the three vessels had become quickly separated. Even if Halfdan and Ragnarr somehow miraculously managed to sail into the storm and come out the other side, it was unlikely they’d end up on the same stretch of the winding Pictish coast.

“Meanwhile,” the woman considered, “what do I do with you?”

She gave him a thorough perusal that ordinarily would have been flattering. But where most women gazed at Brandr as if imagining exactly what they wanted to do with him, she looked as if she hadn’t the slightest idea.

“I could turn you over to the lawmen,” she murmured. “If you’re lucky, they’ll hang you quick.”

He doubted that. If berserkers had wreaked havoc here, the villagers would more likely stand in line to exact revenge on a Viking trussed up for their pleasure. They’d delight in tearing him to pieces.

“I can’t keep you here,” she said to herself.

She was right about that, he thought, staring straight ahead, betraying no emotion. She damned well couldn’t keep him here. He’d allow no one to keep him on a leash, least of all a puny Pictish lass.

The woman continued to contemplate his fate aloud while, behind her, her daughter quietly inched her stool forward.

“The last thing I need,” the woman said, “is a third mouth to feed.”

A third. So she lived alone here with her daughter. His gaze went to the sword propped in the corner. Then whose was that? Maybe, he thought morosely, it had belonged to the last man she’d tied up in her cottage.

The little girl picked up the stool beneath her, toddled a few steps closer, and sat back down.

The woman sighed peevishly. “I should have tossed you back into the sea while I had the chance.”

The little girl stared intently at Brandr as she tiptoed forward again with the stool.

“It would probably be a kindness to kill you,” the woman muttered, “before someone with less mercy finds you here.”

The little girl took two more cautious steps forward and sat down an arm’s-length behind her mother, watching him fearlessly.

“And it’d be no less than you deser-“ She whirled and almost tripped over the little girl. “Kimbery!” She glanced back at him, blushing, then turned to confront her wayward daughter. “I told you to stay.”

“I did stay. See?” She pointed to the stool beneath her, blinking in all innocence.

The woman growled in frustration. Then a strange thing happened. The little girl flashed Brandr a conspiratorial grin, and, of their own accord, his lips curved slightly in answer. It was his first genuine smile in almost a year.

“Mama,” Kimbery said sweetly, “I don’t want my pottage. You can give it to my da.”

The woman spoke between clenched teeth. “Once and for all, Kimbery, he is not—“

“Your mother’s right,” Brandr interjected. “I’m not your da. I’m a bad man, a very bad man, and you should stay away.”

Avril’s jaw dropped. Damn the Viking! He did speak her language, which meant he could understand her perfectly well. “You!” she spat in annoyance, at a loss for words. “You…stop speaking to my daughter.”

He did. But his compliance didn’t keep her from feeling suddenly threatened. She didn’t know why. After all, he was bound, injured, and at her mercy. Still, that he’d been able to deceive her troubled her greatly. And the fact he was warning Kimbery away didn’t fit with her assessment of him as a depraved killer. His manner—part devious, part disarming—was definitely unnerving. And she hated to be unnerved.

“Kimmie,” she said over her shoulder, “go to bed.”

“But I’m not sleepy.”

“Go to bed. Now.”

Kimbery stuck out her bottom lip, and then flounced off the stool and stomped off, whimpering under her breath.

Avril took a moment to compose herself, and then turned to him, crossing her arms over her chest. “I want some answers, and I want them—“

“Twenty.”

“What?”

“Twenty.” At her furrowed brow, he added, “You asked how many men were aboard my ship.”

She swallowed hard. The berserkers had had at least twice that number. Still, twenty was nineteen more men than she could handle at the moment.

“Where were you headed?”

He shrugged.

“You don’t know?” That she didn’t believe. The Northmen were notoriously good navigators.

“I didn’t care.”

His words chilled her. But she supposed she should have expected as much. Barbarians like him scoured the seas, wreaking havoc wherever they landed, unmindful of the devastation they left behind, the people they killed, the lives they destroyed.

“I’d wager you care now,” she said with grim threat. “You made a grave error, Viking, landing on my shore.”

The doubtful arch of his brow was admittedly subtle. But Avril recognized scorn when she saw it. Men had always questioned her strength, her judgment, and her skill with a blade. At one time, it had infuriated her. Five years ago, she might have succumbed to the impulse to draw her sword to show him just how capable she was.

But she’d learned to rein in her temper. The last time she’d drawn a blade impulsively, she’d wound up at the mercy of a berserker. She wouldn’t let it happen again. Besides, what satisfaction could be derived from turning a sword on a helpless captive?

He was staring at her again with his penetrating eyes. She didn’t think she’d ever seen eyes so blue—as blue as a summer sky, nay, a robin’s egg. Rattled, she turned aside to add another log to the fire.

“I think your arm is broken,” she mumbled. Why she’d told him that, she didn’t know. After all, it didn’t matter. She wasn’t about to fix it for him.

“It’s a wonder my head isn’t broken,” he said with a humorless smirk.

She blushed at the reminder of her unchivalrous blow and picked up the poker again, eager to change the subject. “How is it you know my language?”

“I learned it from a Pict slave.”

She clenched her teeth. A slave? She jabbed at the glowing coals, but refused to rise to the bait. Maybe she should turn him into a slave.

As if he’d read her mind, he asked, “What do you intend to do with me?”

She’d been asking herself that same question all morning. For the moment, she’d hold him hostage. If any of his men turned up alive, she might be able to bargain for her safety with his life. But she wasn’t sure there were survivors. Even if there were, there was no telling whether he was of any value to them. The Northmen didn’t seem to have the same regard for life as her people did.

“I haven’t decided yet,” she said.

“If you’re going to kill me,” he growled, “get it over with.”

She frowned. Kill him? In cold blood? Obviously, he knew nothing about chivalry. She straightened with pride, planting the poker between her feet like a blade. “I can’t do that. Unlike you, my sense of honor prevents me from slaying unarmed men.”

He lifted a brow in mockery. “Give me a blade then,” he suggested.

Avril gave him a sardonic smirk. She wasn’t so foolhardy as to think she could easily triumph over a gargantuan Northman. But she didn’t appreciate his insulting attitude. “I may be honorable, but I’m not soft in the head.”

He half-smiled. “You look soft to me.”

Her composure slipped, but only for an instant. “I assure you, you wouldn’t be the first man I sent limping from the field of battle.”

His eyes narrowed suggestively. “And you wouldn’t be the first woman I laid out flat on her back.”

Chapter 3

Brandr regretted his words as soon as he spoke them. He’d forgotten she’d been the victim of rape.

She winced as if he’d struck her, and then recovered so quickly he thought he’d imagined her hurt. “No doubt,” she coldly replied.

For some absurd reason, he suddenly wanted to defend himself. He wanted to tell her that he wasn’t a berserker. He’d never killed a man without just cause. And he’d never forced himself upon a woman. True, he’d bedded more than his share of eager wenches in his youth, but only at their invitation. And once he’d taken a wife…

Then he gave his head a mental shake. What was he thinking? It didn’t matter what the woman thought of him. They were foes. She probably intended to kill him anyway. If she’d been exposed to berserkers from the North—the kind that violated women, murdered priests, and slaughtered children—she had every cause to want him dead.

And yet there were qualities about her—her independence, her intelligence, her patience with her daughter, the way she talked about honor—that told him she might not kill him needlessly. She might listen to reason.

That was why he’d volunteered the truth about his men and his ship. His fate rested in her hands at the moment. If he gave her cause for mistrust, she wouldn’t hesitate to slay him. He’d do the same in her position.

But if he endeared himself to her, if he made her look at him, not as a Viking, but as a man, she’d have a harder time killing him...and maybe he’d buy himself time to overpower her and escape.

“You know, I’m not really the savage you think I am,” he confided.

She ignored him, setting aside the poker and going into the kitchen.

“I had a family,” he called after her, “a daughter like yours.” He silently cursed as his voice caught on the words.

She froze for a moment, and then cleared her empty shell bowl from the table.

He added, “I, too, would have protected her from men like me.”

She paused again, then sighed and picked up the little girl’s half-eaten pottage. “It’s cold,” she grumbled, approaching to give him the bowl, “but it’ll fill your belly.”

Pain seared his cracked forearm as he lifted the bowl with his bound hands to tip the contents into his mouth. But it was better than starving to death. He finished the pottage in three gulps, and then lowered his hands to rest them limply on his lap, letting the bowl slip through his fingers and onto the floor.

The woman returned to her fire-tending. Her face glowed golden as she gazed into the flames, and her hair shone with reflected firelight. “You said you had a daughter.” She asked casually, “What happened to her?”

It had been almost a year, but the wound still felt new and raw. “She died,” he said flatly. Just speaking the words aloud hurt.

The air grew still. For a long while, she didn’t speak.

Finally she asked, “How?”

He swallowed down the knot of pain in his throat. He didn’t want to talk about it. He didn’t know this woman. She was his enemy. Why should he tell her anything? And yet something compelled him to speak. Maybe it was the soft encouragement in her voice. Maybe it was the dewy compassion in her eyes. Maybe it was the fact that he had nothing more to lose. “Plague.”

Her forehead creased, and she propped the poker against the hearth. “And her mother?”

His cruel mind conjured up Inga’s precious face. “Dead,” he told her woodenly. “My daughter. My wife. My son. All dead.”

He heard the woman’s soft gasp, but she had no words of comfort for him. There weren’t any. There was nothing anyone could say to bring back his family.

After a bit, she murmured, “But you survived.”

“Oh, aye.” Bitter regret twisted his mouth as he sneered, “I was lucky. I was at sea.”

The woman’s brow furrowed. She leaned forward almost imperceptibly. For a curious instant, as she looked at him with liquid brown eyes full of empathy, he imagined she meant to touch his hand in solace.

But he’d never be sure, because at that moment, the little girl peered around the doorway. “Mama,” she sang out cheerfully, “I’m finished sleeping.”

“Kimbery!” the woman cried, coloring and rising briskly.

Avril felt the way she had when her father had caught her kissing the stable boy. Which was ridiculous. After all, she’d done nothing to be ashamed of. But a strange guilt lingered in the air. She’d almost reached out to comfort the Northman. And she didn’t know why.

Flustered, she scooped up the empty bowl and turned to face Kimbery.

“I’m all better now, Mama,” the wee lass said, using her sweetest, most cunning voice.

Avril sighed and shook her head, then carried the bowl into the kitchen.

Kimbery’s wiles left Avril with a dilemma. Avril needed to search the beach to see if any more Northmen had made landfall. But it was too risky taking Kimbery with her. If there were shipwreck survivors, she didn’t want to put her daughter in harm’s way. And if there weren’t, she didn’t need her little girl seeing a dozen half-eaten corpses washing up on her shore.

She needed Kimbery to stay in the cottage. But she didn’t trust the wee lass with the man she kept insisting was her da. He might very well talk her into setting him free.

She had a choice then. She could either tie up her daughter, or she could drug the Northman.

The decision took an instant.

“You must be thirsty,” she called to him.

She needn’t have worried he’d taste the opium powder she put in his mead. He gulped it down eagerly and wanted more. While she kept Kimbery occupied churning sheep’s milk into butter, he began to get drowsy. By the time his suspicions were aroused, it was too late.

“What’d y’ put…in th’ drink?” he asked, slurring the words.

“Nothing poisonous,” she told him. “Don’t fret. You’ll just sleep for a while.”

With his last bit of strength, he growled at her in impotent anger, and then he slumped against the beam.

“G’night, Da,” Kimbery called merrily as she plunged the dasher up and down in the wooden churn.

Avril swirled her cloak over her shoulders. “Kimmie, I’m going down to the beach. I need you to stay here and keep churning.”

She nodded.

“Stay away from the man. I’ll be back soon.”

“Shh,” she whispered. “Da’s sleeping. Don’t wake him up.”

Avril glanced at the softly snoring Viking, who looked far less threatening in slumber. His scowl was gone. His muscles were lax. His mouth fell open like Kimbery’s when she was sleeping. With his broad shoulders, his strong jaw, and his breathtaking eyes, he was truly one of the most attractive men she’d ever seen. Indeed, she could almost imagine him, not as a treacherous Northman, but as a little girl’s father. Almost.

On her way to the beach, Avril grabbed the sharpened spade from the garden. It would serve to either bury the dead or defend her from the living.

It was midday by the time she returned to the cottage. She’d found no bodies or evidence of survivors, just a few splintered planks from his longship. A lot of driftwood, however, had washed ashore from the tempest, enough to keep their hearth burning all winter. It would take more than one trip to bring it all home.

To her surprise, when she dropped her first burden at the threshold and pushed open the door to check on Kimbery, the little girl was still sitting dutifully at her post, churning butter. But then Avril glanced over at the snoring Northman. Kimbery’s stuffed cloth doll was tucked into the crook of his arm.

“Kimbery,” she chided.

“He was lonely,” the little girl explained.

Avril shook her head. Kimbery was probably right. The man had lost his shipmates, his wife, and his children. She couldn’t imagine how awful that must be. If she lost Kimbery…

It was too awful to contemplate. Her daughter was all she had now.

She took the lid off the churn to show Kimbery how all her hard work had magically separated the cream. She poured the buttermilk off into a small cask and wrapped the lump of butter into a piece of dried kelp.

But then she needed to think up a new task to keep Kimbery occupied while she collected the rest of her scavenge. She plucked a small piece of cool charcoal from the fire and gave it to the little girl, along with the pale, flat slate they used for writing.

“Why don’t you practice your letters?” she suggested. Avril’s father had insisted Avril learn to read so she’d be better able to manage Rivenloch. Avril was determined to pass the skill on to her daughter.

Kimbery picked up the charcoal and, pressing her lips together in concentration, drew a straight vertical line.

“I’m going out again,” Avril told her. “I’ll see what you’ve written when I come back.”

It took three more treks to collect the store of driftwood. Satisfied with her haul, which she stacked beside the cottage, she dusted off her skirts and opened the door.

“Look, Mama!” Kimbery squealed, hopping down from her stool. “Look what I made!”

Avril studied the slate. Kimbery had printed the letters D and A, and beneath was a primitive sketch of their prisoner, bound with rope, with her doll nestled in one arm.

Avril wanted to be perturbed, but it was admittedly a decent drawing for a four-year-old. “That’s very good, Kimmie. Now why don’t you draw a picture of a starfish?”

“Nay!” she said, covering the slate with her arms to keep Avril from wiping it clean. “I want to show him.”

“But he’s sleeping.”

“He’ll wake up.”

Avril wondered. She hadn’t put that much powder in his drink—certainly not much more than she did on occasions when her monthly courses became unbearable—but opium could be risky.

His arm looked awful. It was still swollen, and the skin of his forearm had a bluish cast. If he’d been someone she cared about, she would have set it and made him a splint so it would heal straight. But it seemed like a waste of time and effort when she wasn’t even sure she was going to let him live, let alone recover from his injuries.

As it turned out, he slept through Kimbery’s afternoon nap and their abalone supper. When Kimbery crept into bed with a huge yawn, he was still sleeping. And he hadn’t awakened when Avril blew out the candles and made her way to bed.

But in the middle of the night, she was roused by the sound of scuffling in the next room, and she crept out to investigate, a dagger in her hand.

By the dim light of the banked fire, she saw the Northman beginning to wake. His movements were sluggish, and his eyelids flagged as he struggled to sit upright.

She moved forward to get a closer look, hunkering down beside him.

When his gaze alit on her, a look of wonder came over his face. His eyes lit up with pleasure and relief. “Inga,” he breathed.

She frowned and opened her mouth, intending to correct him. But when she saw the affection in his eyes, she found she didn’t have the heart.

“Inga.” He smiled, his eyes twinkling.

She gulped, reluctant to break the fragile thread of his happy delusion.

He reached up with his bound hands and took her chin in gentle fingers. Before she realized what he was doing, he tilted his head and captured her lips with his.

For an instant she froze, stunned. Swiftly, the softness of his mouth, the warmth of his touch, the sweetness of his kiss enthralled her, and she melted into his welcoming embrace. He tasted of the sea and adventure and passion. And for one sliver of a moment in time, it was possible to believe he had feelings for her.

Then she remembered who he was and that he’d called her by another woman’s name.

With a soft cry of resistance, she tore free, covering her mutinous mouth with the back of one trembling hand and holding her dagger out before her.

Oblivious to her blade, he mumbled something in his own tongue then and, with a peaceful sigh, slumped back into slumber.

Avril scrambled back, scrubbing at her lips. God’s eyes! How could she have let him kiss her? He was a Northman—a savage, a barbarian, a dog. His kind were rapists and plunderers. Shite, she should have killed him while she had the chance.

Yet even though she steeled her heart against him, his taste lingered on her lips, taunting her. Returning to bed, she found it impossible to get back to sleep as unsavory memories rose to the surface of her thoughts.

It had been a long time since she’d been kissed by a man. And she’d never been kissed so tenderly.

Though she’d tried to deny it, rape had left her damaged. The loss of power, the helplessness had cut her deeply. For a long while afterwards, she hadn’t been able to endure a man’s glance, much less his touch. She’d wanted to crawl away in defeat, to hide in shame and lick her wounds.

But she knew that would have meant her rapist had won and that she’d bear those scars the rest of her life. So instead, she’d decided to deal with the trauma the same way she handled falling off a horse or being knocked down in a swordfight.

She’d faced her fears, diving headfirst back into the fray. Though she wasn’t particularly proud of her rash behavior now, she’d begun bedding men indiscriminately, forcing them to submit to her will, enjoying a heady triumph when they surrendered beneath her. Eventually, she’d overcome her feelings of powerlessness and vulnerability.

It appalled her now to think of the men she’d seduced and cast away. On the other hand, when she’d finally realized that she was pregnant, not one of them had come forward to claim the babe and salvage her honor.

Of course, after she gave birth to a fair-haired girl who was obviously the offspring of a Viking, she was shunned by all. She’d had to face the hard truth—she’d never find a man willing to play father to a Viking’s child and husband to a woman stripped of her title, her land, and her wealth.

She’d shut off that part of her that longed for family, friends, and love, hidden it away behind the locked door to her heart.

But that kiss…that kiss had turned the key in the door and stirred feelings in her she’d forgotten—feelings of tenderness, affection, and hope. And it was a long while before her restless emotions let her drift off to sleep.

Brandr wandered all night in the land between waking and sleeping. He wasn’t sure what was real and what he dreamed. But now morning had arrived, and his body couldn’t have felt more substantial to him. His tongue was stuck to the roof of his mouth. His eyes were gummed shut. His hands were numb.

She’d drugged him. He remembered that much. The mead she’d given him had been laced with something that had sent him into a hallucination-riddled oblivion.

If only it had left him there…

Sensing someone near, he cracked open one eyelid. In the dim light, he could see the little blonde girl crouched beside him with an empty chamberpot, studying his face.

“Kimmie!” her mother shouted, startling the child. “Get away from him!”

The little girl did as she was told, dropping the chamberpot beside him with a loud clank. Then she crossed her arms importantly over her chest and said something she’d probably heard before from her mother. “If you can’t take good care of your pets, you can’t keep them.”

“He’s not a—,” she said, snagging the little girl’s hand to drag her back. “I told you, Kimmie, he’s a bad man.”

Brandr opened both eyes now. Even mussed from slumber, the woman was lovely. Tendrils of hair had pulled loose from her braid and framed her face like seaweed draped artfully on a sandy shore. Beneath her kirtle, her rumpled white underdress was untied at the throat, revealing the subtle curve of her bosom. And her sleep-swollen lips…

He frowned. A strange memory tugged at his brain. Had he…kissed the woman?

Her fleeting glance and the guilt in her eyes confirmed his suspicion. He had kissed her. But when? And why?

Her gaze drifted and settled upon his lap, and suddenly he wondered if he’d done more than just kiss her. Had he taken liberties with her that he couldn’t recall?

“Kimbery,” she said, continuing to stare with discomfiting boldness, “bring Mama her dagger.”

His breath caught. Her dagger? What did she mean to do? Surely she wouldn’t...cut anything off of him in front of her daughter. Would she? He tried to ask her what she intended, but his mouth was too dry to speak.

Once she had the dagger in her hand, she approached him, and he drew his legs back defensively.

“Listen,” she confided softly so her daughter wouldn’t hear. “I’m going to cut your wrists free. But if you try anything, I swear I’ll plunge this dagger into your throat.”

He looked down at his hands, resting on his lap. No wonder he couldn’t feel them. The ropes were cutting into his swollen wrists, and the fingers of his left hand were blue.

“Do you understand?” she said, narrowing flinty eyes at him.

He nodded.

She sliced him free, and he bit back a groan of pain as sensation suddenly stabbed into his fingers like a thousand agonizing needles. He felt the blood drain from his face as he fought to stay conscious.

“Kimmie, bring me a cup of water, please.”

The little girl hurried to comply. Why the woman was showing him mercy, he didn’t know. Perhaps it was only that she didn’t want his death on her conscience. But he gladly accepted the water as she tipped the cup back for him, coughing as he drank too swiftly.

Whether she would have actually slit his throat in front of the little girl, he didn’t know, but he wasn’t about to put her to the test.

“Kimbery,” she called over her shoulder, her blade resting against his neck. “I need you to wait in bed until I call you.”

“But, Mama, I want to help, too.”

“Not yet. In a moment.”

Brandr didn’t like the sound of that. What did the woman want to do that she didn’t want her daughter to see?

“Promise?” the little girl asked.

“I promise. Now wait there till I call you.”

The lass skipped off, and Brandr was left alone with the woman.

She stared at her blade where it contacted his throat, muttering irritably to herself. “I should just let you go on suffering. God knows you would have shown me no mercy.” She glanced down at his misshapen arm. “If I do this for you,” she said, sighing, “if I put you out of your misery—“

By Odin, she meant to kill him! His warrior instincts took over, and despite her menacing blade, despite the wrenching pain in his arms, with the last of his strength, he reached up with his good hand and roughly seized her wrist, giving it a sharp flick and sending the dagger clattering across the floor.

For an instant, their eyes met, and he saw true panic there as he gained the upper hand. But his advantage was short-lived. In the next breath, she drove her free fist forward and punched him hard in the nose.

Chapter 4

The Viking instantly lost his grip on her, and Avril tumbled back onto her hindquarters, cradling her bruised knuckles. What was wrong with the man? Hadn’t she said she was going to put him out of his misery? The ungrateful wretch!

He was subdued now, and blood dripped from one nostril. She hadn’t hit him hard enough to break his nose. Indeed, she hadn’t knocked him out, only stunned him. She’d have to work quickly before he took it into his head to fight off her good intentions again.

She carefully moved his injured arm flat on his lap and pushed up his sleeve to examine it. The bone looked fairly straight, though it was hard to tell from the swelling. She ran her fingertips gently and swiftly along the edges of his forearm to check for breaks.

Nothing poked through the flesh, so it wasn’t too serious. But halfway between his elbow and his wrist, there was a bulge where the bone had cracked and slipped sideways. She’d have to pull it and put it back into alignment.

Why she was showing him any kindness, she didn’t know. Maybe it was because he’d lost his wife and children. Maybe it was because he was alone, abandoned, a castaway like her. Maybe it was the way he’d kissed her last night.

He was coming around again, sniffing back the blood trickling from his nose. She’d have to move fast. Seizing his thick wrist in both her hands, she thrust her foot against the inside of his elbow and pulled hard.

He bellowed, but he must have understood what she was doing. His right hand was free, and he could have flattened her with one punch. Instead, he pounded the floor with his fist.

She let go of him then and backed away. She wasn’t sure what black words he spat out, for they were in his own tongue. But the rafters rang with his curses, and Kimbery couldn’t resist the urge to peek around the corner at the great roaring beast.

“Mama, what are you—“

“Go!” they shouted simultaneously, and Kimbery disappeared at once.

The Northman was huffing like a wounded wolf now, and she realized he was just as dangerous. She’d set his arm. And now he might well be able to use it.

She armed herself with the fireplace poker, ready to jab him at a moment’s notice. But he didn’t seem inclined to aggression. His legs were bound. His upper arms were secure. The leash was still in place. He couldn’t go anywhere.

“The break should heal properly now, but you’ll need a splint. Move,” she said, showing him the poker, “and I’ll break your other arm.”

Luckily she had a choice selection of driftwood just outside. Leaving the door open, she ducked out, quickly chose two fairly straight sticks, and brought them in, thinking all the while she must be mad. Mending a Viking invader made as much sense as sewing up a deer she’d shot for supper.

She rummaged in the small chest at the hearth and found a linen underdress that had grown too small for Kimbery. She ripped it into strips to use for binding. “Do I need to give you opium again to keep you calm?”

“Nay,” he growled.

She still didn’t trust him. “Then heed me well, Northman. Make one false move, and I’ll unset your arm again as fast as I set it.”

He let her splint his arm, but it proved almost as much an ordeal for her as it was for him. It felt wrong, touching him. His arm looked foreign and forbidding with its massive muscle and sprinkling of light golden hair. His tawny skin was hot beneath her fingers, as if it radiated sunlight, and her own flesh grew warm from the contact. She was close enough to feel his breath, and her pulse quickened as she remembered the pleasant sensation of his lips on hers. The kiss had been so unexpectedly gentle coming from a brutal Northman.

But she couldn’t afford to be gulled by his tenderness. Besides, he looked anything but tender today. An angry furrow lodged between his brows. The corners of his mouth turned down. And his hands looked enormous and threatening beside hers. A man like him could grasp her neck in one fist and squeeze the life out of her before she could blink.

Fortunately, he didn’t.

She managed to tie off the splint and then bound his wrists together again with rope. Satisfied with her work, she backed away, eager to create some distance between her and the man who was disrupting her heartbeat.

Keeping her hands occupied was easy. There were always plenty of chores to be done. She’d gathered seaweed yesterday to make a soup, and now she stood at the table with her wooden block, chopping the ruffled red strands into small pieces. Keeping her mind occupied, however, was almost impossible, especially when she felt the Viking’s silent gaze on her like the intent stare of a stalking wolf.

After several unnerving moments, he finally spoke. “No chains can hold me forever, woman.”

She continued chopping. She worried he was right, but she certainly wasn’t about to let him know that.

He continued, “Have you not heard the story of Fenrir?”

She gave him a disinterested sniff.

Which he ignored. “Fenrir, the fearsome son of Loki. They tried to keep him chained. Shall I tell you what happened?”

She refused to look at him. “Nay. I have no wish to hear—”

“Tell me! Tell me!” Kimmie suddenly cried from the doorway. “I want to hear a story!”

“Hush!” Avril hissed. “I don’t want you going anywhere near him, Kimbery.”

“I won’t go near him, Mama. I promise. Please?”

“Nay. I don’t even want him speaking to you.”

“But why?” she whined.

He answered before she could open her mouth. “Your mother is afraid I may turn you into a Viking.”

“Oh,” Kimmie said.

Avril let out an exasperated breath, slammed down her knife, and glowered at him. “That’s not true.”

“But Mama, I’m already half Viking,” she said happily, skipping over to Avril.

Avril bit the inside of her cheek. She usually tried to forget about that half. Despite Kimbery’s ice blonde hair and periwinkle blue eyes, she thought of her daughter as a sweet little Pict lass.

“Please, Mama,” she wheedled, tugging on Avril’s skirts, “I’ll be good, I promise.”

“You’ll be good,” Avril said, picking up her knife and pointing it toward the Northman. “He, however, is not so well-behaved.”

“What do you expect I’ll do?” he muttered, pointedly twisting his neck in the collar, “Pierce her with my gaze?”

Avril thought he was doing a fairly good job of that already. She felt the touch of his frosty glare like the stabbing of winter sleet.

But he was right. For all intents and purposes, he was helpless. He couldn’t harm Kimbery with mere words. Besides, it would be useful to have the wee lass entertained while Avril tended to her chores. She’d heard Viking sagas were notoriously lengthy and convoluted, which would keep Kimmie out from under her feet for a while.

Still, she couldn’t allow the Northman anywhere near her daughter. He might not be able to escape, but he could do serious damage to a little girl who wandered too close.

“I won’t hurt her,” he said. “I swear.”

Surely he didn’t expect her to trust him. A Viking’s oath wasn’t worth shite. “That’s right. You won’t. Because if you lay a finger on her, I’ll carve you up with this knife.”

“Please, Mama?” Kimbery pursed her lips.

Avril sighed. She shook her head, still not sure it was a good idea. “You swear on your honor, Kimbery, that you’ll stay where I put you?”

“On my honor,” she said, clapping a hand to her chest.

Avril put down her knife and wiped her palms on her apron. She took Kimmie by the hand and walked her to a spot near the hearth, opposite the Viking. “Stay here. And you,” she said, stabbing a finger toward her captive. “Don’t even cast your ‘piercing gaze’ on my daughter or I’ll gouge out your eyes.”

She didn’t need to tell him that. He wasn’t going to look at her precious Kimbery. His piercing gaze was reserved for the cursed wench who’d clubbed him on the head, dragged him up the beach, tethered him like a rogue hound, and punched him in the nose. He might be telling the tale of Fenrir to her daughter, but his glare and the story were meant for her.

“Long ago,” he began, staring intently at the woman’s back while she chopped seaweed, “Fenrir, one of Loki’s three sons—“

“Who’s Loki?” Kimmie asked.

“Loki is the brother of Thor.”

“Who’s Thor?”

“Thor is the son of Odin.”

“Who’s Odin?”

Brandr sighed. The little girl apparently knew nothing about her Viking bloodline and history. It was tempting to recite the entire lineage of the gods, an ordeal that could take hours, but his own children had always fallen asleep before he could get past the fifth generation. He settled for telling her, “Odin is a god. They’re all gods. And Loki, the son of Odin and the god of fire, was always causing trouble.”

“Mama says I’m always causing trouble,” Kimbery told him.

“Well, not this kind of trouble,” he said. “Loki lied and cheated and tricked the other gods.”

“He had no honor?”

“Aye, that’s right. He had no honor. He did, however, have three sons, creatures he’d raised up to be terrible monsters. One was a great serpent.” Brandr hissed like a snake, making the little girl shiver in delighted revulsion. The woman ignored his antics.

“Odin cast him into the sea, where he grew so fast that his body coiled around the whole world and his tail grew into his mouth.”

The little girl gasped with wonder. Her mother continued chopping.

“The second monster Odin imprisoned in Niflheim, a land where the sun never shines and it’s always dark.”

“I’m not afraid of the dark,” Kimbery boasted.

“That’s good.”

“What about the third monster?”

“He was called Fenrir, and he was a vicious, snapping wolf.” Brandr snarled loudly, startling the woman. She gasped and fumbled with her knife, dropping it with a clatter on the table. He smirked, enormously satisfied. “Odin brought him to Asgard, the home of the gods, hoping to tame him.”

“Tame him like Finn?”

“Finn?”

“My dog. He used to let me ride on his back.”

“I see. Nay, Fenrir was too wild to be tamed. Each day, he grew bigger and bigger, more and more ferocious, until only one of the gods had the courage to feed him. That god was Tyr, the god of war, another of Odin’s sons. Tyr was brave and loyal, and every day he’d bring Fenrir his supper.”

“What did Fenrir eat?”

Glancing at the woman, who had gone back to chopping, he was tempted to say “Pictish wenches.” Instead, he told her, “He ate meat—cows and pigs and—“

“Sheep?” the lass asked fearfully. “Did he eat sheep? I have a sheep.”

“Well…nay, I don’t think Fenrir liked the taste of sheep,” he assured her. “But he had a big appetite, and he grew larger every day until eventually the gods decided he was too big and too dangerous to be roaming around Asgard. They couldn’t kill him, because killing was forbidden in Asgard. So they decided to chain him.”

“Like Mama chained you?”

He smiled grimly. “Exactly.”

The woman stiffened and paused, her knife poised in midair.

He resumed the story. “Thor, the god of thunder and Loki’s brother, said he would forge a strong chain to bind Fenrir with the help of Miolnir.”

“Who’s Miolnir?”

“Miolnir is Thor’s mighty hammer. It looks like the one I wear around my neck.” He lifted his chin to show the little girl the small silver hammer.

Kimbery rose up halfway, as if she planned to walk over to get a closer look.

Like all mothers, the woman apparently had eyes in the back of her head, for she called over her shoulder, “Kimmie, stay where you are!”

“I am!” the little girl insisted, sitting back down.

Brandr continued. “Thor hammered all night on the chain. The next day, because Fenrir wasn’t afraid of the other gods,” he said, narrowing his eyes pointedly at the woman’s back, “he let them slip the chain around his neck.”

“And nobody was allowed to go near him,” Kimbery guessed.

“That’s right. But much to the surprise of the gods, Fenrir made one powerful lunge, broke the chain, and freed himself.”

The little girl gasped in dismay.

The woman, still with her back turned, interrupted the story. “Well, they obviously didn’t use a strong enough chain,” she muttered, resuming her chopping.

“Then what happened?” Kimbery asked.

He smiled slyly. “The gods decided they needed a stronger chain.” He saw the woman’s shoulders rise and fall with an irritated sigh. “So Thor promised he’d work harder this time and make a chain that could never be broken. He hammered at his forge for three days and three nights. When he was done, the chain was so heavy that even mighty Thor could hardly lift it. This time, Fenrir was not so willing to be bound. But the gods praised his great strength and assured Fenrir he could easily break that chain as well. So he finally let them put the chain about his neck.”

“Did he break it, too?”

“He gave a great shake of his head,” he said, demonstrating, “and a forceful bound, and he broke free of even that chain.”

The woman stabbed her knife into the block with a loud clunk, clearly displeased with the direction the story was taking. But he didn’t care. He had a point to make. No Pictish woman was going to get the best of him, trying to keep him leashed like Fenrir.

“Then what happened?” Kimbery asked.

“Thor was very discouraged, and the gods didn’t know what to do. Finally, Frey, the god of summer, said he would ask the dwarves who lived deep in the earth to forge a chain, for though they were small, they possessed powerful magic. Surely they could make a chain strong enough to hold Fenrir.”

The little girl was enthralled now. She sat with her chin in her hands, leaning forward as far as possible. Her mother had begun chopping another batch of seaweed, but he noticed she was doing so quietly. No doubt she was hanging on his every word as well.

“It took them two days and two nights, but the dwarves fashioned a chain out of the six strongest elements they could find. They used the roots of rocks, the spit of birds, the footsteps of cats, the beards of women, the breath of fish, and the sinew of bears. They presented the chain to the gods, and though it was fine and light, the dwarves assured them the magic chain was unbreakable. Of course, by this time, the gods knew Fenrir was too clever to allow them to bind him a third time. So they invited him to join them on a voyage to a beautiful island, where they would play games together and demonstrate feats of strength.”

“What’s an island?”

He frowned. The little girl lived on an island. Didn’t she know that? “Land surrounded by water.”

“Like my house?”

“Aye.”

“Nay,” the woman countered, “it isn’t the same, Kimmie. We only live beside the ocean.”

“You live on an island,” he told her.

“We do not,” the woman said, turning to him with a scowl.

“It’s a large island, to be sure, but—“

“We don’t live on an island.”

He arched a brow in challenge. “Really? How do you know? Have you ever sailed the seas?”

The woman gave him an affronted sniff and turned back to her work, clearly upset by this revelation.

Avril was positive the Viking was wrong. She’d traveled for days—north, south, and west—and never run into the sea. But the marauders of the North sailed great distances. If anyone knew the oceans, it was a Northman. The idea that she might live on an island was disconcerting. The idea that he knew her home better than she did troubled her greatly.

“Then what happened?” Kimmie asked. “Then what?”

“The gods brought out the chain, and they all tried to break it, but none could do it, not even Thor, who said it was so strong that surely only Fenrir could break it. Fenrir was too proud to refuse their challenge. He allowed them to place the chain around his neck on one condition—that one of the gods put his right hand in Fenrir’s mouth while they did so as an act of faith, to prove they didn’t mean to imprison him.”

Kimbery gasped.

“The gods, of course, did mean to imprison him, so no one wanted to put a hand in Fenrir’s mouth. But loyal Tyr stepped bravely forward and placed his hand between the wolf’s sharp teeth. They put the chain around Fenrir’s neck, and Fenrir tried to break it, but the more he lunged, the tighter the chain became. When he found he couldn’t get free, he snapped his jaws in anger and bit off Tyr’s hand.”

“Oh, nay!” Kimbery cried.

Avril turned to address her daughter. “Which is why, Kimmie, we don’t go near dangerous chained beasts.” She lifted a smug brow at him.

He returned a smug brow and replied, “Which is why we shouldn’t keep ‘dangerous beasts’ chained.”

“Did Tyr die?” Kimmie asked.

“Nay, he didn’t die,” the man said. “He became a hero in Asgard because of his bravery.”

“Mama, I want to go to Asgard.”

Avril gave the Viking a long-suffering glower. He smiled in return.

“Kimmie,” she said, “come help me wash the sloke.”

Kimbery skipped over and plopped down on her stool while Avril brought her a bucket of fresh water. The little girl pushed up her sleeves and thrust her arms into the water, stirring vigorously as Avril dumped the chopped seaweed into the bucket.

The Viking’s story had been completely absurd, of course. There was no such place as Asgard, no god with a hammer, no dwarves who forged magical chains. Still, the tale had been entertaining enough, and it had kept Kimmie occupied.

The man had been right about one thing, however. Avril did harbor the fear that Kimbery’s Viking blood might be stirred to life one day, that she would become enthralled by the mysterious world of her Viking father, and that Avril would somehow lose her Pictish daughter to the marauders of the North.

She could feel the Viking’s ice-blue eyes on her as she coaxed the fire to life and added more wood. His attention was quite disturbing. But then there wasn’t much else for him to look at, she supposed. She was tempted to blindfold him, but that seemed unnecessarily cruel. If only he wouldn’t watch her every move...

“That’s good, Kimmie. We’ll put it on to boil now and go milk Caimbeul.”

It could do no harm to leave the Viking alone at this point. He seemed adequately trussed up. They’d be gone only a short while, long enough to milk the ewe and turn her into the pasture.

Chapter 5

The instant they closed the cottage door, Brandr began struggling at his bonds, praying for Fenrir’s strength. The way he saw it, eventually the woman would tire of having him in her cottage. But she wouldn’t just set him free. She’d turn him over to someone who knew what to do with a captive Viking. The last thing he wanted was to force her into a hasty decision.

He strained with all his might against the leather collar. With his arm splinted, it was even more useless now. But if he pulled hard enough, he might be able to work the iron ring out of the wall. Once that was done, he could reach the knot to free his ankles. Then he’d flee. And he’d take that magnificent sword with him.

Where he’d go, he didn’t know. It wouldn’t be easy for a tall, blond, blue-eyed Northman to hide in this land of dark-haired dwarves.

The leather rubbed his throat raw, and he nearly choked himself more than once, but he couldn’t dislodge the ring. When they returned, he was no closer to freedom. The woman, however, suspected something, for she gave him a sharp look as she set a bucket of milk on the table.

“You’re sweating,” she said.

“I’m beside the fire,” he replied.

She frowned dubiously and opened her mouth to speak, but Kimbery interrupted her. “I milked Caimbeul,” she announced proudly. “Her name’s Caimbeul because she has a crooked mouth, like this.” She made a comical sneer. “Have you ever milked a sheep?”

He shook his head.

“Indeed?” her mother asked with a sly lift of her brow. “I’ll have to teach you how when your arm heals.”

He narrowed his eyes. Teach him to milk a sheep? Did she plan to enslave him? The idea was absurd. He was the son of a noble, a warrior. And unless she meant to keep him tied up, he’d easily fight his way free. A featherweight wench and her four-year-old daughter were no match for a Viking.

But this was good news. Without the imminent threat of death and with the benefit of time, he could easily lull her into a false trust. Then, when she least expected it, he’d manage his escape.

“Want to see my picture?” Kimbery asked him. She didn’t wait for an answer, galloping into the bedchamber and returning with a square piece of slate.

He turned his head to look at it. “Is that me?”

She nodded.

“Did you draw it?”

She nodded again.

“What does it say?”

“Kimbery,” her mother interrupted, “don’t bother him.”

“I’m not.” Then she pointed to the letters, confiding to him in a loud whisper, “It says Da.”

He couldn’t help but smile at that. The little girl certainly was bullheaded.

Her mother, obviously eager to end their conversation, asked, “How is the sloke doing, Kimmie?”

Kimbery set the slate down and peered into the clay pot nestled amongst the coals. “It’s bubbling, Mama.”

“Good. Don’t stand too close to the fire.”

The little girl took a dramatic step backward and started idly twirling her braid between her fingers. Her gaze slid over to him, then to the floor, and she wrinkled her forehead in concern. Following her eyes, he saw he was crushing her cloth doll beneath his hip. He moved aside as much as he could, which wasn’t very much.

“Mama,” she said plaintively, “I want Maeve back.”

The woman clucked her tongue. “You shouldn’t have given her to him.”

Kimbery’s bottom lip trembled.

The woman sighed softly. “Very well. You stay back. I’ll get her.”

She approached carefully and crouched beside him. She smelled fresh, like sunshine and sweet grass. Her underdress was still untied, and when she bent forward, he could see the upper crescent of her breast, as pale and smooth as cream. A surge of lust rose in him, and it wasn’t helped by the fact that she began rummaging under his buttock for the doll.

His uneasy grunt alerted her to what she was doing. Suddenly mortified, she seized the doll and yanked it out, unfortunately tearing its arm in the process.

Naturally, Kimbery began screaming in horror at the sight, and it took several moments before her mother could placate her with the fact that the doll could be easily repaired.

Meanwhile, Brandr was glad his hands were bound over his lap, for the sight of his rising desire would undoubtedly upset them even more. It certainly upset him. He’d lost his wife less than a year ago. It wasn’t right that he should be aroused by this strange woman.

Eventually order was restored, though the woman had to pause in her other chores to stitch the doll’s arm back on. When she was finished, the little girl studied her handiwork intently to be sure it was correct. Apparently satisfied, she took the doll into her bedchamber, chattering to it all the way.

The woman was busy the rest of the day. He’d never seen anyone work so hard. Even the thralls of his country were allowed to rest. But she labored from sunrise to well after sunset, keeping the fire stoked, preparing supper, milking the sheep, laundering linens, making cheese, mending clothes, even teaching her daughter to read and write. No wonder she wanted to make a slave out of him.

The seaweed pottage was remarkably tasty, especially after she added the fresh sheep’s milk, smoked fish, and wild onions to it. It might not be the succulent roast pig he preferred, but he had to admire her ability to make delicious fare out of what was at hand. Indeed, if he’d come to Pictland for pillage and prisoners, he would have considered himself lucky to take such a resourceful woman home as a slave.

At the end of the day, the woman heated water for Kimbery’s bath and undressed her. As the little girl streaked through the cottage naked, squealing that she didn’t want a bath, Brandr had to bite back a smile. Eventually, her mother caught her and plopped her into a makeshift tub of a split ale cask. After a bit, the little girl’s protests subsided, and she began playing in the water, singing and splashing. By the time she was scrubbed clean, her mother’s kirtle was drenched, and Kimbery now didn’t want to get out of the tub.

She kicked and screamed as her mother picked her up. Brandr, amused by the wicked little sprite’s antics, couldn’t help but laugh aloud.

Avril turned in surprise. The Northman was grinning. His eyes sparkled like the sunlit sea, and his teeth flashed as white as snow. But it was the low rumble of his laughter that took her breath away. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed that sound. She hadn’t heard male laughter in four long years.

Then Kimbery, wet and slippery, taking advantage of Avril’s distraction, slid out of her grasp and began tearing around the cottage. She dodged the linen Avril held out until Avril finally gave up, figuring the little girl would dry herself off with her running.

The Viking’s smile turned bittersweet then, and a faraway look came into his eyes. Avril knew at once that he must be remembering his own daughter.

She forced her gaze away, dabbing at her damp kirtle with the linen. It wasn’t her concern. His people hadn’t cared whose children they slaughtered when they’d raided Rivenloch. Why should she care what had happened to his daughter? And yet, against her will, words fell softly from her lips. “What was your daughter’s name?”

He glanced up, as if surprised she’d read his thoughts. “Asta.”

“It’s a pretty name.”

“She was a pretty...” He choked on the words. “A pretty lass.”

She shouldn’t feel sorry for him. The Vikings killed pretty Pictish lasses all the time. But there was a deep sorrow in the Northman’s eyes that pulled at her heart.

“Who’s Inga?” The words tumbled out of her mouth unbidden, mortifying her. She should never have asked him that. He probably didn’t remember calling her by that name or kissing her anyway.

His gaze shot straight to hers.

“You...spoke her name in your sleep,” she explained.

He frowned. “I dreamt she was alive.”

“Your wife,” she guessed.

He nodded.

He must have loved her well. That kiss had been full of tenderness and desire. As odd as it was, Avril envied the dead woman. His fortunate Inga had known the love of a devoted husband. Avril had only experienced the mindless lust of a Viking berserker and a handful of men for whom she felt nothing.

Just then Kimbery went galloping past. Before Avril could catch her, the wee lass dove at the shocked Northman. She plopped herself into his lap and captured his gold-stubbled face playfully between her hands.

“Da!” she cried.

Avril’s heart leaped into her mouth. Tiny, pale, bare Kimbery looked so vulnerable against the Viking’s broad chest. Lord, he could bite off her hand with one snap of his jaws, just like that wolf in his story.

She glanced up in horror at his face. But he looked far more rattled than she was. No doubt he was unused to strange naked children leaping into his arms.

“Kimbery!” she barked. “Get away from him!”

Kimbery clambered down, looking guilty. She probably hadn’t intended to disobey. She’d only been caught up in her play.

Still, Avril didn’t dare let her think it was acceptable to traffic with Vikings. “Go to bed. Now.”

“I didn’t mean to.”

“Now!”

The little girl began to weep, which made Avril feel awful. After all, she’d been so happy a moment ago. But Avril couldn’t afford to let down her guard. Kimbery’s life depended upon it.

Tears of heartbreak streamed down Kimmie’s face. She started sobbing in earnest and shuffled sadly off to the bedchamber.

Avril bit her lip in remorse. It was hard being a mother. Sometimes she thought she would have had an easier time commanding the army of Rivenloch than she did watching over one wee lass.

But the horrible memory of the berserker hurling his ax into the child’s back would never be far away from her thoughts. Kimbery’s sobs might tear at her, but at least she was alive to sob.

By the time Avril cleaned up the bath, Kimmie’s crying had subsided to sniffles. “Mama?” she called tentatively from the bedchamber. “Come tell me a story.”

Avril was tempted to tell her a story about vicious invading savages from the North, to cure her of her misplaced affection for their captive. But she supposed that would give the lass nightmares. Instead, she told her the story of the time she defeated all four of her brothers in combat.

From the next room, Brandr listened in rapt fascination. The woman was telling a grand, typically Pictish tale to her daughter about a warrior wench who’d disguised herself as a man and fought against her own brothers. It was a good story, like the sagas of his people—full of excitement, adventure, and retribution—and the woman had a pleasant voice, lilting and dramatic.

“The first brother, Eldred,” she told the little girl, “was very arrogant and boastful.”

“Arrogant?” Kimbery asked.

“Like this,” she said, and Brandr heard her striding about the room, probably with her arms crossed and her nose in the air. “Anyway, Eldred had never been defeated in battle. So when this new warrior challenged him, he accepted, saluting his foe with a cocky flourish of his blade. They began to fight, exchanging blows back and forth.”

Brandr could hear her scuffling about and grunting as she recreated the battle with an invisible sword.

“But Eldred was so sure he would win,” she said, “that he started to grow careless. And when he relaxed his guard and wasn’t paying attention, his sister ducked underneath his arm. With the hilt of her sword, she delivered a hard jab to his chin and knocked him flat.”

Kimbery cheered. “What about the other brothers?”

“Grimbol, the second brother, had a nasty temper and was quick to anger. Once he saw Eldred defeated, he immediately drew his sword and rushed in. He meant to slay the warrior who’d dared to humiliate his older brother.”

“What’s humiliate?”

“Make a fool of. She’d made a fool of his brother, and it made him angry. But his rage proved his own undoing. He began to slash haphazardly and—“

“What’s hap-, hap-“

“Haphazardly, in a reckless manner, with poor aim. Most of his blows swished through empty air, and every time he missed, he grew all the more furious. But his sister used his own fury against him. When he lunged at her, she dodged aside and pushed him forward, driving him face-first into the dirt.”

Kimbery clapped her hands. “Then what, Mama?”

“The third brother’s name was Osbern, and he was a cheat. He’d watched the stranger outwit and outfight his brothers, and he wanted his turn. But instead of waiting for a challenge like a man of honor, he attacked his sister while her back was turned.”

Kimbery gasped.

“Oh, she wasn’t surprised. She knew all about Osbern’s trickery and expected such shameful behavior. She leaped out of the way, and the point of his sword plunged into the mud beside her. Ignoring all the rules of chivalry, he dove at her, intending to wrest her to the ground, where he could pummel her with his fists, like the dishonorable dog that he was. But she was light and quick, and she skipped out of his reach. One clever slice of her sword, and Osbern fell to the sod with his trews around his ankles.”

Kimbery giggled. “What about the last brother?”

“When it came time to battle Wilfred, her last brother, the warrior woman tossed off her helm and showed her face.”

“Why, Mama?”

“Because Wilfred believed that women were made to be the servants of men, and she wanted him to know exactly who was getting the better of him.”

“What did he say when he saw who she was?”

“He called her bad names.”

“What bad names?”

“They’re so bad, I can’t repeat them.”

Brandr smiled at that.

“But the other brothers—Eldred, Grimbol, and Osbern—were as angry as bees when they found out they’d been beaten by their own sister. So they yelled at Wilfred to clout her soundly.”

“Oh, nay, Mama.”

“But try as he might, Wilfred couldn’t lay a hand on her, for she was nimble and strong. You see, while her brothers had lain lazily about, boasting of their skills, she’d spent long hours practicing. She eventually managed to smack his arse with the flat of her sword and sent him crashing into his other brothers.”

Kimbery laughed long and hard. “Smack his arse!”

The woman couldn’t help but laugh along, which made Brandr grin.

“Aye. And when she’d defeated them all, a servant who’d seen the entire battle ran to tell their father. Her father was so proud of her, he gave her a beautiful jeweled sword as a prize, saying that it was she who should rightfully inherit his lands.”

A strange shiver ran up Brandr’s spine. He glanced at the jeweled sword in the corner. Could the story be true? Pictish women were said to be able to handle a blade. But could she possibly be the intrepid swordswoman in the story? Surely not. Surely the tale was a work of imagination. After all, the heroine of her story had become a landed heiress. This woman lived in a humble hovel.

“Did she live happily ever after, Mama?”

There was a hesitation. “Oh, I’m sure she did.”

“Mama,” Kimbery announced, “I want a sword.”

“You have a sword.”

Brandr raised a brow. The little girl had a sword?

“Not a wooden sword. A real sword,” Kimbery said.

“When you’re older.”

“And I want brothers to fight with,” she added.

“That I can’t promise you.”

“I want to be a warrior just like the lady in the story.”

Her mother chuckled. “You’ll be twice as good as the lady in the story.”

“Mama, can we practice sparring?”

“Tomorrow,” she promised, “but only if you get a good night’s rest.”

After she finished tucking in her daughter, the woman emerged again. Brandr quickly sized her up and decided the story couldn’t be true. She might be able to wield a blade, but no sweet-faced maid could possibly vanquish four seasoned warriors.

Chapter 6

The next morning, Brandr woke with a face full of sheep. He sputtered and reared back as far as he could, which wasn’t far, since he was on a short leash.

“Caimbeul likes you,” Kimbery informed him.

He grimaced as the smell of the ewe hit him full force. “Gah!”

“Don’t you like her?” she asked.

He blinked the sleep from his eyes. The little girl had obeyed her mother—she was staying out of his reach—but she was holding the sheep on a rope and letting it nuzzle him with its crooked mouth.

“Shouldn’t she be outside?” he whispered.

“Shh. Don’t tell Mama. She doesn’t like when I—“

“Kimmie,” came a sleepy voice from the bedchamber. “Who are you talking to?”

“Nobody.”

There was a sudden thrash of linens and the woman rushed into the room, a warning ring in her voice as she came. “You’d better not be going near that Vi-...” When she saw that Kimbery was safe, the anxiety deserted her eyes. Then she saw the ewe. “How did that sheep get in here?”

Kimbery shrugged. “Caimbeul wanted to see my da. I’m going to put her back.”

“I’ve told you a hundred times, Kimmie, sheep don’t belong in the house. And he’s not your da. Now if you don’t take that animal out of here this instant…”

Brandr grew deaf to her scolding as he took note of the woman’s attire. By Odin, she was clad in little more than a sheer linen shift, rumpled from sleep. One side had slipped down, exposing the smooth, round cap of her shoulder. There she had a blue tattoo like those engraved on Pict warriors. It was an intriguing three-looped knot that had no beginning or end. Her hair was mussed in a careless way that reminded him of long nights tussling in bed. Her feet were deliciously bare, and her frayed shift revealed the supple curve of her calf and her ankle, which also bore an inked design, this one in the shape of a broken sword. But it was her mouth that was the most alluring. He remembered that mouth now. He’d kissed her, and her lips had been as sweet and soft as wild blackberries.

His loins tightened, and guilt made him grind his teeth against desire. But willing it away didn’t make it disappear, and while the woman continued to herd the sheep and her daughter out of the cottage, Brandr fought to keep his thoughts on survival, escape, anything but the beautiful, feminine silhouette revealed by the dawning sun as she opened the door.

Avril silently cursed herself for oversleeping. Keeping Kimbery safe meant being up and about before the wee lass could get herself into trouble. She’d certainly found trouble this morning, letting the ewe into the cottage. Avril wondered if she’d been such a handful at that age.

From the doorway, she watched Kimmie lead the sheep back to her pen. “Make sure you close the gate,” she called.

Then she turned and caught the Northman staring at her. He looked like a warrior, stern and hardened, about to march into battle. His eyes were hooded, and his jaw was tight. His chest rose and fell with a deep breath as his gaze slowly coursed up the length of her. Finally, he met her eyes.

A flash of heat like lightning seared her as she recognized his expression. She’d been wrong. It wasn’t a warrior’s bloodlust. It was desire, pure and direct. Her breath caught, and her face turned to flame. But his ice-blue gaze did nothing to quench the fire, instead fueling her distress.

She clenched her fists. She should curse him, clout him, kick him. Yet she did nothing. Though the urge to rebuff him was strong, the compelling lust in his eyes was even stronger.

She licked her lips. Against her will, her gaze drifted down to his mouth. She remembered the light touch of his hands upon her face, the warmth of his breath, the taste of his kiss. What scared her was that a part of her longed to feel it again.

And if Kimbery hadn’t burst in upon them at that moment, she didn’t know what might have happened.

“Mama! Mama!” Kimbery cried, jumping up and down, waving her wooden sword. “Spar with me! Spar with me!”

Avril cleared her throat. Of course. Sparring had always helped her when she felt emotionally out of sorts. She could take up her sword and slash away at anger, fear, and, in this case, desire, and defeat them soundly before they could get the best of her.

“You promised,” Kimbery reminded her.

“I did promise. Just let me get…dressed.” A blush stole up her cheek as she realized she’d rushed out in her nightclothes. No wonder the Northman was looking at her like that.

She avoided his gaze as she swept past, but she couldn’t avoid hearing the conversation between the Viking and her daughter while she dressed in the next room.

“Do you have a sword?” Kimbery asked.

“I did.”

“What happened to it?”

“I lost it in the sea.”

“Maybe Mama can get you a new one.”

“Kimbery,” Avril warned, “are you talking to that man?”

“Nay,” she lied. “I’m talking to Maeve.”

Avril heard only whispers after that until she emerged.

“Watch me, Da!” Kimbery cried, leaping about with her wooden sword, battling an unseen enemy.

But the Northman’s eyes were fixed upon Avril as if nothing else existed.

Brandr’s breath caught in his chest. He’d heard legends about female Pict warriors, but he’d never seen a woman dressed, or rather undressed, in such a manner. She’d foregone her confining linen underdress and wore only her sleeveless kirtle, which gave her a greater range of motion and revealed the blue design on her shoulder and her sleek-muscled arms. Riding low on her hips was a leather swordbelt carved with intricate designs. She’d tucked the kirtle back up under the belt so that it bloused halfway down her thighs, exposing a pair of long, lovely legs that were tucked into short seal-fur boots.

If he’d thought the sight of the woman in her nightclothes was alluring, it didn’t compare to the vision of her dressed for battle. Perhaps that was the secret of Pict warfare. What foe could fight such a distracting beauty?

“Watch me! Watch me!” the little girl was yelling as she leaped about. It took all of Brandr’s willpower to drag his gaze away from the lass’s breathtaking mother.

“Kimbery, not in the house,” she scolded.

“But I want Da to see me.”

“We’ll leave the door open.” She gave him a look then that said the door would be open, not so he could watch the little girl, but so she could keep an eye on him.

Which was fine with him. After spending the night on a leash with a throbbing broken arm and waking to a stinking sheep nuzzling at his ear, he figured he deserved the reward of watching a woman cavort about half-naked.

What began as a pleasurable pastime quickly turned into torment. It had been more than a year since Brandr had bedded a woman, and his body responded as eagerly as a starving man seated at a feast. As the woman flexed and lunged in preparation for sparring, she unknowingly taunted him with her taut, slender arms and her silky thighs. Her garment clung to her body, hugging every subtle curve. Each time she twirled to change direction, her skirt flipped up, and he couldn’t help but watch for a glimpse of something more.

She hunkered down beside her daughter, giving her instruction, and his gaze slipped over her rounded knees. She wrapped her arms around Kimbery, showing her how to hold the sword, and he observed the nuanced play of the muscles of her shoulder. She stood, planting her feet wide apart, and he admired her shapely calves.

“Can you see me?” Kimbery called out to him.

He gave a guilty start. “Aye,” he croaked. The truth was he’d scarcely given her a glance, so transfixed by her mother was he.

“Pay heed, Kimbery,” the woman warned. “Don’t get distracted.”

The little girl began hacking away at her mother with her wooden sword, and the woman easily defended herself, coming around slowly and carefully with her own steel blade. He’d never seen a woman wielding a sword before, and her skill surprised him. He wondered how good she was when she wasn’t checking her blows.

Of course, she was no match for a Viking. But it was admirable that she was teaching her daughter useful fighting techniques. It would keep the little girl from becoming easy prey.

He continued to watch as she demonstrated proper shield technique, showed Kimbery how to dodge blows, and the two of them practiced diving to the ground, rolling, and coming up with blades at the ready.

As they sparred, tendrils of the woman’s hair came loose from her long braid. Her cheeks grew rosy, her skin glowed, and her chest heaved with each exertion. She reminded him of the women he’d pleasured in his bed when he was a single, virile, carefree young man. He suddenly longed to snatch away her sword, carry her off, toss up her skirts, and ease his desires upon her battle-warmed body. And this troubled him deeply.

Avril found it difficult to concentrate when the Northman was staring at her. She didn’t return his stare, but she could feel his eyes upon her. She’d left the door open for more than one reason. Aye, she wanted to keep an eye on him—she was fairly sure he’d already made an attempt to escape—but she also wanted him to see that she was no ordinary frail lass. She could hold her own with a sword. And he’d have a fight on his hands if he tried to challenge her. She’d been a victim once. She didn’t intend to be one again.

“Did you see me, Da?” Kimbery yelled after she’d done a perfect forward roll and lunged forward with her wooden sword.

“Aye,” he called back, “well done.” But his gaze wasn’t on Kimbery. He was looking at Avril again with that smoldering heat, like a wolf about to devour a lamb.

She gulped. No one had ever looked at her with such hunger. It made her knees weak and warmed her all over. Curious lightning charged the air, an uncontrollable current born of the strange attraction between them. It sucked the will from her and made her long to do things against her nature—to go to him, to touch him, to kiss him—which terrified her, because her sword was a useless weapon against her own desire.

But fear turned quickly to self-loathing and then fury. Troubled by her wayward emotions and reminding herself that he was her enemy, that his kind had murdered her people and ruined her life, she broke off her gaze and shook free with a shudder, trying to focus again on her lesson with Kimbery.

“Mama, I want to spar with Da,” the little girl said, skipping in a circle.

Sweeping her blade sharply through the air, Avril barked, “Don’t call him that!”

Kimbery stopped skipping. “What should I call him, Mama?”

Avril could think of a dozen names for the Viking, none fit for the ears of a child. Before she could choose one, he answered.

“Brandr,” he called from the cottage. “My name is Brandr.”

It was a strong name—a strong name for a strong man. But she didn’t want to know his name. Knowing his name made things worse. He was easy to despise when he was simply a Viking, a Northman, a marauder. Calling him Brandr made him a man of flesh and blood.

“Can Brandr fight with us, Mama?”

“Nay.”

“Why not?” Kimmie asked.

He answered before she had a chance. “I wouldn’t want to hurt you, little one.”

Avril smirked at that. “He’s afraid he might lose.”

Brandr lifted a brow and gave her a cocky smile. “Not even with a broken arm.”

His grin sent a shiver through her. She hoped it was a shiver of revulsion. She feared it was something else, something that made her feel lightheaded and foolhardy, almost crazy enough to free him and let him try…almost.

But she wasn’t a fool. She couldn’t let him bait her.

“My name’s Kimmie,” Kimbery informed him, holding her sword high over her head. “And Mama’s name is Avril.”

Avril choked. She didn’t want him to know her name. The exchange of names suggested an intimacy she didn’t want to encourage.

“Pleased to meet you, Kimmie,” he said with a polite nod. Her name, however, came out on a purr. “Avril.”

She bristled. That was exactly why she’d wished to remain nameless. Already he breathed her name as if they were lovers. Already it felt like he was insinuating his way under her skin.

“Come on, Kimmie,” she said, shaking off the uneasy shiver that had passed through her. “Let’s show the Viking what we do to men who think they can hurt us.”

She hoped to impress upon him that the ladies of Rivenloch were not to be trifled with or underestimated. But she also worried that his shipmates might show up. So she taught Kimbery some useful defensive ploys in addition to straightforward sword fighting. She showed her how to use her elbows to jab a belly, her heels to stamp on toes, her teeth to bite fingers, and her fists to punch a man where it hurt most.

So enrapt was she with teaching Kimbery survival skills that she didn’t notice the figure stealing up on the cottage until it was too late. But the instant she saw the glint of metal, her worst fears were realized. It could be no one else. The Northman’s shipmates must have come looking for him.

Without a second glance, she swung Kimbery up and pushed her toward the cottage door. “Go!”

For once, Kimbery didn’t question her, but rushed inside.

Her Viking prisoner, however, called out, “Is it my men?”

She didn’t answer him. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. Wheeling immediately with her blade drawn and her heart racing, she faced the oncoming threat.

But it wasn’t his men. It was her neighbor, the one who’d given her the sheep. She lowered her shoulders in relief. While she watched the man make his way toward her, she saw that he wielded, not a sword, but a spade.

“Erik!” Brandr called out suddenly from behind her. “Gunnarr!”

Her eyes widened. Shite! She couldn’t let her neighbor find the Northman.

She whipped her head around and hissed at him. “Hush! It’s not your men!”

The last thing she saw before she lunged for the door, slamming it shut, was the perplexed furrow between the Viking’s brows.

Brandr bellowed out a curse. Unfortunately, he startled the little girl, who now looked as if she might burst into tears.

“Shh, Kimmie. I’m sorry,” he soothed. “It’s all right.”

But he wasn’t so sure. He wished the woman hadn’t slammed the door between them. If it wasn’t his men out there, who was it? Thieves? Murderers? Though he realized it was completely contrary to reason at the moment—Avril was his enemy, after all—his instinct to protect women rose to the surface, overriding everything else. Whoever was out there evidently posed a threat to her. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have pushed Kimbery into the cottage.

He had to do something about it.

Kimbery’s chin was trembling, and the wooden sword drooped in her grasp. “But Mama…”

“Hush, Kimmie,” he coaxed. “It’s all right. Shh.”

“I have to help Mama fight,” she decided, starting for the door.

“Nay!” She flinched at his sharp voice. “Nay, sweetheart,” he said more softly. “Your mama wants you to stay here, to stay quiet. That’s why she closed the door.”

Yet even as he said the words, he had to wonder at the woman’s judgment. Why hadn’t she rushed inside as well and barred the door? What made her think she could handle the threat? The fool woman was going to get herself killed.

Hell, he thought as he strained against the leather collar, he couldn’t stand the thought of a woman facing danger alone while he sat helpless. If only he could get loose, he could chase the intruders off.

He glanced at the little girl. Maybe he could get loose.

“Kimmie,” he said, “if you help me, I can help your mama.”

She looked skeptically at him.

“I need you to unbuckle my collar. Do you think you can do that? Do you think you can—“

“Mama said I’m not supposed to go near you.”

Brandr bit back an oath. “But she needs my help. I’m big and strong, and I can fight—“

“I’m strong,” she said. “Mama said so.”

He growled in frustration, frightening the little girl again. She backed toward the door once more.

His eyes widened. “Nay, nay, nay, nay, nay.” He had to keep her inside. The last thing he needed was to have both women out of his sight. “Kimmie, nay, Kimmie,” he said urgently as her small hand touched the latch. “Come away from the door. Please. I’ll…” He searched his memory. What would have convinced his own daughter to stay? “I’ll tell you another story.”

She hesitated.

“Aye, come sit by the fire, and I’ll tell you a story about…about Muspell, the land of the Fire Giants.”

She pursed her lips.

“And Niflheim, where the Frost Giants live,” he added.

She lifted her brows.

“And Audhumia, the giant cow.”

“Giant cow?”

“Aye. The giant cow who licked the gods to life.”

She let go of the latch and walked to the hearth, and he heaved a sigh of relief. He might not be able to rescue Avril, but at least he could keep her daughter safe.

Kimbery sat cross-legged with her sword across her lap, and he began a story he’d told often to his children—the story of the world’s creation. Meanwhile, he strained to hear what was happening outside, to no avail. The little girl, fascinated by the tale, edged closer and closer to him. Eventually, despite her mother’s stern orders, she ended up half-draped across his lap.

Chapter 7

Avril thought she must be mad, covering for the Northman. Her neighbor said he’d found pieces of a Viking ship. He’d come to warn her to be watchful, assuring her in manly tones that he was on the hunt for the vermin who belonged to it, hefting up his spade as proof.

She should have turned the Viking over to him then and there. It certainly would have made her life easier. Brandr would have been out of her house, away from her daughter, off of her shoulders.

But she couldn’t bear the thought of him being beaten to death with a spade, which was doubtless what her neighbor intended.

So she told the man an outright lie, saying she’d seen no sign of Northmen, but she’d be sure to alert him if she did. Thanking him for his concern, she smiled stiffly until he was out of sight.

“Brilliant,” she muttered to herself. “Now I’m harboring an outlaw.”

She pushed open the cottage door, cursing herself for a fool, and froze when she saw the scene before her.

She couldn’t draw breath. Mother of God, she was a fool! While she’d been lying to protect him, the crafty Viking had enticed her daughter onto his lap. Kimbery was sprawled across his thighs like a lovesick pup. Was this the thanks she got for saving Brandr’s worthless hide?

“Mama!” Kimbery cried, jumping up and running to her, hugging her about the thighs. “Da’s telling me…I mean, Brandr’s telling me a story about a giant cow and Frost Giants and the dwarves who hold up the sky!”

“Is that so?” Avril bit out with a shaky smile for her daughter. She clasped Kimbery close in relief, grateful he’d let her go, unharmed, but uncertain why. After all, with Kimbery in his grasp, he could have had her at his mercy and easily bargained for his freedom.

Brandr didn’t seem to notice her confusion. He gave her a fierce frown, scanning her from head to toe. “Are you all right?”

She blinked, even more baffled. “Aye. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“Who was outside?” The furrow in his brow deepened, and his fists clenched, as if he meant to use them.

“My neighbor. He came to tell me…” Suddenly the truth struck her. “Were you..?” She narrowed incredulous eyes at him. “You were. You were afraid for me.”

He scowled in irritation, but he couldn’t deny it, and something about that pleased her.

“You know,” she said in amazement, “if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to protect me.”

He scoffed. But after a moment he looked at her quizzically, lowering his shoulders and relaxing his hands. “Wait. Your neighbor?” The corner of his lip lifted in a knowing grin. “And you didn’t tell him about your Viking prize?”

She stiffened.

He chuckled. “You know, if I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to protect me.”

It was useless to deny it.

He shook his head. “What a pair we are.”

What a pair indeed, Avril thought. By all rights, they should despise each other. The war between their people had been going on for more than fifty years. He was a bloodthirsty Viking, and she was the Pict who’d leashed him. She’d made the cottage that he’d come to conquer into his prison. And if they’d met on a field of battle, she would have readily drawn her sword and stabbed him through the heart.

But when she looked at his twinkling blue eyes, his enticing grin, his…formidable body, she found it hard to summon up a good loathing.

“Mama, did you smack his arse?”

Avril started. “Who, the neighbor?” She shook her head. “He wasn’t here to fight. He…came to see how Caimbeul was doing.”

“Oh.”

She and Brandr exchanged glances, and he gave her a subtle nod of thanks, something she wasn’t sure she deserved. She was making a mistake, not turning him in. The longer he was here, the more difficult it would become to get rid of him. Hell, her own daughter was already clambering onto the Viking’s lap as if he were her beloved grandfather.

Kimbery hopped up and down on her toes. “Mama, I want a giant cow!”

Avril eyed the Northman in accusation. What nonsense had he put in Kimbery’s head now?

Brandr reasoned with the little girl. “But how would you milk her? It would take all day. And your hands are too small.”

“You could do it,” Kimbery suggested. “You have big hands.”

Avril bit her lip. He did have big hands…and big feet…and big shoulders…

He chuckled. “I’m not a milkmaid,” he told Kimmie. “I’m a warrior.”

His words suddenly touched a raw nerve in Avril. She wasn’t a milkmaid either. She was supposed to be the lady of a castle. But sometimes the world turned on people, and they had to do what was necessary to go on living.

“You know, not all of us get to choose our fate,” and she said with frost in her voice. “If you’re going to stay here, you’d better get used to tending animals and fishing and mending fences. It’s not an easy thing, surviving in…”

She broke off at his narrowed gaze, realizing what she’d just said—if you’re going to stay here.

What was she thinking? He wasn’t an animal she could tame and tether. He was a wild and dangerous beast who’d surely turn on her the moment he was free.

Still, he could have hurt Kimbery, but he’d chosen not to. Instead he’d told the little girl some fanciful tale about giant cows to keep her quiet and safe from whatever peril lurked outside.

Why? Did he hope to persuade her to let him go? She couldn’t do that. She might not deliver him directly into the hands of a neighbor armed with a spade, but neither would she turn a known marauder loose on her unsuspecting countrymen.

Kimbery waved her wooden blade through the air. “My mama’s a warrior,” she said. “And I’m going to be a warrior, too. When I grow up, we’re going to take back Rivenloch.”

“Kimmie!” Avril’s cheeks warmed. She didn’t need a stranger knowing all about her sordid past. “He’s not interested in—“

“What’s Rivenloch?” he asked.

“It’s Mama’s castle. I’m going to learn how to sword fight, and then we’ll get an army to take the castle back from my evil uncles who—“

“Kimmie, enough! Go take your nap.”

Kimbery scampered merrily off into the bedchamber. But the damage was already done. Brandr was staring at her with undisguised interest now. “Evil uncles?”

Though he’d entertained the remote possibility, it hadn’t seriously occurred to Brandr that the woman and her daughter were anything but commoners, outcasts on this lonely shore due to an unfortunate encounter with berserkers.

He perused her thoroughly now, imagining her in the rich garb of a noblewoman. It wasn’t difficult.

“It’s only a tale,” she muttered, “an invention like your giant cows and…and snow ogres.”

“Frost Giants,” he corrected. She wasn’t a very good liar. “And the story of Audhumia is true.”

She crossed her arms and smirked at him. “Really? Dwarves?”

He frowned. “How do you think the sky stays up?”

She shook her head as she propped her sword in the corner.

Though she tried to make light of it, Brandr couldn’t let go of the feeling that there was more than a morsel of truth to her story.

Avril had had ample opportunity to kill him, even the chance to turn him over to someone else to kill. And yet she hadn’t. She’d had mercy on him—feeding him, sheltering him, tending to his broken arm—when anyone else would have let him suffer. Though he was her enemy, she’d treated him with respect, wisdom, fairness, and honor. She seemed to have been raised as he had—with the qualities necessary to inspire followers and command warriors. It wasn’t hard to imagine she was that woman who’d fought for the jeweled sword, that her four brothers were Kimbery’s evil uncles, and that they’d taken advantage of her misfortune to seize her inheritance from her.

He and Avril must both be cursed by the gods then. He’d lost his family, his men, and his ship. She’d lost her innocence, her birthright, and her land. They were kindred souls. Against his better judgment, he found he wanted to know more about this intrepid woman.

“So in that…story…you told your daughter,” he asked as she stirred the banked embers on the hearth to life with a stick, “where is this Rivenloch?”

She shrugged. “It’s an imaginary place.”

“Your daughter doesn’t seem to think so.”

She arched a slim brow at him. “My daughter thinks she’s a selkie, her sheep talks to her, and you’re her father.”

She had a point. “But you are teaching her to fight with a sword.”

“Aye, so she can protect herself from…” She gave him a fleeting glance, and he was sure she intended to say “Vikings.” Instead she substituted, “Attackers.”

He nodded. “Where did you learn to fight?”

“All Pictish women know how to fight,” she said proudly. “Don’t Viking women know how to fight?”

“There’s no need. They have Viking men to protect them.”

“Indeed?” She gave him a cursory perusal, as if she were sizing up a horse. “And who protects them from the Viking men?”

He scowled when he realized she was serious.

Avril had felt the Northman’s iron grip on her wrist. She’d seen his bulging muscles. He had the shoulders of an ox and was at least a head taller than anyone she knew. What was to keep a man like him from taking what he wanted from a woman?

“The law protects them,” he replied at last, as if it were obvious.

“The law,” she scoffed. “You mean the law that men make and enforce?”

“Men and women.”

She lifted a skeptical brow.

He frowned. “Is it not so here? Do you not have an althing?”

“Althing?”

“A meeting of all the villagers.” She waited for him to continue. “A meeting where the rules are made.” At her silence, he added, “By everyone.”

“All the villagers?” she asked doubtfully.

“Anyone who wishes to attend.”

“Men and women?”

“Of course.”

That gave Avril pause. She gazed wistfully into the fire, wishing it were thus with her people as well. Her father had understood. He’d believed that women were just as capable as men. That was why he’d made her his heir. But most men were like her brothers, who thought that a woman’s place was under a man’s boot.

“In my land,” Brandr added softly, “the warrior woman in your story? She would never have lost her castle.”

Avril bit her lip.

He continued. “Anyone who refused her rule would have been sent into exile.”

Her throat tightened. That was how it should have been. Instead, she’d been sent into exile.

He went on. “And she wouldn’t need an army to take back what was rightfully hers.”

Tears of frustration threatened behind her eyes, but she bit them back. She couldn’t think about that. What was past was past. She couldn’t change what had happened. And there was nothing she could do about it now.

Mortified at the thought of crying in front of a Viking, she sniffed sharply, clapped the soot from her hands, and abruptly stood up. Unfortunately, as she did so, she stepped on the hem of her skirt, which was still partially tucked into her belt. In the blink of an eye, she tripped and stumbled sideways toward the fire.

How Brandr moved so swiftly, she didn’t know. In one instant, she was falling face-first toward the burning coals, and in the next, he’d caught her with his boot and propelled her back toward him.

As she fell, she reflexively put out her hands. She managed to partially catch herself, though she heard him grunt in pain as she fell against his splinted arm. But that wasn’t the worst of it. She landed with her hands on his chest, her face in his belly, and her breast in his palm.

Chapter 8

Brandr hardly felt the throbbing in his broken arm. It was nothing compared to the panicked throbbing of his heart. The woman had almost fallen into the fire. Thank Odin he’d had the reflexes and strength to save her. “Are you all right?”

She lifted her head to look up at him. There was a curious expression on her face, as if she were simultaneously relieved and horrified.

Then he realized what part of her was nestled against his palm, and suddenly the throbbing of his arm and his heart diminished in comparison to the burgeoning throbbing in his trousers. It had been a long time since he’d felt the soft fullness of a woman’s breast. His response was unavoidable.

They stared at each other uncertainly, knowing they had to extricate themselves from this awkward predicament somehow, both reluctant to move for fear of making it worse. The moment stretched on, becoming more and more strained, and neither budged.

And then a strange thing happened. Avril closed her eyes and made a small sound in her throat, not quite a sigh of pleasure, not quite a whimper of distress, and her fingers tightened with subtle pressure on his chest. He froze, afraid to breathe.

When she opened her eyes again, it was only halfway, and she lowered her gaze to his mouth. He, too, was drawn to her lips—so sweet, so tempting, like ripe fruit just out of his reach.

He had the mad urge to lean down and steal a kiss, to taste her soft, succulent lips once again, to be reckless and bold and claim her like a marauder.

But the damned leather collar around his neck prevented him.

Hell, it was just as well. After all, it would be a mistake to do something so impulsive and irresponsible. It would destroy her trust and ruin his plans for escape.

He had to resist temptation.

She, however, didn’t even try.

Lust knocked Avril over like an unexpected ocean wave, stealing her breath away, dragging her into deeper currents, drowning her good sense.

In some dim corner of her brain, she knew she should back away. But Brandr’s chest felt deliciously strong and supple beneath her fingers. His breath caressed her brow. His eyes were smoky and inviting. What she really wanted to do was kiss him.

She eased forward the slightest bit, sucking in a quick breath as his hand rasped gently across her breast. She hesitated, then moved against him again, relishing the tantalizing friction as his palm grazed her. The third time, she squeezed her eyes shut in pleasure. And he responded, moving his thumb tenderly across her nipple.

There was no stopping the coursing tide then. With a soft gasp, she surged forward, caught his stubbled face between her hands, and planted her lips across his enticing mouth.

His cheek was coarse, he smelled of smoke and the sea, and his body was as hard and rough as seasoned oak. But his lips were warm and yielding, and his kiss was filled with gentle wonder.

He answered her at once, angling his face to release and recapture her lips, drawing them in with his own. He breathed passion across her cheek and gasped as she licked experimentally at his mouth. His jaw opened in invitation, and for an instant she hesitated, wondering if he’d bite her like that wolf in his story. Then yearning overrode caution, and she let her tongue venture within, enjoying the ale-sweet taste of him and the pleasing shock as his tongue answered in kind.

Her eager fingers furrowed through his hair, unmindful of his salt-crusted tangles. She pressed closer, letting her breasts chafe provocatively against his chest. They were both breathing heavily now, and she could feel her heart beating like the ocean pounding the shore.

She continued to kiss him, in too deep to turn back. She dared not stop to take a breath, for fear one of them might come to their senses and halt the exhilarating madness.

His soft groan, deep in his throat, was like the purr of a great wild animal, and it sent a frisson of strange current through her, as if he’d called to her. Lightning coursed through her body and struck at the place she most longed to be touched—that burning ember between her thighs.

He seemed to know instantly what she needed. His hand found her, even through her skirts, cupping her with a firm precision that made her gasp. She shivered as he rubbed slowly against her, easing and provoking her at the same time.

She squeezed her eyes tightly. This was mad. It was wrong. And yet it felt so right. She couldn’t seem to stop. His body was a strong lodestone, and she was drawn to him like a powerless scrap of iron.

He opened her mouth wider with his, thrusting his tongue inside, devouring her, and she feasted equally on him. Her nipples stung where they brushed across his chest. And where his fingers now delved with more intense finesse, she began to swell with longing.

Desire rose like an incoming tide, too swift to escape, and soon she was swept off her feet. Higher and higher she was carried on a wave of lust, out of control, unsure of her destiny, led by a stranger. And yet she was helpless to resist.

Brandr was past thought. Otherwise, he’d never have put himself in this situation. This was the woman who had knocked him out and tied him up, and what was he doing? Pleasuring her.

Of course, she wasn’t the only one receiving pleasure. It had been a long while since he’d enjoyed the attentions of a woman so enthusiastic and forthright, a woman who lustily took what she wanted. But his body hadn’t forgotten how to respond to such enthusiasm.

He naturally let her have her way.

He let her kiss him like a greedy suckling lamb. He let her explore his body, run her fingers over his chest and through his hair. He let her press the supple pillows of her breasts against him. He let her arch against his hand, begging wordlessly for his touch.

And he answered her onslaught with the instinctive cravings of his love-starved body.

Blood rushed through his veins and roared in his ears as their tongues entwined and their breath mingled. Even through the layers of linen, the tempting crevice between her legs was impossibly hot, and he ached to plunge there with more than just his fingers.

Indeed, the lusty beast in his trousers was rousing, growing more demanding and frustrated by the moment. And the fact that satisfaction was so close, yet unattainable, drove him even more mad.

What made him open his eyes, he didn’t know—maybe a warrior’s innate sense of his surroundings. But the flicker of peripheral movement made him freeze.

The sudden tension in his body instantly alerted her as well. She stiffened, her lips still clinging to his.

“Mama!” came the little girl’s scolding voice from the doorway. “I told you a hundred times, don’t go near that bad man!”

Avril’s eyes went wide, and she pulled away in horror, struggling to her feet and stammering. “I…I…I…”

Since she seemed too tongue-tied to come up with a reasonable explanation, Brandr offered one. “Your mama fell,” he said, which was true.

“Aye,” Avril choked out, straightening her garments. “I fell.”

The little girl eyed them uncertainly, and Brandr held his breath, waiting. Then Kimbery shrugged and skipped off to the kitchen, plopped down on her stool and began chattering to her doll.

The air was heavy with unrequited desire, and the tension between Avril and him was as taut as a drawn bowstring. He didn’t dare speak or even glance at her for fear of rekindling the volatile spark between them. It seemed like an eternity before his hunger subsided and he could draw an even breath.

Avril couldn’t look at the Northman. She pressed her fingertips into her brow, hiding her eyes behind her hands in shame.

What had she done?

Hell, she’d let him kiss her, hold her, touch her. She’d shown weakness to her enemy, let him gain the upper hand, surrendered to his seduction. But she couldn’t let him believe that he’d won some victory over her, that she was somehow vulnerable to him.

Making sure Kimbery was occupied and avoiding Brandr’s gaze, she hunkered down to poke at the fire and whispered sharply, “Never do that again.”

He barked out an incredulous chuckle, then whispered back, “What—save you from falling into the fire?”

Her lips thinned. “Kiss me,” she whispered. “Never kiss me again.”

He scoffed, then whispered, “I believe it was you who kissed me.”

Her face grew hot at the truth of his words, but she didn’t dare back down. “An honorable man would never make such…” The words stuck in her throat as she remembered the glorious sensation of his hand between her legs. “Such bold advances toward an unwilling woman.”

He murmured, “I don’t recall you being unwilling at all.”

She gasped, casting an anxious glance at Kimbery.

“In fact,” he continued, “I’m collared and bound and chained to the wall. It isn’t as if I had a choice in the matter.”

It was true, of course. She’d thrown herself at him. But he didn’t have to come out and say it.

She felt thoroughly humiliated now. She’d made a fool of herself, attacking him with the same raw aggression she’d used on her lovers in that shameful period after her rape. Only this was much worse. This time she’d forced herself upon a man with no power to resist her. Hell, she was no better than the berserker who’d violated her.

Was that why she’d thrown herself at Brandr? Was she somehow seeking revenge upon him for what another of his kind had done to her?

As much as it pained her to admit it, she feared it might be true. She’d treated the Northman with undeserved disrespect. She owed him an apology. Swallowing hard and closing her eyes, she mumbled, “You’re right. It was dishonorable of me. I’m sorry.”

After what seemed an interminable length of time, he breathed, “I’m not.”

Their glances collided then. And in that moment that caught them both off-guard, they were no longer Viking and Pict, no longer prisoner and captor, but man and woman.

What had made Brandr admit the truth about how he felt, he didn’t know. It was reckless and unwise. The more emotionally entangled he became with this woman, the harder it would be to betray her and make his escape.

But he couldn’t deny he felt…something…for the fiery Pictish lass. What troubled him was that it might be something deeper than just physical lust.

Lust he could deal with. It made sense, after all. He’d been without a woman for so long, it was only natural his body should respond at the first available opportunity. But if it were something more…

By Thor, he had to get out of this mess!

Avril, obviously discomfited by his confession, backed away and ushered Kimbery outside, ostensibly to gather cockles, but probably also to get a breath of fresh, sobering air.

While they were gone, Brandr worked at the iron ring, pulling and twisting to try to loosen it from the mortared stone. The woman might not have turned him in to her neighbor this morn, but that didn’t mean she wouldn’t ever. Even if she relished the idea of having captured a Viking, even if she enjoyed lording it over him as her prisoner, even if she found amusement and pleasure in his arms, eventually she’d tire of it…and him.

He shouldn’t have encouraged her. True, he was collared and bound and unable to avoid her caresses. But he could have turned a cold countenance to her. He could have refused to bend to her seductive will. He could have clamped his mouth shut and made fists of his hands.

Instead, in an instant of weakness, he’d ignored reason. He’d let himself be tempted by her feminine desire, allowed himself to drift with her on an erotic sea. And for one moment, he’d almost believed that they were kindred souls floating there, that they shared a common destination and a deeper destiny.

But he had to ignore such feelings. It would only make things more difficult when the time came to play the traitor.

He yanked hard at the collar, bruising his throat. The iron ring wouldn’t budge. He cursed and slumped back against the wall. How much longer did he have? How much longer would it be before Avril decided he was a bad influence on her daughter and a danger to her? How much longer before she turned him in?

Chapter 9

Before she even opened her eyes the following morning, Avril could hear them in the next room—Brandr murmuring, Kimbery giggling. It was a pleasant sound, a sound that reminded her of what it was like to have a real family. Her lips curved up as foolish, sentimental tears brimmed in her eyes.

She’d told herself she didn’t need family. Her parents were dead. Her brothers had betrayed her. And there was little hope of her finding a husband, since she had nothing to offer. She’d convinced herself that Kimbery was family enough.

But the truth was Avril was terribly lonely.

Most days, she kept herself too busy to notice. Her mind she occupied with survival. Her heart she occupied with Kimbery.

Still, regret occasionally crept in, and she grieved for the person she used to be—the young woman who was meant to reign over a noble keep, marry a strong warrior, and have a dozen beautiful children. Most of the time that regret manifested as a righteous thirst for justice and a determination to get back what belonged to her. But sometimes, like this morn, a melancholy pining welled up in her, and she ached for what she couldn’t have.

She definitely couldn’t have Brandr. There was no question about that. He might have felt right in her arms. His kiss might have been sweet and tempting. His hands might have touched her with the deceptive devotion of a lover. But he was her enemy.

Barbarians like him had invaded her land for decades now. They’d razed her villages, stolen her coin, slaughtered her people. One of them had killed her father and raped her. They were brutal, ruthless savages, and they were beyond reason.

Why then was it so impossible to imagine the whispering Viking in the next room wielding an axe and charging unarmed Pictish children?

Kimbery giggled again, and this time she was joined by the Northman. His laugh was deep and warm, and it sent delicious shivers along Avril’s arms.

She swallowed hard and opened her eyes to stare at the ceiling.

What in God’s name was she going to do with Brandr?

She couldn’t turn him in. She didn’t have the heart to deliver him into the hands of an angry mob. Hell, she’d already proven that—hiding him from the man who’d come yesterday.

But she couldn’t let him go either. If anything happened to her neighbors because she’d set a Viking loose, she’d never be able to live with herself.

And she couldn’t keep him tied up forever. She might be a formidable foe, but she wasn’t inhumane.

In the midst of agonizing over what to do with the Northman, she heard Kimbery’s giggles interrupted abruptly by a low thud, a silent pause, and then a thin wail.

Avril’s heart stopped. Fearing the worst, she thrashed to get free of the tangle of sheets. Cursing her own clumsiness as Kimbery’s voice rose to a piercing cry, Avril tripped beside the bed, landing on one knee, her foot still caught in the linens.

What had he done to her? What had that damned Viking done to her little girl?

Fear sucked her mouth dry. It seemed to take forever before she finally managed to get free of the bedclothes and shot to her feet.

She’d kill him! She’d kill the bastard for making her daughter cry.

Desperate to reach Kimbery, she rushed forward, tripping over Kimbery’s cloth doll on the floor and catching herself as she slammed against the bedchamber wall.

At last stumbling through the doorway, she froze at the sight, her eyes wide.

Kimbery was sobbing on Brandr’s shoulder, and his head was inclined toward hers as he murmured soothing words against her hair.

The protective mother in Avril wanted to snatch Kimbery away at once.

But before she had a chance to move, Brandr met her gaze over Kimbery’s head, and she instantly saw the truth in his compassionate eyes. He hadn’t hurt Kimbery. She’d hurt herself. And she’d run to him for comfort.

Avril didn’t know what to think. Kimbery had been far too trusting of the Northman, sharing her doll with him, drawing pictures of him, listening to his stories, calling him Da. And yet sometimes children had an instinct for people. Sometimes they could tell who was good and who was bad.

She stood at the doorway, watching them in tense silence.

Kimbery’s sobbing subsided to sniffles, and she lifted her head to look at Brandr. “Is it bleeding?”

He narrowed his eyes, studying her brow. “A bit.”

Kimbery touched the place and drew her fingers away, whimpering at the sight of the blood on her fingertips.

“It should make a fine scar,” he assured her. “All great warriors have battle scars.”

She stopped crying. “They do?”

“Aye.”

“Do you have a scar?”

“Oh, aye, lots of them.”

“Where?”

“There’s one here, under my chin.” He lifted his chin for her to see, though it was covered with stubble. Then he lowered his head. “And I have one on my forehead, like you.”

“Did you run into a table, too?”

“Nay.” He tried to scowl, but his eyes were twinkling. “That’s where Thor struck me with a bolt of lightning.”

“Really?”

His frown melted into a smile. “Nay, not really. My brother caught my brow with an axe.”

“Is your brother evil like my mama’s brothers?”

Avril’s breath caught.

“Nay,” he said. “It was an accident. We were sparring.”

After a thoughtful moment, Kimbery rose to press a kiss to his brow. Avril’s jaw dropped. “Mama says this will make it all better. Now you give mine a kiss.”

Before Avril could gasp out a word, Kimbery leaned her head toward Brandr’s lips, giving him no choice but to repay the gesture.

When Kimbery pulled away, she cocked her head and touched a finger to his temple, where Avril had clubbed him with the driftwood. “Is that a battle scar?”

A hint of a smile threatened at the corner of his lips. “Aye.”

“My mama has a battle scar.”

Avril nearly choked.

Kimbery continued, “It’s right here.” She pointed to the right side of her chest.

Brandr’s smile blossomed into a full grin. “Really?’

Avril had heard enough. Blushing, she swept into the room. “Kimbery, what happened?”

Kimbery jumped up and ran to her. “Mama, I have a battle scar!”

“Is that so?” She crouched to inspect Kimbery’s brow. There was a red bump and a tiny cut there, so tiny that she’d be surprised if it left any mark at all. Nonetheless, she frowned in concern. “And who were you battling to give you such a scar?”

“Sir…Table!”

“I see.” She ruffled the top of Kimbery’s hair. “And did you give Sir Table battle scars as well?”

Kimbery nodded and then leaned against her and began twining her fingers in Avril’s hair. “Mama, I let Brandr kiss my cut.”

And I let him kiss my lips, Avril thought. But all she said was, “Oh?”

Kimbery added in a loud whisper, “I don’t think he’s a very bad man.”

Avril sighed, and she felt the tension go out of her. Kimbery was right. He wasn’t a very bad man. He’d done nothing wrong. In spite of being shipwrecked and captured and tied up, he’d been civil and even kind. He’d told Kimbery stories, he’d eased away her tears, and been a model father to a little girl who’d never had one. He’d even saved Avril from falling into the fire. Avril slowly raised her gaze over Kimbery’s shoulder and looked him squarely in the eye. “Neither do I.”

Brandr should have been relieved. Avril was staring at him with complete trust now. He could tell by her eyes that she had no intention of turning him in. He wouldn’t have to worry about escaping, because she wouldn’t tell anyone he was here. She meant to set him free.

To his surprise, his heart sank. As mad as it was, despite his broken arm, his banged-up nose, and the cursed dog collar around his neck, he’d rather enjoyed the past few days. Avril was a fascinating woman—spirited and passionate, sensitive yet strong, and her daughter was delightful. Now that the opportunity for escape was at hand, he wasn’t sure he wanted to leave.

The way she was looking at him made his heart melt. Ever since he’d lost his wife and children, there had been a deep, hollow abyss in his soul. Losing his ship and his men had thrown him farther into the chasm and made it seem impossible to ever reach the surface. But between Avril’s kindhearted honor and Kimbery’s innocent adoration, he’d started to believe that he could climb out of that hole, that he might be capable of caring and loving again.

Kimbery pushed away from her mother suddenly and galloped across the room into the bedchamber, announcing, “Look at me! I’m a Valkyrie!”

Avril looked askance at him, and he lifted one corner of his lip in a sheepish half-smile.

She came to hunker down beside him then, to tell him what he already knew. “I’ve decided I won’t turn you in.”

He waited in silence, not sure he wanted to hear the rest.

She turned in profile to him and lowered her eyes. “My father taught me not to judge a man by the sins of his brothers.” She took a deep breath and let it out on a sigh. “You may have Viking blood in your veins. But you have nothing in common with the man who attacked me.”

He held his breath, like a felon awaiting his sentence.

“I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you yet,” she admitted, “but after all you’ve done for Kimbery…and for me…” Her glance flickered momentarily to his lips, and he knew she was remembering their kiss. He was remembering their kiss. He wished she would kiss him again. She tucked her lower lip under her teeth, then lifted love-soft eyes to his. “I vow I won’t let harm come to you.”

The naked reverence in her beautiful amber eyes took Brandr’s breath away. No woman had ever regarded him with such forthright fondness or gifted him with such a heartfelt promise. The way she was looking at him made him feel he could do anything, even crawl out of his dark underworld into the light.

He opened his mouth to blurt something in return—he wasn’t sure what—probably something foolish and maudlin. But Kimbery shot suddenly back through the doorway, and Avril steered her into the kitchen to prepare breakfast.

Part of him felt relief. He’d been racked with guilt all this time, cursing his misplaced affections for Avril as some weakness on his part. To know that she felt the same way about him—that her feelings went deeper than lust, that she recognized his good heart, and that she genuinely cared about him—lifted his spirits.

But the other part of him, the rational part, realized that there was one thing he feared more than Avril turning him in. And that was Avril trying to keep him safe.

Her trusting gaze filled him with dread. There had been much more than simple mercy in her expression. He’d glimpsed a dangerous combination of affection and determination in her eyes, the same unflinching adoration and steely will that had kept her daughter alive on this barren spit of shore.

The fact was she didn’t want him to leave either. As improbable as it seemed, the two of them—captive and captor, mortal enemies—had somehow done much more than find common ground and an uneasy peace. They’d fallen in love. And now she naively believed she could keep him.

But she couldn’t, not without endangering herself and her daughter. She couldn’t hide him. Anyone with one good eye could see Brandr was a Viking. She’d never be able to explain how he’d arrived here, where he’d come from, how they’d met.

And he knew what would happen after that. Avril would be called a Viking sympathizer, branded a traitor, and probably executed. And Brandr wouldn’t be able to do a damned thing to protect her.

He was cursed. Misfortune befell anyone who got close to him. As much as his heart ached with the desire to stay, as much as he knew he’d be hurled back into his familiar pit of despair if he left, he knew the only answer was to ignore the bittersweet yearning in his soul, turn his back on her—on both of them, and go.

Chapter 10

Avril swept through the seagrass toward the bleating ewe, a stool under one arm and her milk bucket bouncing against her thigh. She felt as light as thistledown atop a bubbling stream. She didn’t have all the details worked out, but she knew that sparing Brandr’s life was the right decision.

He was a decent man. Maybe he was a Viking, and maybe he’d come as an invader, but he’d shown her nothing but humanity, courtesy, and kindness, in spite of her hostility. He’d seen to Kimbery’s cut and kept her from harm by telling her stories. He’d saved Avril from fire and feared for her welfare when she’d confronted her neighbor. It was obvious he felt protective of them.

Did he feel something more? Her heart fluttered at the possibility, and she grew slightly giddy, remembering the way he’d looked at her just now, not only with relief and gratitude, but with a sweet sort of devotion.

She couldn’t help but smile as she pushed through the gate and closed it behind her. Plopping the stool down next to Caimbeul, she seated herself. She rested her palm on the animal’s flank and set the bucket under the sheep’s belly. As she milked the ewe, she daydreamed.

What if Brandr stayed here with her, with them? He had nowhere else to go, after all. His men hadn’t shown up. He was a stranger in her land. He was a castaway, stranded here with no means of survival. She could offer him a roof over his head, food, safety…and perhaps something more.

She leaned her brow against the sheep’s woolly side and closed her eyes.

What if the attraction she felt for him grew into genuine love? Could he be a father for Kimbery? And—she dared to imagine—could he be a husband to her?

Three days ago, she would have thought it impossible. Now it seemed not only possible, but right. After all, they were both castoffs, exiled from their people. It seemed natural and fitting to seek comfort in each other’s company.

She squeezed the last milk from the ewe’s udders and retrieved the bucket before giving the sheep a pat to send her trotting across the pasture. Then she sat there for a moment, gazing up at the sky, where low morning clouds made a soft gray blanket that would dissolve away by midday.

Staring into the heavens, she made up her mind. She was going to let him go, set him free. In fact, she’d unleash him right now.

It was risky, she thought as she made her way back to the cottage. Once he was loose, he could physically hurt her, or he could run out of her life forever.

But she didn’t think he’d do either. He’d had ample opportunity to do her and Kimbery harm, and he’d done nothing. Nor did he seem the kind of man to leave women to fend for themselves. There was no question in Avril’s mind that he was a man of conscience, that she could trust him.

Now that she’d made that decision, she couldn’t reach the cottage quickly enough.

When Avril left to milk the ewe, Brandr realized he didn’t have much time. He began working on Kimbery at once.

“How would you like to play Fenrir, Kimmie?” he asked, licking his lips, hoping his ploy would work.

Kimbery played coy. “Maybe.”

“You can be Fenrir. And I’ll be Tyr, Fenrir’s loyal friend.”

The little girl hesitated, swaying indecisively for a moment. Then she dropped to all fours on the floor and began snapping her teeth together, pretending to be a ferocious wolf.

He spoke in the growling voice of Tyr. “You’re so strong, Fenrir, stronger than any other god. I wonder if you’re strong enough to break one of those sticks in two.” He nodded to the kindling near the hearth.

Kimbery snarled and picked up a twig in her jaws, then took it out with her hands and broke it.

He gasped in feigned awe. “I wonder if you’re strong enough to pick up that sword and bring it here all by yourself.”

Kimbery hesitated at that and sat back on her heels. “Mama said wee lasses aren’t supposed to touch her sword.”

Silently cursing in frustration, he said in Tyr’s voice, “Wee lasses? But you’re not a wee lass. You’re Fenrir, son of Loki, son of Odin, the most powerful of all the gods.”

The little girl roared once, but then she came close and whispered in his ear. “Mama doesn’t even want Fenrir to touch her sword.”

Brandr sighed. Avril had her trained well, that was certain. But it didn’t matter. He could get free without the sword.

“Great Fenrir,” he intoned, “I wonder if you’re strong enough to escape this heavy collar.”

Kimbery gave a fierce growl of agreement.

“I’ll take it off my neck,” he said, “and you can put it around yours.” He made a show of trying to break free of the collar, twisting and straining.

She became Kimbery again for a moment, whispering, “I’ll unbuckle it, and then you can put it on me.”

“All right,” he whispered back.

As her tiny fingers worked on the strap, a feeling of misgiving weighed down his heart. He didn’t want to hurt the little girl. He didn’t want to betray her mother. But he saw no other way. He couldn’t endanger them. And he had to leave before Avril returned or she’d tempt him into staying.

The instant his neck was free, he bent forward to untie the ropes about his wrists with his teeth.

“Put it on me!” Kimbery impatiently demanded.

“I can’t until I loose my hands,” he explained.

“Hurry.”

He did. As soon as his wrists were free, he untied the rope around his middle, then moved aside so Kimbery could stand in his place.

He buckled the collar loosely around her neck so she wouldn’t be able to follow him or hurt herself. She bared her teeth in a snarl as he struggled to his feet on legs that had grown weak with sitting.

While Kimbery growled and twisted against the collar, Brandr glanced at the jeweled sword.

In the end, he found he couldn’t bring himself to take it. The blade was Avril’s hard-won prize, a gift from her father, and her only defense.

He straightened slowly, groaning at the strain of his stiff muscles. Kimbery quieted. She was eyeing him uneasily now.

“You’re Tyr,” she said. “You’re supposed to put your hand in my mouth.”

He meant to leave without a word and without a backward glance. It was best if Kimbery remembered him as a bad man.

But his betrayal must have been written on his face. Kimmie’s chin began to tremble. “Nay, Da. Don’t go.”

He gulped as a knot of emotion rose up to choke him. He wanted to kneel before her and take her in his arms one last time, to give her the farewell embrace he’d never been able to give his own daughter. But he couldn’t. He had to leave…now.

The words spilled out of him in a rush. “I have to, Kimmie. But I’ll never forget you. I promise.”

Then, before tears could engulf them both, he slipped out the cottage door, closing it behind him. He headed toward the sea, where Avril would never think to look for him.

Avril froze as she closed the pasture gate and noticed the distant figure limping along the shore. It took three heartbeats for her to recognize who it was and another two to realize the significance.

She dropped the bucket, and milk spilled across the ground.

Kimmie!

Fear sucked all the moisture out of her mouth as she hurtled toward the cottage.

When she threw open the door, she was relieved to find Kimbery relatively unhurt. Still, her hands shook as she rushed forward to unbuckle the collar around the little girl’s neck.

“He left, Mama,” Kimmie sobbed. “We were playing…and he left.”

Avril wavered between humiliation and rage. How she’d been so gulled, she didn’t know. But now she cursed her stupid trusting heart. She’d been right from the beginning. She should never have trusted a Viking.

“Make him come back, Mama,” Kimbery pleaded as she wrapped her arms around Avril’s neck, tears streaming down her face.

Avril’s heart felt like a lump of lead. Brandr must have tricked her the entire time, making her believe he was decent, gentle, civil. It made her sick to think she’d ever imagined he was in love with her. It made her even more nauseous to remember what she’d let him do to her.

She’d believed him. Kimbery had believed him. He’d pretended that he was different from the berserkers who’d come before, that he was noble and honorable. Yet he was no less a marauder, doing his damage and running off like a coward.

The brute had broken poor Kimbery’s heart.

“I want Da!” Kimmie wailed.

Avril gave her a comforting squeeze as tears welled in her own eyes.

But as she held her weeping daughter and tried to soothe her own frayed emotions, it wasn’t long before her hurt turned into anger and her anger into action.

Damn the Viking! Who did he think he was to steal away like a thief in the night? He owed her an explanation. He owed Kimbery an explanation. He’d been a father. He knew how sensitive children were. How dared he slink off out of Kimbery’s life without so much as a word of farewell?

By God, one way or another, she’d make him answer to her.

She gently swept Kimmie’s hair back from her sad little face and used her thumbs to wipe away the tears.

“Listen, Kimmie,” she said, “I’m going to go after him. I need you to stay. Do you understand?”

She nodded.

But the moment Avril went for her sword, Kimmie panicked. “Nay, Mama, don’t hurt him!”

She frowned. “I won’t.” At least, she hoped she wouldn’t, though at the moment, the idea of running him through had its appeal.

“You promise?”

Avril didn’t want to make a promise she couldn’t keep, but she knew Kimbery would be unmanageable if she didn’t. “I promise…if you promise not to set foot outside the cottage.”

“I promise.” Avril nodded in approval, and as she whirled to go, Kimmie added plaintively, “Bring him back home, Mama.”

Home. This wasn’t his home. But she couldn’t deny, even after so few days, she too had begun to think of Brandr as part of her little family.

Without a word, she swept out the door and raced down to the water’s edge to catch up with her quarry.

Brandr didn’t realize he’d been followed until he felt something sharp jab him in the back.

“Hold it right there.”

He froze. That was the point of her jeweled sword, no doubt. He knew he should have taken it. But how had she managed to find him? He was a good mile down the shore from her cottage.

Glancing down, he realized the waves rushing over the sand had only partially covered his footprints. They’d also completely covered the sound of her pursuit.

His shoulders sank. He’d hoped to avoid a confrontation. He’d hoped to escape quietly, letting Avril think he was a harmless coward like Loki—a knave who’d deserted her but wasn’t worth hunting down.

“Where do you think you’re going?” she demanded.

“Away.”

“Without a word?” she asked, clearly vexed. “Without even saying goodbye?” She poked him with the sword, and he flinched. “How could you do that to…to a sweet little girl like Kimbery?”

Brandr could tell that Kimbery wasn’t the only one hurt by his desertion. But he didn’t dare let Avril know how he really felt. “She’ll get over it.”

His cold words hung on the air as a wave crashed on the rocks and hissed over the sand.

“Get over it?” she bit out. “You. Bloody. Bastard.”

He clenched his jaw against a surge of guilt.

“She called you Da,” she said.

He closed his eyes against the pain.

“Damn you, Viking,” she muttered. “I would have set you free.”

“I know.”

Behind him, she gasped. “If you knew, then why did you sneak off like a robber? Kimbery trusted you.” Her voice broke. “She…cared for you.”

He furrowed his brow. He cared for Kimbery. She’d brought a welcome light back into his life, a light that had been extinguished when his own children had been taken from him. As for Avril… He was afraid his feelings for Avril went far beyond merely caring for her.

Clenching his fists, he spoke with a flippancy he didn’t feel. “She’s a child. She’ll forget me.”

He heard her sob, but she covered her hurt quickly with a jab of her sword that made him wince. “Why would you do such a hurtful thing? Why would you desert her?”

“It’s for her own good,” he growled.

“You son of a…” She suddenly gave his arse a punishing whack with the flat of her blade. He jerked and raised his hands in surrender. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” she demanded. “You wash up on my beach, sleep under my roof, eat my food, befriend my daughter, and you suddenly decide to walk out of her life…for her own good?”

Brandr decided not to remind her that those were things over which he’d had no choice. After all, she was upset, and she had a sword in her hand. “It is for her own good. You said it yourself. I’m a bad man.”

“You know that’s not true.”

“Isn’t it?” It was best if she went on thinking he was a heartless brute. Leaving her would be twice as hard if she begged him to stay. “I’m a Viking, a marauder, an invader.”

“She liked you. She…she loved you.”

Brandr squeezed his eyes shut. He knew Avril was no longer talking about Kimbery now.

He could hear the hurt in her vexed murmur. “Damn you, did you care nothing for her? Was it all a ruse? How could you make her believe you had feelings for her and then…and then abandon her?”

Brandr didn’t mean to respond. It would be better for everyone if he let it go. But the words spilled forth. “Do you think it was easy?” he choked out over his shoulder. “To walk away like that? To leave her, knowing she trusted me? Do you think it was easy abandoning her, knowing I was breaking her heart?”

“Why then?” she sobbed. “Why did you run away?”

“I had to.”

“You’re a coward,” she said bitterly, “just like all the men I’ve known.”

“Nay!” he insisted, unwilling to let her believe that. “The man who raped you was a coward. The man who killed your father was a coward. The men who stole your land were cowards.”

“And you’re not?”

“Nay! I’m trying to protect you.”

“I can protect myself.”

“Not from me.”

“That makes no—“

“I’m cursed, Avril,” he ground out. “I’m…cursed. Everyone I care about has been taken from me. My wife. My children. My village. My men.” His throat closed, but he forced the words out. “I won’t let that happen to Kimbery. And I won’t let that happen to you.”

For a moment, the only sound was the hushed whisper of the incoming tide and a single gull squawking softly overhead.

Then Avril responded with surprise to his confession. “You…care about me?”

He hung his head and sighed. Was it not written all over his face? He gave her a rueful chuckle. “Oh, my Pictish temptress,” he said, shaking his head, “it’s far worse than that. I fear I’m in love with you.”

Avril was struck speechless. She lowered the blade from his back as his words sank in. No one had ever said that to her before. She didn’t know how to respond. She’d fantasized about being Brandr’s wife, about making a family with him. She’d never imagined he might already have feelings for her.

She stared in wonder at the enemy she’d discovered only days before on this very shore. His long Viking-blond hair tangled over his wide invader’s shoulders and fell down his broad marauding back. But though he was definitely still a stranger, he no longer seemed a foe.

Now she saw the possibility of a bright future…for Kimbery, for herself, for the shipwrecked Northman. They could make a life together. They could find a place in the world. All she had to do was persuade Brandr of that.

He glanced over his shoulder. Misunderstanding her silence and her lowered weapon, he asked somberly, “Will you let me go now?”

She whipped the point of her blade back up so swiftly it startled him. “Not so fast, Viking.” A thrill of hope suffused her even as her eyes filled with happy tears. One way or another, she’d convince the Northman to stay…even if she had to keep him leashed in her cottage for a year. “I thought you said you weren’t a coward.”

He didn’t answer.

She continued. “You’re a damned Northman! You flex your muscle, rattle your battleaxe, and speak of glorious war. And yet you’d run away from a curse?”

He clenched his fists, but remained silent.

“Well,” she said, “I don’t believe in curses. Do you think you alone are fortune’s foe? I’ve lost everything, too. I’ve had bad times when I wanted to surrender. I’ve had moments of weakness when I wondered why I went on living. But I never gave up. Not once did I let despair get the better of me. Not once did I—“

“Mama!” Kimbery called out suddenly behind her.

Avril started in surprise.

“Kimbery!” she snapped, whipping around to give her daughter the scolding of her life. “I told you to stay at…”

But when she saw Kimmie hadn’t come alone, Avril’s heart plummeted, her knees buckled, and she nearly lost her grip on the sword. Her little girl was riding merrily atop the shoulders of one of dozens of Viking savages that now occupied her beach.

“Look!” Kimbery crowed, oblivious to her horror. “I’m a Frost Giant!”

All of Avril’s warrior instincts told her not to show weakness, not to waver, not to beg. Five years ago, standing over her father’s grave, bruised from a brutal rape, she’d vowed never to cower before a Viking again.

But five years ago, she hadn’t had a daughter she’d die for.

“Nay,” she choked out, “please. Don’t hurt her.” She prayed they could understand her words. Oh, God, she thought, what if they meant to steal Kimbery? What if they sailed away with her to the North? What if Avril never saw her again?

Quaking with fear, she moved her sword away from Brandr and set the weapon gently on the ground. “Take him. Take Brandr. Just give my daughter back to me.”

Chapter 11

Brandr wheeled around with his fists raised and his face in a fierce scowl, ready to fight whoever was threatening the women he loved. He lowered his arms immediately when he saw who it was.

“Halfdan?” he asked in disbelief. “Ragnarr?” Relief and joy coursed through him. Behind Avril stood his brothers—whole, healthy, and grinning. By the grace of Odin, they’d come through the storm, untouched, and they were surrounded by their men. “You’re alive!”

There was a rumble of celebration as he rushed forward to catch his brothers in a one-armed embrace.

“What happened to you?” Ragnarr asked, indicating his splinted forearm.

His injury was the least of Brandr’s concerns. “A scratch,” he said with a shrug. “But how did you find me?”

Halfdan frowned. “We followed the wreckage of your ship.”

Brandr nodded. There was a long moment of reflective silence as everyone thought about those who’d been lost. Then Ragnarr cleared his throat and announced, “Your men are no doubt feasting in Valhalla.”

There were cheers of agreement all around.

“But it’s been days,” Brandr said. “The wreckage must have drifted. How did you know to look for me here?”

Halfdan gave him a half-smile. “It might have something to do with the little girl standing in her cottage door, yelling ‘Brandr! Brandr!’ at the top of her lungs.”

Brandr had to smile at that. Kimbery perched happily atop ferocious Axlan’s shoulders as if he were her favorite uncle.

“So tell me,” Ragnarr asked, crossing his arms and cocking a brow toward Avril, “how did my big warrior brother end up at the pointed end of a Pictish wench’s sword?”

Brandr was so grateful to see his brothers that he didn’t mind the taunt. There would be time to salvage his pride later. But when he looked back at Avril, he saw she’d gone white with fear. She didn’t understand their language. She didn’t know who they were or what they intended. And her gaze was fixed on Kimbery.

He switched back to Pictish. “Avril, it’s all right. They won’t hurt you.”

Of course, he knew she had no reason to trust him. He’d manipulated her. He’d betrayed her. He’d abandoned her.

“Please, Brandr,” she said almost inaudibly. “Please don’t take her. Don’t take Kimbery.”

He furrowed his brows. He wouldn’t dream of taking a child from her mother. None of his men would. That she could even think him capable of such cruelty made him want to strangle the berserkers who’d so badly damaged her.

But as he looked at her, a spark of desperate courage flashed in her eyes, and before he could see what she intended, she dove for her blade. In an instant, she swept up the weapon and trained the point at his throat.

“Put her down!” she yelled at the men. “Put her down right now!”

“Nay!” Kimmie wailed in protest.

“Put her down, or I’ll cut his throat!”

Brandr froze. He probably could have knocked aside the sword with a swing of his splinted arm, but it was risky. He knew better than to come between a mother and her child.

“Avril,” he said, “they mean her no—“

“Quiet!” she barked.

“Woman,” Halfdan said in broken Pictish, “you are one. We are many. Put down your sword.”

Avril was trembling, but her blade didn’t waver an inch. “Nay.”

Ragnarr frowned. “Nay?”

“Nay,” she said. “Put her down, or I’ll kill him.”

Brandr tensed as several of the men clapped hands on their weapons in challenge.

“I mean it,” she bit out. “Put her down, get back on your ship, and sail away from here, or I swear I’ll cut his throat.”

Most of the men figured she was bluffing. Maidens didn’t kill people, especially Northmen who were double their size. Unintimidated by her threat, Halfdan drew his sword. And when Ragnarr unfolded his arms, he was holding twin axes. Disaster loomed. Brandr had to temper things before the tense standoff erupted into an ugly battle.

“Wait!” he shouted. Avril might believe she had leverage, but Brandr had seen his brothers and their men at war. No one opposed them and lived. It was up to him to prevent a violent altercation. “Don’t hurt her!”

“Don’t hurt her?” Halfdan echoed in amazement. “If you hadn’t noticed, she’s the one holding a blade to your throat.”

“She won’t do it,” Brandr said, hoping he was right. “She won’t kill me.”

“That’s right,” Ragnarr said, “because we’ll kill her before she gets the chance.”

“Nay! She…she saved my life.” It wasn’t exactly true, but he didn’t know what would have happened to him if she hadn’t dragged him into her cottage. Probably her neighbor would have found him, killed him, and made a trophy out of him.

“Saved your life?” Halfdan scoffed. “She doesn’t seem too interested in your life now.”

Brandr sighed. Halfdan was right, of course. But if they’d shown up an hour earlier, it would have been a different tale. He would have told them how she’d set his arm, kept him fed, and protected him from a Viking-hunter. And he would have been able to explain to Avril that his brothers meant her no harm, that he meant her no harm.

Now, he could hardly expect her to trust him.

But maybe, now that his brothers were here, now that he was no longer shipwrecked and alone, now that he had a small army at his disposal…

A brilliant idea took form in his mind, and for the first time in a year, he began to think he might not be cursed after all.

To commit to slaying Brandr if it came to that was the most difficult thing Avril had ever done in her life. But her precious daughter was at risk. Nothing was more important than Kimbery—nothing.

“Avril,” Brandr said, “listen to me. You know you don’t want to kill me in cold blood. It’s not the honorable thing to do. And you always do the honorable thing.”

She clamped her lips together. But though her vision grew watery and a tense knot formed in her throat at what she might be forced to do, she held her ground. She realized that when it came to her daughter, Kimbery was more important than honor itself.

“Make them put her down,” she said hoarsely, “or I swear I’ll slay you where you stand.”

He seemed to believe her. “All right.” He said something to his men. They argued back and forth. But in the end, they put away their weapons, muttering in disgust as they did so.

“And Kimmie,” she choked out. “Give me my daughter.”

“Nay!” Kimmie complained. The wayward little sprite tucked her lip under her teeth and held tightly to the man’s head. Kimbery knew she was in trouble for disobeying Avril’s orders and didn’t want to be punished.

But punishment was the last thing on Avril’s mind. All she wanted was to get Kimbery back, safe and sound.

“I didn’t set foot outside the cottage, Mama,” Kimmie said. “I didn’t. The Frost Giants picked me up.”

“Brandr,” Avril demanded, willing her voice to remain steady, “make them put her down.”

He relayed her message. Despite Kimmie’s protests, the man peeled the little girl’s hands from his forehead and lifted her off of his shoulders.

“Come here, Kimmie,” Avril said, her heart in her throat.

Kimbery reluctantly began to saunter over, and for one tiny instant, Avril lost her focus. But in that instant and without warning, Brandr used his arm—the arm Avril had splinted for him—and knocked her sword aside, and then used his good hand to wrench it from her grasp. She was still gasping in dismay when he wrapped his splinted arm around her neck, trapping her against him.

She clawed and kicked at him, but nothing would dislodge the brute’s grip on her. In desperation, she cried, “Run, Kimmie! Run!”

Kimbery might be a willful little girl, but she recognized the alarm in Avril’s voice. Obedient for once, she spun and began tearing across the sand toward home. The men casually watched her go.

Brandr blew out an annoyed breath. “All right,” he said, “we’re all going back to the cottage. Avril, you and I are going to have an althing. Do you remember what that is?”

She wasn’t interested in conversing with him. All she cared about was keeping the men away from Kimbery. She twisted violently in his grip.

He ignored her struggles. “You and I are going to talk things over,” he explained. “Together. Civilly.”

With unflappable calm, he began to haul her, kicking and screaming, along the shore and back to the cottage, with his men in tow. By the time they arrived, she was hoarse and exhausted, but at least she had the satisfaction of knowing she’d put up a fight. She’d been no victim this time. She’d done everything she could to protect herself and her daughter.

“Kimmie!” Brandr called.

“Nay!” Avril yelled.

“Kimmie, come out!”

Kimbery popped her head out of the door.

“Nay!” Avril shrieked. “Stay there.”

“She’ll come to no harm, I promise,” Brandr told her. “The men will watch over her.”

He spoke as if she had a choice. The truth was she was at their mercy. Yet, when she thought about it, Brandr’s men had done Kimmie no harm thus far. They could have kidnapped her when they first discovered her. They could have leveraged her life for Brandr’s. But they hadn’t.

She swallowed hard. “If they lay a finger on her…”

“They won’t. I swear it. She’ll be safe.” One side of his mouth curved up. “She likes them. She thinks they’re Frost Giants.”

His smile of encouragement did little to assuage her fears. And to her dismay, Kimbery ran eagerly toward the man who’d hefted her on his shoulders, wrapping her arms fondly around his knees. With an uneasy spirit and against her better judgment, Avril let Brandr steer her into the cottage.

The instant he closed the door behind them, he let her go. She staggered a step and wheeled on him, ready to fight with her bare hands, if need be.

“Sheathe your claws, kitten,” he said. “I only want to talk.”

She scowled at him, and then, realizing her fists were no match for a sword, lowered her hands.

“I have an idea,” he told her, beginning to pace pensively before the hearth.

She touched her scraped throat, rubbed raw from struggling against his splinted arm. “An idea.” She couldn’t imagine what he meant.

“My brothers and I came to your land, not to invade, but to settle,” he said, gesturing with her sword. “All we want is a place to stay. A home. Land.”

She scowled, only half-listening, wondering if there was any way she could wrest her sword from his grip. She ground out, “I don’t think you’ll all fit in my cottage, if that’s your idea.”

He gave her an indulgent chuckle, and then continued. “Nay, I have a far better plan.” He stopped pacing and arched a brow at her. “How far away is Rivenloch?”

She blinked. “Rivenloch?” What was he thinking?

He smiled at her. It was wicked smile, a scheming smile.

She opened her mouth to speak and then closed it again, once, twice. Could he possibly be considering what she thought he was considering?

“I have an army of Northmen,” he said. “Enough to take back a castle wrongfully seized from its true heir.”

For a moment, she was stunned. But as she looked into his glittering blue eyes, a thrill of hope shot through her. “Are you serious?”

“I am.” His face was grim now, and he suddenly looked every inch a coldhearted, bloodthirsty Viking. “Are you?”

Avril stared at him in wide-eyed wonder. Mere moments ago, she’d been sure her life was over. Now it seemed full of promise beyond her wildest dreams.

Brandr flipped her sword over in his hand and offered it to her, jeweled hilt first. She stared down at it, knowing the final decision was in her hands. He wasn’t just offering her a weapon. He was offering her his sword arm. He was offering her the might of his men. He was offering her her legacy.

Unable to find words to convey her gratitude, she silently took the sword from him. As she gazed down at the glowing gems of the hilt, they winked up at her, as if eager for battle. But after a moment, she propped the weapon against the wall.

There would be time to make war later.

Now, she wanted to make love.

Chapter 12

Brandr knew Avril would be pleased with his offer. He didn’t realize just how pleased. Nor did he anticipate how she’d choose to express her pleasure…until she nudged him backward through the doorway of her bedchamber, covering his face with eager kisses.

He shivered as she ran her hands under his shirt and over his chest, and then gasped in pleased surprise as she shoved him back onto the bed. She climbed atop him, lifting his shirt to press her warm lips to his bare flesh. These Pictish women were uncommonly aggressive, he decided. But he definitely could get used to that.

He smiled as she hooked her arm possessively around his neck and claimed his mouth with hers. But his smile fell away as her other hand ventured boldly beneath the waist of his trousers.

Caught off-guard, he sucked in a quick breath as the blood surged through him. Overcome by an unexpected rush of desire, he squeezed his eyes shut, hardening with astonishing speed at her touch.

She purred with satisfaction as her fingers curved naturally around his firm length, and he echoed the sound with a lusty growl. She slanted her mouth over his, plunging her tongue between his lips, and he instinctively reached up to clasp her face between his hands, deepening the kiss.

Her fingers scrabbled at the ties of his trousers, and he lifted his hips so she could slide them down.

With almost frantic haste, she raised her skirts and positioned herself to take him inside her.

His lust-starved body wanted her. Now. But everything was happening too fast. Though he’d imagined making love to her countless times in the past few days, it had never been like this. He had no time to seduce her, no chance to learn her body—to feast his eyes upon her breasts, to whisper in her ear, to kiss the strange design on her shoulder, to suck gently at her nipples, to part her thighs and fondle the sweet bud that guarded her womanhood.

It was too late to stop now. She seized his wrists and anchored his arms to the bed, forcefully sinking down upon him until he was sheathed to the hilt.

He groaned with pleasure as she had her way with him, riding him like a steed, grinding against his hips with a demanding rhythm that pushed him with reckless speed to the brink of passion.

If it hadn’t been such a long time, if she hadn’t caught him unawares, if he hadn’t been so utterly swept away by his own needs, he would have forced her to slow down. But like a boy trysting for the first time, he was beyond reason and out of control.

Almost before he could draw another breath, the blood began to simmer in his veins. A flash like hot lightning seared his skin. The tide of desire rose in him, raging like a flood, filling him with need, and then bursting free in a quenching rush.

With a bellow of ecstasy, he arched up into her welcoming womb, pulsing out waves of molten fire. He heard her sigh in response, and when he was able to gaze at her from beneath his heavy lids, Brandr glimpsed intoxicating triumph on her face.

He shuddered with the power of his release while she replied with a throaty, pleased chuckle. And then, unable to formulate coherent thoughts, much less words, he simply lay beneath her, panting like a winded warhorse.

While he caught his breath, she lazily ran her fingers over the bulge of his upper arm. She bit her lower lip, flushed with longing, and he could see unrequited desire still veiling her eyes.

He wasn’t finished with her. This hasty coupling had been far too swift and one-sided. But it had taken the ragged edge off of his lust, and now he’d be able to take his time with the hot-blooded wench.

Avril knew everything was going to be all right now. She’d won Brandr over, body and soul. He’d marry her now and give Kimbery a name. He’d even promised to regain Rivenloch and her rightful place of power. There was nothing as heady as being in control again. At last her world would be set to rights and she’d get her command back.

And yet she realized as she continued to gaze down at Brandr’s broad chest, tracing the contours of his muscular arms and shivering at the rasp of his breath upon her skin, she felt less like the lady and commander of a castle and more like a drowsy-eyed cat longing to be pet.

The feeling troubled her. Her heart beat too fast. Her reflexes were too slow. She felt feverish and weak, as if her bones were melting. And the sensation only grew worse when she felt him begin to swell inside her again.

She knew she should withdraw. She was too exposed, too fragile, too vulnerable. If she wasn’t careful, she’d leave herself open to attack. She might find herself at his mercy, the same way she’d been at the mercy of that berserker.

And yet...

She couldn’t seem to pull away. Even as her mind screamed at her to flee while she still had the chance, to raise her shield, to guard her heart, as she gazed into his smoldering eyes and felt the impassioned rise and fall of his formidable chest, she was strangely drawn to him.

And when one corner of his mouth lifted in a lazy smile, when he reached up to softly brush her lower lip with the back of his knuckle, when she felt the subtle pulse of his need within her, she knew she was past escape.

Her eyes closed, and her mouth fell open beneath his touch. A curious warm glow enfolded her, softening her fear and whetting her appetite. Her fingers tightened on his shoulders, pressing into his supple flesh, as he gently caressed her cheek.

Her breath quickened as his fingers drifted down her throat, settling upon the place where her pulse now raced. She swallowed hard, knowing he could strangle her with one hand and yet trusting he would not.

Indeed, his hand moved with such sweet leisure down her neck, sweeping across her collar bone, and slipping beneath her kirtle, that she felt no desire to resist. Slowly, he teased the garment from her shoulder, running his fingers over the design inked there.

“What is this?” he whispered.

She furrowed her brow, startled that he spoke to her. The men she’d bedded before never uttered a word—not that she’d given them the chance. She hadn’t wanted to know their thoughts. She’d simply wanted to use their bodies and be done with them.

It was disconcerting. Nonetheless, she managed to answer him. “An endless knot.”

“It’s beautiful,” he murmured. “What does it mean?”

She hesitated, uncomfortable with his question. Somehow, the exchange of words made what they did more intimate. She couldn’t pretend he was just another body. Speaking forced her to acknowledge he was a man...with thoughts and ideas and intentions.

Though it was difficult for her, she answered him in a stilted whisper. “The three circles are...spirit...life...and love.”

“Ah.” His hand left her shoulder then to brush over her ankle, which was nestled against his hip. “And this one?”

Lusty lethargy made her voice ragged and foreign to her ears. “A broken sword...in honor of my father.”

He was silent for a moment. Then he asked, “Did it hurt?”

His puzzling question made her open her eyes. Then she remembered he had no such markings on his skin. Her designs must seem strange to him.

“Nay,” she told him.

He shot her a dubious glance.

“A wee bit,” she admitted.

He grinned at her again, and the fond shimmer in his eyes made her return his smile. Suddenly she felt more than just the sharp heat of lust and longing. There was also a gentle warmth like that of a banked fire. And as he continued to hold her gaze, she sensed he could easily stir the coals of that fire to life.

His eyes lowered to her mouth, and already she longed to taste him again. As if drawn to him by the force of his will, she closed her eyes and leaned toward him.

This time she made no demands of him, but let him lead. His kiss was tender and tentative, like the touch of a honeybee upon a blossom, and soon a pleasant buzzing filled her head. Again and again he sampled the nectar from her lips, until she ached for more.

As she gasped against his mouth, he deftly loosened the laces of her kirtle and slipped it from her shoulders. When it caught on the points of her breasts, he freed it, sliding one fingertip under the linen. When his knuckle grazed her nipple, desire welled in her like the swelling of an ocean wave, submerging her in its powerful current.

She clenched her thighs around his hips and moved against him. But he refused to engage her yet, focusing instead on her bared bosom. He kissed his way down her throat and across her breast, pausing as he reached the inch-long strip of puckered flesh there.

“Your battle scar?” he murmured.

She nodded, and he traced its length with his tongue before blazing a searing trail toward her nipple. When he sucked softly there, she cried out in wonder at the divine sensation.

Then, just when she thought she would burst from pleasure, he moved to her other breast, lavishing it with equal attention. Moans issued from her throat unbidden, and her fingers tangled in his hair as if to keep him close.

While she reveled in a languorous haze, his hand delved beneath her skirts, traveling up her thigh with silky stealth. Even knowing where he was headed couldn’t prepare her for the shock that rocked her when the tip of his finger touched her at the spot where their bodies joined.

He rubbed gently there, and she squeezed her eyes shut, caught in a paralyzing tide of euphoria. She arched against him, elated yet languishing, knowing she wanted something more, something she could neither define nor understand.

This was far more potent than the intoxication of his surrender. It was a savage craving that satiated and tormented her all at once. Lost in a fog of emotions, she was nonetheless compelled to sail onward.

It was only when his arm wrapped around her shoulders and his thigh curved possessively over her buttock, when he tried to roll her onto her back, that she stiffened.

Only once had a man ever dominated her. And that had been against her will. After she’d been raped, she’d never allowed a man to toss her onto her back. She’d been helpless once. She’d vowed never to be so again.

“Nay!” She dug her nails into his shoulders, ready to resist with all her might.

To her surprise, he responded immediately, relaxing his grip on her and withdrawing his hands. She searched his face, wondering what game he played.

But there was only patient affection in his eyes. And as he lay submissively beneath her, giving her time to reason, she was forced to confront her demons. It wasn’t long before she realized the truth—those demons clearly existed only in her imagination.

Brandr was not a berserker. He had no desire to hurt her, to demean her, to dominate her. He obviously cared for her. He’d confessed his love. He’d bared his soul to her. Hell, he’d even offered to fight for her. Why, then, was she reluctant to cede the tiniest bit of control to him?

If anyone was obsessed with power, Avril realized, it was she. After all, she’d held him prisoner. She’d kept him at her mercy. She’d had her way with him. What more did she want? Must he grovel at her feet, yielding to her in every way?

At her brooding silence, he smiled ruefully. “Maybe you don’t truly care for me.”

She frowned. How could he think that? She’d practically saved his life. She’d fed him and housed him. She’d set his arm. She’d protected him from her neighbor. How could she not care for the man who had promised to get her castle back? “Of course I do.”

“But do you trust me?”

She bit her lip. It was true she’d learned to be wary when it came to trusting men. And yet Brandr had done nothing to deserve her mistrust. Even when she thought he’d betrayed her, he’d only been trying to protect her. She looked into his expectant eyes—eyes as beautiful and unclouded as a summer sky—and then lowered her gaze to his inviting mouth.

She couldn’t let the damned berserker who’d raped her win. She couldn’t let her wretched brothers win. She wouldn’t let what had happened to her in the past ruin her chances at happiness in the future.

“Kiss me again,” she murmured, certain that she did trust him after all.

His touch was tender and coaxing, soothing and arousing all at once. He cradled her chin and kissed her with care, as if she were a brittle seashell. He stroked her hair with the gentle caress of the ocean combing the kelp. His fingers swept over her like the incoming tide washing across the shore, exploring higher and farther with subtle stealth.

And this time, when she willingly rolled onto her back, it felt as natural as turning over in the sea on an afternoon swim. And though he rose above her, as massive and menacing as an ocean wave, she felt no panic. He moved with the steady languor of the sea, rocking her gently along the current until they floated there together in rising bliss.

Before long, she realized this was like no other voyage she’d taken. The sensual weight of his hips, the tantalizing touch of his hands, the fiery caress of his tongue took her to a place she’d never been before. Her breath expanded as an ember sparked within her, filling her with glowing heat. Her body moved of its own accord, squirming in pleasure. Her fingers pressed into the supple muscle of his buttocks, urging him closer, and when that wasn’t enough, she wrapped her legs around him, arching up against the divine pressure of his belly. She closed her eyes tightly, relishing the erotic delight of his flesh on hers as he teased her lust to a fine point.

Farther and farther into uncharted waters they sailed, and Avril clung to him, half-afraid, half-obsessed, seeking…seeking…

“Look at me,” he suddenly breathed.

She couldn’t. She’d never felt so vulnerable, so exposed. If she let him glimpse the helplessness in her eyes…

“Look at me,” he softly urged, pausing to smooth away the crease between her brows with his thumb.

With a small whimper of protest, she reluctantly complied, and her face grew instantly hot with shame. But then she gazed into his eyes—his shining, smoldering, sea-colored eyes.

As he stared down at her with pure, beautiful, unflinching love, her fears vanished. A sweetness filled her spirit, softening her, comforting her. And when he moved within her again, the tenderness between them heightened her desire.

She sailed with him on the journey toward passion, and the lovely torment in his eyes fueled her own as they grew closer and closer to the edge of the world…panting, gasping, then breathless with intensity as time froze and the earth dropped from below. Lightning struck her with stunning force, making her cry out in shock, while Brandr echoed her with a low groan.

Their shudders of release made powerful thunder, and she held tightly to him as they careened earthward again, falling…falling…back into the deep calm of the sea.

For a long while she drifted on the lazy current, miles away from care, letting waves of contentment wash over her.

Gradually, the fog of sensuality receded, and she began to notice small details like the skirt rucked up indecently around her waist, the adorable lock of hair drooping over his forehead, the rock-hard object stabbing into her spine…

With a frown, she reached behind her back and dug out Kimbery’s slate and a piece of charcoal.

He lifted his head and grinned at the smeared slate. “You may have a new design on your back.”

She smiled back. “I suspect it may be a drawing of you.” She tossed the slate and charcoal aside and reached up to touch that irresistible blond lock. “You know, I think I could get used to these althings of yours.”

He turned her hand to kiss her palm. “Strange, but I don’t remember them ever being so…invigorating.”

She lowered her gaze to his delectable mouth, and he accepted her unspoken invitation at once. They were mid-kiss when there was a loud banging on the cottage door.

Avril gasped and yanked her kirtle up to her chin.

Brandr muttered, “My brothers no doubt fear you’ve thrust me through with your sword.” With a last light kiss upon her brow, he rose from the bed and pulled up his trousers.

As she worked hastily to repair her appearance, he retrieved Kimbery’s slate and drew a few strange runes on it with the charcoal.

“What does it say?” she asked.

He gave her a sweet, lopsided smile full of affection and mischief. “Da.”

Her eyes welled with joy and gratitude as she took his hand and tugged him toward the door. She couldn’t wait to tell Kimbery she’d been right all along.

Rivenloch was returned to its rightful heir. And in that place, generations of Vikings and Picts intermingled and intermarried to create the sturdy stock of Scotland. The descendants of Brandr and Avril upheld the honor in which their clan was forged. Their veins flowed with the courage and loyalty of their Viking father and their Pictish mother. For centuries, they bravely defended the land from invaders with an unconquerable army, an army made strong by the marriage of their two powerful and illustrious cultures.

But one day, their courage and loyalty would be tested, for there would come to Rivenloch an enemy so formidable it would take warriors of unmatched mettle to face the daunting challenge.

These warriors would be the progeny of a centuries old Viking invader and his Pictish bride, and the fate of the clan would lie in their unlikely hands. Thus was born the legend of the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch…

~ The End ~

If you enjoyed this book,

try more in the Warrior Maids of Rivenloch series by Glynnis Campbell…

Book 1: Lady Danger

Book 2: Captive Heart

Book 3: Knight's Prize

About Glynnis

GLYNNIS CAMPBELL is a double RITA finalist and an international bestselling author of swashbuckling action-adventure romance. She loves to play medieval matchmaker, transporting readers to a place where bold heroes have endearing flaws, women are stronger than they look, the land is untamed, and chivalry is far from dead!

For more information:

Visit Glynnis at www.glynnis.net

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His Captive Bride

By Shelly Thacker

Prologue

Welcome to the land of the Asgard Warriors...

In a time long ago, when kings and princes ruled, when the world’s unexplored corners and uncharted seas tempted men of bold heart to explore, a small band of daring Norsemen set out in search of a fabled, fertile domain to the west.

But like a mischievous dragon, the rough northern seas carried their longship to a hidden island instead, a place cloaked in mists and mystery, set apart from the world for centuries, untouched by time.

There they found bountiful fields and deep, cool forests, vast meadows, cascading waterfalls, and midsummer warmth that knew no season. Enchanted, the twenty Norsemen decided to claim the island as their home, naming this newfound paradise Asgard, after the legendary realm of the gods said to float above the earth, invisible to the eyes of men.

True to the daring spirit of their age, the warriors went a-viking, raiding, to seek brides to share their new home—and they soon discovered that Asgard offered much more than natural beauty. The island held a special magic unknown elsewhere in the world, a gift that has been enjoyed by their sons and daughters generation after generation.

Over the centuries, the people of Asgard have kept the island’s secret, protecting it from those who would wage war to possess it. Yet the gift also carries a price...

Chapter 1

Asgard Island, 1303

’Twas a dangerous task, stealing women.

A man needed guile, strength, blade-skill, and boldness to find a fair maiden, pluck her from the bosom of her family like ripe fruit from a bough, carry her off—and live long enough to enjoy his prize.

Hauk Valbrand frowned, seated in the stern of the longboat as it pierced the fog and glided across the glassy, night-black sea. Studying the twelve warriors straining at the oars, their sweaty, angular faces illuminated by an oil lantern dangling from the prow, he knew that only seven or eight possessed the qualities needed to survive. The young fools should have listened to him when he argued against taking this risk.

Despite the battle-axes strapped across their backs and the swords at their waists, some of his traveling companions would lose their lives before this voyage was done.

He clenched his jaw and looked back over his shoulder at the distant beach, now a mere ribbon of silver in the moonlight. A brine-scented breeze made the fog shift and dance, while the rhythmic dipping of the oars through the water made the only sound in the stillness. All revelry and bawdy jests had ended when they left shore.

As soon as the young raiders had donned their brown homespun garments and pushed the square-sailed ship into the mist that cloaked their island home, each seemed to realize the seriousness of the dangers ahead.

But neither Hauk’s logic nor the threat of facing an outraged father or brother or kinsman had been enough to sway them from their purpose. The ancient drives were too strong, the temptation too powerful.

Had he not felt the same fire in his blood years ago, his first time? Had he not lived to enjoy his pretty prize?

Ja, and he had also lived to regret ever setting eyes on her.

“Still having doubts, old friend?”

Hauk glanced at the man beside him, who had one arm slung across the tiller. “Nei. Nay,” he replied tightly. “Merely wondering which of us will not survive to return home, Kel.”

“I am certain we will all return home.” Keldan pushed back the hood of his cloak, revealing thick dark hair, a confident smile, and a face that always made females swoon at his feet in annoying numbers. “You have trained us well, Hauk. Gareth is now better with a blade than any man on Asgard—other than you, of course. And Bjarn has become an expert with that odd weapon that fires short arrows—”

“A crossbow.”

“A crossbow.” Keldan shrugged as if the name did not matter. “And we have spent six months planning every detail of this journey—”

“And most of you have never left the island before. Even the best among you is little better than a green lad.”

Keldan wrinkled his nose in offense. “Inexperienced we may be, but the Claiming voyage is an honored tradition—and even you cannot fight tradition, Hauk.”

“Stolen fruit tastes the sweetest,” one of the other would-be warriors said, quoting the centuries-old saying among the inhabitants of Asgard Island.

Hauk slanted the eager young whelp a quelling look. “If we are to survive, we must change some of the old traditions.” It seemed he had been saying that every day of late. He sighed, rubbing at his eyes, running a weary hand through his tangled blond hair. “The Claiming voyage was necessary for survival in the early days, but that is no longer true. In these times it is dangerous not only to us but to everyone we leave behind. There are seven hundred lives on that island, and I am responsible for keeping them safe—”

“Mayhap you should have stayed behind with them, Valbrand,” another raider commented, his voice laced with undisguised hostility. “We do not need you hovering over us like some overgrown nursemaid.”

Hauk sliced his old nemesis with a glare. “I am here by order of the elders, Thorolf. Someone had to ensure that you hot-blooded raiders remember our laws and do not bring a world of trouble down upon us.” Leaning back against the bulwark, he rested one arm along the boat’s railing, letting his cloak fall open to display the longsword gleaming at his waist. Won in battle by his grandfather, it was named Forsvar. Defender. “I will be keeping watch over you most of all.”

Staring at the weapon, with its silver hilt and mystical runes inscribed on the blade, Thorolf fell silent, broad shoulders bulging as he hauled on his oar. Hauk still did not understand why the hulking knave had insisted on taking part in this voyage. Older than the others, older than Hauk himself, Thorolf had a heart as black as ocean depths at midnight—and a habit of making trouble purely for his own amusement. He was not the sort to pine away for female companionship or a family.

And that was the true purpose of this voyage. Like their ancestors, those men of Asgard who wished to have families had to risk venturing forth into the outside world in search of brides—for the women of Asgard could not bear children.

Thorolf’s thick lips curled in a sneer. “I have as much right to be here as any man. The ancient law—”

“During this journey, I am the law,” Hauk warned silkily. “You will either follow my commands or pay the price.” He shifted to a tone that some women had told him was even icier than his blue eyes. “You know from experience that I do not make idle threats.”

Thorolf held his stare, gaze glittering with a lifetime of hatred, before he looked away uncomfortably.

“All will be well,” Keldan said in a soft voice, trying to make peace, as usual. “We will follow your orders, Hauk, as we promised. But even if one of us is captured or killed, there is no chance that our secret could be discovered.”

Hauk fingered the rough fabric of his cloak, hoping that was true. They had taken pains to appear unremarkable. Uninteresting. Unworthy of attention. They had removed their gold armbands and jeweled torques, shaved their beards, donned the tunics and leggings favored by common European traders. Hauk had left all mark of his rank and office behind—except for his sword.

Even their ancient ship had been carefully disguised, its name sanded away, the carved dragon’s head removed from the prow. Stripped of its finery, the weathered longboat looked like a derelict left over from another age, battered but still fierce.

The thought made Hauk’s lips curve in a rueful half smile. The same could be said about him.

Shaking his head, he stared off into the fog. “Every time we set foot in their world,” he said quietly, “we risk exposing our secret.”

“But we have taken every precaution. Looking at us, no one could tell us apart from ordinary men—”

“Keldan, we are not ordinary men.”

His young friend fell silent for a moment. “In every way that matters, we are,” he insisted stubbornly. “We feel joy and pain, we eat and sleep and laugh and bleed. We want what any man wants, to have a wife and a family—”

“But we are not ordinary men,” Hauk repeated, fixing him with a hard stare. “We are different, Kel. Someday you will learn to accept that.”

Keldan’s brown eyes held a hint of sadness. But then he waved a hand as if to brush the subject away, grinning. “Well, I for one intend to enjoy every second of this journey. And if aught goes awry...” His smile widened. “Who wants to live forever?”

Hauk arched one brow. “You may not find that so funny two days hence when we land at Antwerp.”

“I expect I shall have far more pleasant things to think about in Antwerp. This trade fair should offer a great variety of women from all over the continent.” He looked as excited as a boy choosing among a shiny array of new playthings. “I want an exotic beauty—a Moorish girl, or a dark-eyed firebrand from Tuscany, or a Scottish lass with red hair and freckles like Rolf’s wife.” His smile fading a bit, he lowered his voice, speaking for Hauk’s ears alone. “You might find a new bride for yourself, my friend... have you considered that?”

Hauk swallowed hard and glanced away. Nei, he had not considered it. Not for a moment. He had lost his first wife in childbirth, and his second...

He had outlived his second.

“Never again, Kel,” he said bitterly. “Never. I am here to watch over you and the others, that is all.” Under his breath, he added, “A man can get used to living alone.”

Even as he whispered those words, the last of the fog parted before the ship’s prow, a west-born wind filled the sail, and the longboat swept into the open sea.

Chapter 2

Artois Region, France

Avril parted her lips for her husband’s kiss, welcoming him to their bed. Gerard, mon coeur, thank God you have returned at last...

His weight pressed her down into the sheets, his hard body covering and claiming hers, and she twined her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, filled with surprise and joy. He nuzzled her cheek, her hair, whispered words she had not heard in such a long time. Words of love.

You are here. She sighed, all the months of longing and loneliness pouring out. I thought you were gone forever, mon amour, but you are here. Never leave me again. Please never leave me again. I missed you so.

He tenderly kissed her tears away. She held him tighter, his skin warm and smooth beneath her fingers, her lips. Their mouths met in deep, lingering kisses. His strong hands touched her intimately, each caress slower than the last as he gently aroused her.

Moaning softly, she lifted her hips, wanting to take him inside her. Please, mon coeur, it has been so long. I need... I need...

He nudged her thighs apart, positioning himself there at the silky core of her body. Then he raised his head, and in the firelight she could see the passion in—

This was not her husband!

Lady Avril de Varennes jerked awake with a startled cry, eyes wide, heart pounding. She lurched upright, uncertain where she was for a dizzying moment.

A dream. It had only been a dream.

The same one that had tormented her for months now... growing more vivid, more sensual each time.

She pushed aside the blankets and stumbled out of bed, her silk kirtle tangling around her legs. Rushes crunched beneath her bare feet. A few embers still glowed on the hearth, helping her eyes adjust to the darkness. With every rapid breath, she inhaled the scent of the lavender oil she had burned earlier to calm her. Of course, she was in Gaston and Celine’s chateau, in one of the guest bedchambers. She had arrived here yestereve. She was quite safe.

And alone. As she had been for three years, four months, a handful of days.

Yet her body tingled in the most sensitive places, and perspiration made her kirtle cling to her back, her thighs, her breasts. Lifting an unsteady hand to her lips, she swore she could feel the lingering heat of a kiss there. And on her cheeks, a trace of dampness, like...

Like tears that had been kissed away.

She covered her face with both hands, her wedding ring cold against her flushed skin. The sensations had all felt so real, so intense, so...

Mortifying. How could she dream of making love to any man but her husband?

“Nay,” she whispered fiercely, raking her long brown hair out of her eyes, lifting her chin. “It was only a dream.” She was getting upset over naught. Crossing the chamber, she opened the door that connected to the next room.

Inside, bathed in moonlight that poured through a tall, arched window fitted with glass, Giselle lay asleep—her thumb in her mouth, her plump arm curled around the carved toy horse her uncle Gaston had given her.

Avril sank down beside the small bed, resting her cheek on the covers, reaching out to touch her three-year-old daughter’s raven curls. Many times these past weeks she had spent sleepless nights this way, disturbed not only by that troubling dream—but by the decision she had made.

“We will be all right, ma petite,” she murmured. “You will love your new home in Brittany, I promise. And your uncle Gaston is wrong. We do not need a man to take care of us.”

She closed her eyes, hoping that was true, praying she was not making a mistake. Not acting like a “stubborn little firebrand,” as Gerard used to chide her with a teasing, handsome smile.

Her throat dry and tight, Avril stood, moving to the window, gazing down at the forest that surrounded the chateau. She looked for the chapel Gaston had built there. Normally she could see a great deal from here, but tonight, despite the full moon, she could make out only the uppermost branches of the trees.

A mist enveloped all else, a silvery fog that wound through the woods to surround the castle.

Strange, she thought, frowning in puzzlement, to see fog on such high ground. Especially at this time of year. The last days of summer had only just given way to the first bite of autumn.

Yet the veil of white was so thick she could see only the spire of the small chapel, there where she and Gaston had agreed it should be... built of the finest marble and the most exquisite stained glass, by artisans brought from the East, as befitted a knight who had fought in the Crusades. Gerard always loved Moorish architecture, as he loved those woods where he had spent many happy days as a boy.

They had buried him there.

Three years, four months, and a handful of days ago.

“Forgive me, mon coeur.” She rested her forehead against the window, blinking hard. “Forgive me.”

Even as the words slipped out, she was not certain whether she was asking forgiveness for the bold step she was about to take.

Or for her dream about the passionate stranger.

“Avril, I do not care how skilled you are with a crossbow—and pray do not remind me that you took up arms last month and stood shoulder to shoulder with your retainers to defend your keep against the Flemish. You are a noblewoman, you are but three and twenty, and when you travel such a distance—”

“I do not need half a dozen guards.” Avril stopped trying to elude her brother-in-law, turning to stare up at Duc Gaston de Varennes in the blinding morning sunlight. Servants dodged around them, carrying bundles of food and flasks of water needed for her journey north. As she crossed her arms over her chest, the wind tugged at her honey-colored traveling cloak and velvet skirts. “I am going to a friend’s wedding, not into battle. I still do not understand why you insist on being so cautious.”

“I insist on ensuring your safety.” Gaston glowered down at her, looking very much like the name he had earned in battle: the Black Lion. The fact that he carried his two-year-old son, Soren, on his broad shoulders did little to soften the impression. “The northern roads are a haven for outlaws of every ilk. Six men riding under my banner will make any knave who would harm you think twice. You are still under my care, and I mean to protect you, just as I will protect your daughter while you are gone—nay, I will brook no further argument.”

“I was not going to argue,” Avril said softly, glancing away. With his black hair and brown eyes, Gaston so resembled his elder brother that at times, it hurt to look at him. “I was going to thank you for caring so much.”

All around them, the castle’s outer bailey hummed with activity as servants continued loading the cart that would carry her north, adding gifts for the bride and for friends Avril had not seen in years. Her dearest companion from childhood, Lady Josette de la Valentin, stood chatting with Gaston’s wife, Celine, while groomsmen strapped horses into the traces. Josette had arrived from Brittany yesterday to accompany Avril on the journey.

And after the wedding of their mutual friend, Avril would accompany Josette on her journey home. To Brittany.

“I still wish you would reconsider your decision,” Gaston said more gently. “As far as I am concerned, Gerard’s castle and holdings are yours for as long as you live. You know that you and Giselle are welcome to stay there. My brother built that chateau for you.”

“Aye, he did. And there are reminders of him in every room. I cannot keep living in the past, Gaston. I cannot stay there anymore.” She met his gaze again. “I thought you would be happy, beau-frère. I have finally admitted that you are right. My recent experience with the Flemish proved that what you have been saying is true—the chateau is too close to the border, too tempting a prize without a man to protect it. And your keep here is too distant to send help quickly enough.”

“I never meant that you should leave and return to your dower lands in Brittany.” Gaston set his restless son down. The little boy scampered over to a nearby grove of apricot trees, where Giselle was playing with a litter of black-and-white kittens. “Celine and I are happy to take care of you and Giselle.”

“And I am grateful to you for being so good to us.” She sighed, tucking a wind-blown strand of hair back behind her ear. “But Gerard’s chateau and lands belong to you by right of inheritance, Gaston, and it is time I gave them back—”

“You could stay here.”

“Nay, I could not.” She nodded toward the spire just visible beyond the castle walls, struggling to keep her voice steady. “The memories here are just as strong.”

She started to turn away, but he caught her arm. “Why is it so impossible for you to let anyone take care of you?”

Avril was spared having to reply as Josette and Celine joined them.

“It looks as if all is ready for us to depart.” Josette’s blue eyes sparkled with excitement as she wrestled the wind for control of her hooded traveling cloak, which was made of lovely—but somewhat impractical—violet brocade and white silk. “Though I fear this weather may prove more troublesome than any forest bandits we might encounter.” Giving up her battle, she let the wind blow her unruly curls into a tangled sable-brown mass.

Avril smiled. She and Josette shared a spirit of adventure that had made them best friends since birth, even though petite Josette tended to be sweet and amiable while she herself was more outspoken and headstrong.

“Have you explained to Giselle how long you’ll be away?” Celine’s cheeks almost matched her red tresses in the chilly morning breeze. Gaston slipped an arm around his wife’s shoulders and brushed a kiss through her burnished hair.

“I have tried.” Avril glanced to where the children were playing. “But I am not sure she understands what ten days means. So I have made ten raisin sweetcakes for her, and said to eat one each day, and when the last one is gone, Maman will be home.”

“What a lovely idea.”

“Thank you, Celine. I hope it will help. She always loves our visits here, and I think she believes this is simply another holiday. I considered taking her with me, but...”

“You made the right decision, Avril. She’ll be safe here, and she and Soren always have such fun. We’ll take good care of her.”

“I know.” Avril smiled at her belle-soeur. “She loves you both very much. But even with those she loves, she can be rather willful at times.”

“I cannot imagine where she inherited that trait,” Gaston commented dryly. After giving his wife a last hug, he released her. “If you ladies will excuse me, I would have a word with the guards before this merry caravan departs.”

As he walked over to his men, Celine linked one arm through Avril’s and the other through Josette’s. “And I would like to sit down, if it’s all right with the two of you. I didn’t want to worry Gaston—because he’ll spend the rest of the day hovering over me like a very large butterfly—but I’m feeling a little light-headed this morning.”

“Oh, Celine, I am sorry. I should have thought of that when we decided to leave at first light.” Avril steered her belle-soeur toward the grove of apricot trees, still feeling a pang of envy over the joyous news Celine had shared last night: She was expecting her second child. “How are you faring?”

They settled on the grass a few paces from the children. “Much better, really, than when I was carrying Soren. I feel wonderful most of the time.” Celine’s expression was blissfully happy as she watched her son chasing his cousin through the trees. “A little woozy in the mornings, but that just gives me an excuse to stay in bed. I lie there looking at the new cradle Gaston is making, and I feel so blessed...”

She stopped short and met Avril’s gaze. “Oh, Avril, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to—”

“Nay, it is all right.” Avril blinked away the burning in her eyes, surprised by the intensity of the envy she felt. “It is only that, sometimes, I wish...” She looked up at Giselle, at the small miracle she and Gerard had created, so full of love and laughter and mischief.

“You wish that Giselle were not growing up an only child, as you did,” Josette finished quietly.

Avril nodded, dropping her gaze. The wind blowing through the leaves overhead made the only sound for a moment.

“It doesn’t have to be that way,” Celine whispered. “You’re still young.” She leaned closer and took Avril’s hand. “You once told me that if I found love, I should catch it close and hold it tight.” She looked across the bailey at her husband, her expression tender. “And it was very good advice.”

“I remember.” Avril paused, squeezing Celine’s hand. “But I-I do not think anyone could replace Gerard in my heart. For a long time, I thought I would be happy if I simply stayed in that chateau, if I kept everything as it was. That I... could keep him with me somehow. I have always believed that there is one special man for every woman... and God granted me mine. For a brief, perfect time, I knew a love some never know. I would not be so selfish and greedy as to expect Him to send me another love like that in my lifetime.”

“I am the only maiden here,” Josette commented, “so I cannot claim to be an expert, but I do not think God is so miserly with love.”

Avril reached out her free hand to Josette, smiling at her sweet nature. “You are both so kind to be concerned about me. I am fortunate indeed to have friends like you. Truly, I am happy. I have all of you, and Giselle, and when we return to Brittany, I will be reunited with my cousins and kinsmen. What more could any woman ask? What more love could I need? I...”

A sudden, unbidden image of her dream last night flitted through her mind.

She had spoken to no one of the heated images that had disturbed her sleep of late, not even Celine or Josette.

“I... think it is time for us to go,” she finished awkwardly. “Look how high the sun has gotten.”

Gaston came striding across the bailey to join them, apparently finished giving instructions to his men. Both children ran to meet him, Giselle racing ahead of little Soren. Gaston scooped her up with both hands and swung her high over his head, making her squeal with delight. “And who is your favorite uncle today, ma petite?” He tucked her close.

She locked her chubby arms around his neck. “Uncle Gaston!”

“Soren up now!” her black-haired cousin demanded, arms extended over his head, his face awash in two-year-old indignation at the attention his cousin was receiving.

“I keep hoping he’ll grow out of this.” Celine sighed. “He’s become an absolute little tyrant.”

“I cannot imagine where he inherited that trait.” Avril grinned. Rising, she decided to rescue her beau-frère from having to choose between the children.

“Soren up now!” the boy repeated, stamping his tiny foot.

Avril took her daughter as Gaston bent to pick up his son.

Giggling, Giselle played with a lock of Avril’s hair. “Maman bring me a pretty spinny?”

“Aye, ma petite papillon. My little butterfly.” Avril hugged her daughter fiercely. “Oh, how I will miss you.”

“A pretty spinny?” Josette asked with a puzzled look.

Avril smiled. “That is her word for a spinning top.” She rubbed her nose against her daughter’s. “Aye, Maman will bring you a pretty spinny, Giselle. Do you remember where Maman is going?”

“Lady friend!”

“Aye. I am going to visit a lady friend, who is getting married in a very large city by the sea. Do you remember?”

Giselle nodded vigorously.

“And in ten days—after you have eaten the last of your raisin sweetcakes—I will be back. And then we will go to our new home in Brittany.”

“Where Maman was a little girl.”

“That is right. Where Maman was a little girl. But until I return, can you make a promise for me? Can you promise to be very, very good for Aunt Celine and Uncle Gaston?”

“Promise!” Giselle rained kisses over her cheeks and nose.

They all walked over to the cart, but Avril was unprepared for the pain in her heart as she gave her daughter one last kiss, cuddled her just a few seconds longer... and handed her to Celine.

“I love you, ma petite papillon. I will be back soon.”

“Soon!” The little girl repeated enthusiastically. “I love you, Maman.” She wiggled her fingers in farewell as Gaston helped Avril and Josette up into the cart.

With a slap of the harness, their driver set off. Wheels creaked and hooves clattered as the cart rolled through the castle gate. Avril could not keep herself from looking back, waving to her little girl, while everyone in the bailey called out farewells and good wishes.

Then the cart crossed the drawbridge and followed a curve in the path, and she could not see Giselle anymore.

“And off we go,” Josette whispered.

Avril glanced at her curiously. “You sound uneasy, Josette. Are you worried by the presence of so many guards?”

“Nay, I... mayhap it is because I did not sleep well. Did you...” She paused. “Did you notice that strange mist around the castle last night?”

Avril felt a tingle down the back of her neck. She looked away, her gaze falling on the chapel in the woods, rimmed by morning sunlight. “Aye.”

“You did? No one else seemed to know what I was talking about when I asked this morn. I thought mayhap it was common here in the Artois. That mist came right through the shutters of my window and...” She cleared her throat. “Awakened me. I could not get back to sleep after that.”

“I am sure it was merely a strange trick of the weather.” Avril studied the bright blue sky, then turned to face her friend. “There is naught to be uneasy about, Josette. We will be in no danger. It is not as if we are going to Barcelona or Marseilles or some other uncivilized place.” She smiled reassuringly. “We are going to Antwerp.”

Chapter 3

“Morvan,” Avril said lightly, summoning the leader of the six guardsmen who had accompanied her and Josette into Antwerp, “I believe it may be time to make another delivery to our rooms at Baron Ponthieu’s chateau.”

“Aye, milady.” The brawny man-at-arms came forward to take the miniature Noah’s ark from her, trying not to drop any of the dolls, ribbons, pastel bead necklaces, or the fluffy toy lamb he already carried. With a long-suffering sigh, he handed this latest purchase to one of his men.

Avril swallowed a smile, afraid that she and Josette might dissolve into a fit of giggles at the men’s expressions. The six battle-hardened guards Gaston had assigned to protect them during their journey north had been pressed into service of a different sort today.

The guards had done such excellent work escorting them to Antwerp safely and swiftly, they had arrived at their destination earlier than most of the other wedding guests. And when Josette heard that the city was playing host to a trade fair, she had coaxed Avril into spending a day strolling among the market stalls and enjoying the sights.

As they walked along streets crowded with merchants, the late-afternoon air buzzed with voices speaking French and Italian, Arabic and Russian, Antwerp’s native Flemish, and a half-dozen languages Avril could not even name. Castle stewards bargained with traders over the price of cook pots or lemons or Persian silks. Servants cursed at the dogs that ran loose in the streets. Richly dressed guild members and sea captains discussed the dancing bears, wrestling matches, fortune-tellers, or pickpockets they had just seen.

Josette almost had to shout to be heard over the din. “You are having a good time,” she commented happily, linking her arm through Avril’s.

“Oh, aye. Aye, indeed I am.” Avril returned her smile in full measure. She could not remember the last time she had spent a day like this, perusing displays of hats and scented soaps, nibbling mince pies purchased from strolling vendors, dabbing on exotic perfumes. They had even indulged in having their hair curled with hot irons and treated with a blend of rare frankincense and ginger. Every time she inhaled, the scent made her smile.

Glancing up at the rose-streaked sky, she found herself regretting that the sun would set in another hour or so.

When they stopped at yet another booth selling shoes, she heard poor Morvan sigh behind her and realized he did not share her sentiments. Avril glanced over her shoulder with a grin. She could not resist teasing the captain of the guards, for he always seemed to be in one of two moods: gloomy or dour. “I believe I have a new assignment for you, Morvan.”

“Aye, milady?” he asked warily, mustache twitching as he awaited whatever new indignity might be heaped upon his men’s broad shoulders. “We are at your command.”

“Well, then, after you return those packages to Baron Ponthieu’s chateau... mayhap you and your men should take the rest of the evening to enjoy the fair. You have done us loyal service this day, and you deserve a reward.”

She succeeded in bringing a smile to his craggy face. “The men would be most grateful, milady.”

Avril opened the velvet purse fastened to her belt and started counting out silver coins. “Then each of you take ten livres and have a most pleasant evening.”

“You are more than generous, Lady Avril.”

Morvan passed the coins to his men, instructing one to stay behind with her and Josette until they were ready to return to the chateau.

As the five guards departed, a passing merchant caught Avril’s eye.

“Oh, Josette, look at that!” She pointed out a man tooting on a pipe and carrying a T-shaped pole festooned with small wooden toys. “I wonder if he has any spinning tops. I promised Giselle I would bring her one.”

“Run and ask him, Avril.”

“You would not mind if I abandoned you for a moment?”

Josette nodded toward the bright rows of silk slippers in the booth. “There is enough here to keep me happily occupied for, oh, at least an hour or two,” she teased. “Go.”

“Shall I accompany you, milady?” the guard asked.

“Nay, there is no need. Stay here with Lady Josette until I return.” Trying to see where the toymaker had gone, she hurried into the throng.

“Kel, if you cannot keep your mind on the task at hand,” Hauk said as he pulled his friend out of the path of an onrushing horse, “at least try not to get yourself killed.”

“Ja, I will,” Keldan replied absently, speaking around a mouthful of pickled pheasant eggs, which was his eleventh or twelfth meal of the day. Hauk had lost count.

Keldan struggled to balance three bulging sacks of souvenirs as they made their way through Antwerp’s bustling streets, his head swiveling left and right, dark eyes wide as he took it all in—every foreign sight and taste and scent and sound. He stopped to stare at a passing group of men dressed in flowing black robes and odd, squarish hats. “What sort of people are those?”

“Lecturers from the local university. And those”—Hauk answered the next question before Keldan could ask it—”are Christian pilgrims, the ones in brown homespun wearing large crosses. They travel from city to city visiting cathedrals and the tombs of local saints.”

“What is a saint? And what is a university?”

“It will take too long to explain.” Hauk pushed him forward down the street. “Kel, you are supposed to be—”

“How much do you think these cost?” Keldan asked, moving forward only a few paces before he stopped at a booth selling exotic wooden sculptures. He finished the last of his eggs and licked his fingers.

“Never mind how much they cost. If you eat one more thing or buy one more souvenir, our ship will sink long before we reach home. You already have more boots, books, flasks, and food than you can carry. What you do not yet have is a woman. And may I point out,” Hauk added dryly, “you might find it difficult to carry one off with your arms full.”

“I cannot help it. I have never seen such... such...” Keldan paused, watching a troupe of acrobats go tumbling past.

“You have seen only the best of the city the past two days, Kel. Many of these people live in poverty, packed one atop the other. Fighting to survive. Killing each other on a whim.” As they walked on, he nodded to the many peasants and nobles around them who had missing limbs, blackened teeth, pox marks upon their skin. “Violence and illness are part of life in this place you are so busy admiring.”

Keldan stopped in his tracks and turned to face him, his expression suddenly serious. The crowd parted to flow around them in a noisy, jostling river. “We could help them.”

A pained grin curved Hauk’s mouth. Keldan sounded so earnest, as if he were the first man of Asgard to ever have that idea.

“Nei, my young friend, we could not.” Hauk shook his head. Keldan was still rather naive and softhearted. “We cannot take all of them with us. There are thousands of people in this city alone. And this is but one city. There are hundreds more like it scattered around the world.”

Keldan shook his head, as if he could not grasp even the idea of such a vast number of people. “But—”

“And we have a more pressing task before us, if you recall.” Hauk clapped a hand on Kel’s shoulder, pushing him forward once more. “You and the others are to steal the women at twilight. We are supposed to rendezvous back at the ship in little more than an hour.” He directed Keldan’s attention upward, to where the sun dipped low in the sky. “Everyone but you is ready. If you do not choose a female quickly, you will be returning home with naught more than boots and books to warm your bed.”

Keldan sighed, his gaze flitting from a pretty dairymaid to a blond silversmith’s daughter. “That is the problem. Choosing only one. I do not understand how the others could make their selections so easily. If only I could stay another day, or two or three...”

“Nei, we have been here two days already. We must leave tonight, under cover of darkness so that no one can follow. That is the law.”

“But, Hauk, are you not always saying that some of our laws should be changed?” Kel asked hopefully as he traded a smile with a passing gypsy girl.

“None of us can change that particular law,” Hauk replied with soft bitterness. They could not be away from Asgard for more than six days. “Now choose a female and be quick about it. What about the wench selling apples you spoke to near the wharf? She held your interest longer than most of the others.”

“Ja, she was fetching enough, but there was a dullness about her, no spark in her eyes.”

Hauk sidestepped around a waddling flock of squawking geese. “Then why not the one who served our midday meal in that tavern? You could hardly take your eyes from her, and she was lively enough.”

“Pleasing to the eye,” Keldan said thoughtfully, “but with the intelligence of a sheep.”

“Sparks, liveliness, intelligence,” Hauk grated out impatiently. “What does it matter? One woman is more or less like the next in bed. Choose one.”

“It matters to me,” Keldan snapped. “I want a woman who will stir my heart as well as my loins. Mayhap if I were more like you, if I did not care about anything but...” He stopped himself, clearing his throat uncomfortably. “I am sorry, Hauk. I did not mean that.”

“Nei, it is true.” Hauk shrugged. “And I regret to tell you it is a lesson you will learn yourself eventually. When you are older. We all do.” He turned a corner into an adjoining street. “The less a man feels, the better off he—oof!”

An unexpected impact knocked the breath from him as he collided with someone coming around the corner in the opposite direction. The blow knocked him backward a pace and knocked the woman—for the rushing whirl of skirts and soft curves that had hit him was clearly a woman—on her derriere in the dirt.

He bent to assist her, unnerved by an odd, dizzying sensation, as if the earth itself had tilted beneath his boots. She declined his offered hand and got to her feet without help. His head spinning, he scooped up a small object she had dropped.

“My apologies,” she sputtered, brushing filth from her skirts. “The fault was mine. I should have been watching where I was going, but it took so long to find the toymaker and...”

As she glanced up at him, she seemed to forget the rest of her sentence.

Hauk could not draw a breath, could not tell whether it was from the collision, the unfamiliar sensation wreaking havoc with his mind and body—or the fact that he was gazing down at the most strikingly lovely and utterly unkempt lady he had seen in...

In his entire memory. A silky riot of curls the color of ginger and nutmeg almost concealed a flawless, heart-shaped face, cheeks flushed with excitement, eyes a bright, vivid green. She looked as if she had just tumbled from a man’s bed. His heart missed a beat, then started to pound.

The direct way she stared up at him was not in the least ladylike, though her fine velvet garments clearly marked her as a noblewoman. And though it seemed impossible, she even smelled of those same precious spices; he distinctly caught the scent of ginger.

He could not reclaim his balance. Nei, the unnerving, breathless feeling only became more intense as she returned his gaze.

Even the air around him—between them—seemed to shimmer with a heat, a brightness, as if the sun suddenly blazed hotter in this place where they stood so close together.

She held out one slender hand, her eyes never leaving his. “I... I will need that back.”

Her voice matched her face and figure, infinitely soft and feminine, yet strong at the same time. Hauk could not coax his tongue to form words.

Keldan—curse him—offered no help at all.

The lady tilted her head to the side and a single spice-colored lock of hair dipped engagingly over one eye. “Sprechen Sie Deutsch?” she asked him in German. “Parla l’italiano?Spreekt u flamande—”

“I do indeed speak those languages, demoiselle,” he replied at last in fluent French. “But I speak yours as well.”

For some reason, his voice seemed to render her mute. Her lips parted soundlessly and she reached out to her right, as if expecting to find something solid to steady her rather than empty air.

Hauk took her hand in his, surprised by his own gallantry, even more surprised by the unexpected heat that seared through him, a feeling like desire yet far more powerful. Consuming. It startled him like a bolt from above.

She withdrew her hand quickly, lips forming an O of shock, as if she too had felt something startling. She stepped back from him a pace, her gaze moving over his features, his eyes... almost as if she recognized him. “A-are you one of the wedding guests at Baron Ponthieu’s chateau, sirrah?”

“Wedding?” Hauk could not persuade his brain to supply aught more than that one word.

“I feel as if we have met before,” she said breathlessly.

“Nay, that is”—he willed his heart to slow down—“impossible. I would—”

“Remember you,” they both said at the same time.

The lady shook her head abruptly, as if awakening from a dream. Looking down, she held out her palm once more. “I-I would like that back, please.”

When he did not comply, she shifted her other hand in a subtle movement, resting it on the lush curve of her hip—near a knife she wore sheathed at her waist.

Hauk blinked down at her, bemusement cutting through the other feelings crowding his senses. Did she actually think to threaten him? The idea that this slip of a female, who barely came to his chin, who could be no more than two and twenty, thought to pose any danger to a man of his size... What a bold little Valkyrie!

Opening his fingers, he glanced down at the object in his hand: a small toy. A brightly colored spinning top.

His brow knit in puzzlement, he held it out toward her. She plucked it from his palm, her fingertips just grazing his skin this time.

“Th-thank you,” she said uneasily, stepping back another pace, her eyes searching his once more. “I am sorry for the trouble.” Tucking the little toy into the coin purse on her belt, she hurried past him into the crowd.

Keldan, who had remained silent through the entire exchange, started to chuckle. “I believe we have room in the longboat for her, Hauk. For that one, we could most assuredly make room—”

“Nei.” Surprised to find himself speaking in a whisper, Hauk repeated the word more firmly. “Nei. I have no need... I do not want...” Someone brushing past them dropped a coin in his upturned palm, and he abruptly realized he was still holding his hand out in front of him.

Annoyed with himself, he tossed the coin aside and clenched his fist. “I told you before, I am only here to watch over you and the others—”

“Ja, that is what you said. But a man does not trip over a lady like that every day. Sparks, liveliness, intelligence... I think she merits a second look. Hurry, before she gets away from you.”

Before Hauk could gather his scattered wits, Keldan was running off in the direction the green-eyed demoiselle had gone.

Spitting curses, Hauk chased after him, catching up at the end of a broad lane full of merchants. The crowds were thinning as the tradesmen closed their stalls for the day, folding down awnings and fastening shutters while the sun’s light began fading in a blaze of twilight.

His friend stood staring at a booth on the opposite side of the street, an awestruck smile on his face. “Look at her, Hauk. Just look at her.”

“I have already seen her close enough. I have the bruises to prove it. You—”

“Nei, not that one. That one.”

Hauk turned to see what had so captivated his friend: a petite brunette standing at one of the merchant’s stalls, her hands moving animatedly as she chatted with the proprietor and her fellow customers. The girl’s sparkling laugh carried over the noise of the crowd.

“A voice like music and the body of a goddess,” Keldan whispered as if barely daring to say the words aloud for fear she would vanish. “And her laughter... her sweet face. She is charming. She is perfect.”

“She is well protected. Or did you not notice the armed guard beside her? Trying to carry that lady off would only win you a blade in the belly.”

Keldan blinked at the guard as if he truly had not noticed before. Frowning, he set his many souvenirs at his feet. “There must be a way... but wait. What is this?”

He elbowed Hauk in the ribs as the green-eyed demoiselle came into view, appearing beside the brunette.

“Look! It appears that my lady and yours are friends.” Keldan’s smile returned. “Do you not agree now that we must have them? Surely Odin himself has guided us here.” He glanced up at the deepening sky. “The sun is almost down. We could take them both and—”

“I do not want that demoiselle or any other. Have you not heard a word I have said? You have never seen what a sword can do to a man. I have. It is too dangerous, Kel. Forget her.”

“Nei, you told me to choose and I have chosen. That is the woman I want.”

Hauk caught him by the shoulder, tried to turn him away. “You will find another.”

“Nei, Hauk, I—by Thor’s hammer!”

The alarm in his voice made Hauk look over at the stall just in time to see a familiar, hulking figure heading straight for the girl Keldan admired.

Keldan swore vividly. “Thorolf!”

Josette felt a shadow fall over her, blocking what little daylight was left. She had been listening intently to Avril, who was upset about some misadventure she had had in the street—but they both turned, gasping, as a towering, dark-haired man appeared suddenly from behind them.

Josette guessed him to be a trader of some sort from his simple clothes. But his eyes, the blackest she had ever seen, fastened on her in a way that chilled her blood.

“Sirrah?” She cringed away, trying to step out of his path only to come up against the hard wooden counter of the booth.

“What is it you want?” Avril demanded.

Their guard stepped forward, his tone challenging. “Be off with you—”

Josette screamed in fear as the stranger shoved the guardsman aside and grabbed her.

He tossed her over his shoulder, the impact and his rough hold knocking the breath from her. Panic seized her. She heard Avril cry out in alarm. Saw the guard leaping forward to defend her—but the stranger drew a sword and dispatched him with a single thrust. The crowd in the street shouted in terror and scrambled for safety.

A scream of shrill terror rose in Josette’s throat as the man brandished his sword at any who would dare challenge him and started to carry her away.

Shocked and furious, Avril snatched her knife from its sheath. Barely even aware of what she was doing, she launched herself forward to help her friend.

“Release her!” she cried, attacking the black-haired knave, dodging beneath his sword as it sliced toward her head. Slashing out, she wounded his arm.

With a sharp curse of pain and surprise, he lost his grip on his weapon. It clattered to the ground. He let go of Josette to fend off Avril, snarling at her in a language she did not know.

“Run, Josette! Run!” Avril danced backward, trying to hold his attention but stay out of reach, her knife raised in front of her.

Suddenly a second dark-haired man appeared—the companion of the blond trader she had run into only moments ago. Her heart leaped that this good Samaritan would rush to their aid.

But in that second that she was distracted, the hulking stranger smashed her across the face with his fist. Pain exploded through her jaw as she spun and fell to the ground, her weapon flying from her hand. Dazed with pain, her ears ringing, she could not believe what she saw as she lay sprawled in the dirt, blood in her mouth.

The “good Samaritan” was not rushing to their aid. He was carrying Josette away over his shoulder!

The knave who had attacked them roared something in that odd language, clearly furious at losing his prize. Then he turned on her, fury blazing in his black eyes as he grabbed his sword from the ground, the blade dripping scarlet.

Numb with terror, Avril tried to scramble backward but her limbs would not obey her. The world turned hazy in her vision. The ringing in her ears became a buzz that blocked out all else.

She was defenseless, her knife gone. He lifted his blade to slice her in two. She shut her eyes, a single word filling her mind and heart. Giselle.

But before he could touch her, someone grabbed her from behind, yanking her to her feet. A muscular arm circled her waist. She felt herself pulled backward against a hard, male chest. Her rescuer shouted something in that guttural language—the same words twice, his tone clearly threatening as he brandished a sword at her attacker.

Then the pain in her jaw pulled her down into a fog that darkened her vision, and she went limp in his arms.

Silence hung over the longboat as they left Antwerp and its violence behind. The coast was naught more than a slim, dark line in the distance now, a strong wind carrying them swiftly out to sea, beyond the reach of those who had tried to stop them. The only sound came from the lapping of the waves.

And the last, labored breaths of the man who lay dying.

“It could have been worse,” Thorolf said with a growl, sitting amidships.

“Worse?” Hauk pierced him with an icy glare. “Worse than almost starting a riot? Worse than a dozen men chasing us all the way to the wharf? Worse than having one of our companions killed and another mortally wounded?”

Thorolf fell into a sullen silence. Hauk looked down at Bjarn, frustrated that the young man’s life was slipping away and he could do naught to stop it. He offered what comfort he could but knew words would not be enough to ease the wounded man’s suffering—or that of the young raiders gathered around their fallen comrades in the ship’s bow, their faces grim and etched with disbelief.

“Will we reach Asgard in time?” Keldan asked desperately, glancing from Bjarn to the other man’s still form, covered by a blanket. “Will he recover?”

“Nei, Kel,” Hauk said quietly.

Keldan’s expression became stricken.

Coughing, Bjarn opened his eyes, gripping Hauk’s forearm. “She is... beautiful, ja?”

“Ja, that she is,” Hauk replied, knowing the young man was referring to the red-haired English girl he had chosen. Even wounded, Bjarn had managed to carry her safely aboard.

“Would have made... a fine... wife.” His mouth curving in a peaceful smile, the young raider breathed his last, his eyes on the stars.

“Nei,” Keldan whispered. “Nei, this cannot be!”

Jaw clenched, Hauk gently closed Bjarn’s eyes and pulled a blanket over him. “It will not help to keep watch,” he said gruffly, addressing Keldan and the others who remained huddled around the two friends they had lost. “They will not awaken again. See to your women.”

For a long moment, the raiders seemed unable to move. One whispered a prayer to Tyr, the god of war. Another cursed. Then, one by one, the silent, anguished men of Asgard moved to starboard and port and into the stern, returning to the brides they had won at such great cost.

The women, who had been sobbing or cursing when they were carried aboard, had all quieted after the men gently covered their faces with cloths soaked in the juice of the sommer root. They would sleep throughout the journey. It was a necessary precaution, so the captives would never be able to reveal the island’s location.

They would awake to a new life, in a new world.

“I begin to understand what you said earlier,” Keldan choked out as he and Hauk reclaimed their places near the tiller. “I do not like the outside world so well after all.”

Hauk nodded and said naught, his throat dry and tight. He had not wanted Kel and the others to learn the lessons of loss and grief—lessons he himself had learned too well.

Keldan fell silent, his earlier, jovial mood gone. Not even the petite brunette asleep beside him could chase away his somber expression. He eased her into his arms.

Thorolf still looked utterly unrepentant. “Had the two of you not interfered with me, none of this would have happened. No one would have noticed—”

“It is hard not to notice you hacking up a guardsman in the middle of a crowded street,” Hauk shot back. “You violated our laws—”

“I was defending myself. Keldan is the one who violated the laws. That woman was to have been mine.” His gaze settled on the little brunette. “I saw her first. Since she was stolen from me, I will take Bjarn’s female—”

“After what you have done, you do not deserve either of them.” Keldan’s arm tightened protectively around the girl he had claimed.

“That will be for the council of elders to decide,” Thorolf said smugly.

“If I were you,” Hauk warned him, “I would not be so quick to speak to the council concerning this night’s events.”

Thorolf fell silent, rubbing at his blood-soaked, bandaged arm, dividing a glare equally between Hauk and Keldan and the unconscious woman next to Hauk.

Keldan glanced at the sleeping demoiselle curled up on Hauk’s cloak, his eyes full of concern. “How is she?”

Hauk looked down at his captive, gently brushing a strand of spice-colored hair back from her bruised cheek. “I believe Thorolf may have broken her jaw, but she will recover.”

“I am glad, my friend. She is perfect for you. Not only beautiful, but brave enough to take on a man twice her size, armed only with a knife.”

Hauk lifted his gaze, giving Keldan a pained look. “I have you to thank for this. I did not want a new bride. Especially some mad Valkyrie who is as quick with a blade as a man.”

“But like it or not, she is yours.”

Hauk swore under his breath, studying his unwanted prize. After all the commotion in Antwerp, she had a black smudge on her cheek, its shape like a teardrop.

He reached into a bucket of drinking water, wet his hand, and brushed the mark away with his thumb, leaving a trail of dampness behind.

“Ja,” he agreed at last. He could not deny the truth of Keldan’s words. Nor could he disobey the law. He had spoken the words twice, in the presence of another Asgard islander. I claim her, he had shouted in the midst of that insanity in the street. I claim her.

At the time, it had been the only way to keep Thorolf from killing her. But with those words, this fiery, green-eyed demoiselle had become his.

Now and for the rest of her life, she was his.

Chapter 4

The gentle crackling of a fire drew Avril slowly to awareness, the sound pleasant, familiar. Soothing. She tried to open her eyes but could not summon the strength. Her entire body felt so heavy, drowsy. So... strange. She could feel soft, smooth sheets against her skin and a plump, downy pillow beneath her cheek. The scent of woodsmoke tickled her nose.

Struggling to awaken, she managed to lift her lashes, just long enough to catch a glimpse of a stone hearth a few feet away, a fire dancing merrily in the darkness, before her eyes closed again.

She groaned, her mind as befuddled and sleepy as the rest of her. Where was she? She could not remember. It seemed odd, though, that Giselle would allow her to remain abed this way, without scampering about and demanding that her maman wake up...

But nay, her sweet girl was not with her. She had left Giselle with Gaston and Celine. Left her in their care when she—

Went to Antwerp.

Avril’s heart lurched in her chest. Her eyes snapped open as it all came crashing back: the fair, the marketplace, the giant of a man who had attacked her and Josette.

Josette! Where was Josette?

With a choked cry, Avril pushed herself up on one elbow, trembling with the effort, forcing her limbs to obey. Blinking, she looked around her. And felt as if a lead weight had dropped through the pit of her stomach.

She was in an unfamiliar chamber, one unlike any she had seen before. The hearth provided a scant circle of light around the bed she was in, just enough for her to make out walls paneled in glossy, dark wood, square rafters high overhead, a ceiling that looked like it was made of tree bark. The tops of the bed’s four curving posts had been carved to look like dragon’s heads complete with jeweled eyes that reflected the fire’s glow.

Her heart thudding, Avril peered into the darkness beyond the footboard. “Is... is anyone there?” Her voice sounded like a dry croak. Her throat felt parched. “Where am I?”

There was no reply but the echo of her own words. The room sounded as if it were the size of a great hall, and seemed to be much longer than it was wide. She could not tell, could not begin to see the opposite end.

She pushed back the blankets that covered her and stumbled to her feet, strength returning as her heart pumped fear and outrage through her veins. What had happened? Who had brought her here?

And why had they left her alone?

She took a few shaky steps away from the bed, feeling a cool, stone floor beneath her feet.

“Is anyone there?” she repeated, trying to sound bold and challenging rather than frightened out of her wits.

Still there was no reply.

She rubbed her eyes, trying to still her trembling hands, trying to think. She remembered attacking the knave who had first grabbed Josette. Remembered wounding his arm. And then he had struck her to the ground.

The rest was a blur. A haze of pain. She had only a vague memory of shouted words she could not understand. Then darkness.

But she realized her jaw no longer hurt. Touching her cheek, she felt no tenderness at all. How long had she been asleep? Mayhap someone had gallantly carried her to a place of safety and taken care of her.

That hope vanished as she glanced down at the garment she was wearing. Whoever had brought her here had undressed her—and garbed her in a shimmering white silk kirtle that revealed every curve of her body. The bodice dipped indecently low between her breasts, and though the skirt reached her ankles, it was slit on both sides, baring her legs from ankle to hip with each step she took.

She froze for one stomach-churning second. Clearly it was not a chivalrous rescuer who had carried her to this place but someone who did not have gallantry on his mind.

With a frightened oath, she ran to the wall, searching for a sconce, a torch, some light she could use to hunt for a door. She found none. Cursing, she kept moving anyway, into the darkened half of the room, feeling her way along the paneling in hope of discovering a way out.

Her fingertips encountered strange scrollwork and carvings in the paneling and odd items displayed on the wall—stone sculptures, a cool piece of ivory, a dented metal great helm. And the furry head of some sort of horned animal. She yelped in alarm and jumped backward a step. Breathing hard, she turned away from the wall, half afraid of what her fingers might brush across next. Panic began bubbling up inside her. God’s mercy, there must be a way out of here!

She had moved several yards beyond the hearth, but her eyes had adjusted to the dark now. The blackness no longer seemed quite so thick. She could just make out several pairs of tall, flat wooden rectangles lining the opposite wall, a few feet above the floor. It took her befuddled mind a moment to identify them.

Shutters.

Windows!

She rushed across to the nearest one. Fumbled for the latch in the darkness. Found it. Yanked the shutters open wide.

A warm, salty breeze blew against her face and tangled her hair. She blinked in the brightness of a full moon and dazzling starlight, heard surf pounding the shoreline. When her eyes adjusted again, she could see the ocean far below, and a heavy mist that seemed to glow silver in the moonlight. The keep—or whatever this place was—sat perched on a cliff high above the sea.

Mayhap she was not very far from Antwerp!

Then she realized there were no trading ships in view. No sounds of the bustling wharf. No sign of the merchants who had thronged into the city for the trade fair. This coastline was deserted.

And the breeze that caressed her cheeks was not frosty with autumn’s chill but warm with the heat of midsummer.

Avril’s fingers bit into the edge of the window as she fought a sudden wave of dizziness. How far had she traveled? She remembered Gerard telling her of places he had visited in the East and the South, where it was always warm.

Glancing up at the night sky, she realized that the stars were not arranged in the familiar patterns she and Giselle liked to give names and fanciful stories.

Where in the name of all the saints was she?

She looked down, thinking she might jump to freedom, but saw only a scant fringe of grass beneath the window. The earth fell away in a sheer drop so high she could barely glimpse the shore below—a slender white froth of waves slashed into foam by jagged rocks.

But not far from shore, just for a moment, she thought she saw a glow. Was it a fire of some kind? A ship’s lantern?

“Help!” she shouted in desperation, leaning out the window as far as she dared. “Someone help me! I have been abducted! Help me, please!”

She repeated her plea in Flemish, German, a half-dozen languages one after another.

But the glow vanished as if swallowed up by the sea, and the rhythmic crashing of the waves smothered the sound of her voice. No one replied. She was alone here. Alone and isolated.

No one would be coming to her aid.

Fear slid down her back like melting ice. She whirled away from the window. There must be an exit. She had to escape. Return home to her daughter.

And she had to help Josette, if she was anywhere near here.

If Josette was still alive.

Forcing that frightening thought to the back of her mind, Avril strode into the center of the chamber, able to see better with rays of moonlight spilling through the open window.

The glitter of steel on the wall caught her attention. Along with hunting trophies and strange sculptures and artifacts, the owner—or owners—of this place had a number of weapons on display.

How foolish, she thought with a grim smile of satisfaction, to leave them within easy reach. She walked over and selected a double-edged blade that was long enough to use as a sword yet light enough to throw, if the need arose.

When her abductors returned, they would find themselves with more trouble than they had bargained for.

Gripping the weapon in one hand, she was about to renew her search for an exit when a sound from the dark, distant corner of the chamber startled her—the sound of a key turning in a lock.

Her pulse racing, she retreated a few steps, away from the hearth and the open window, trying to conceal herself in the shadows. She kept the sword raised in front of her and peered into the blackness.

A door creaked open. A massive, heavy portal from the sound of it. It closed an instant later with the clatter of an iron latch. Avril heard a footfall. Another. Then naught more.

Naught but the pounding of her heart.

“Milady?” a quiet male voice called after a moment, speaking French. “There is no need to hide from me. I mean you no harm.”

She did not reply, edging silently along the wall. Now that she knew the general location of the door, if she could tiptoe her way around him...

“You cannot hide forever.” He walked farther into the room, his tone becoming impatient. “And there is nowhere to run.”

Ha, she thought, moving faster. That was his opinion. Once she reached the door, he would discover why she had always won footraces when she was a girl—

Her next step carried her straight into a small table and sent both her and whatever had been on it crashing to the floor.

She landed hard and yelped in pain as she bruised her hip on the hard stone and cut her hand on a shard of glass. Cups and platters and a shattered goblet littered the floor around her.

Uttering what sounded like an oath, her abductor closed in on her, a massive shadow looming out of the darkness.

“Stay back!” she shouted, grabbing the sword she had dropped. “I have a weapon. And I am skilled enough to use it!”

The threat stopped him, at least for the moment. “A blade will avail you naught more than shouting yourself hoarse at the window did.” He sounded annoyed rather than concerned about his safety. “You cannot harm me, milady.”

What arrogance! Shaking her head, Avril got to her feet, careful of the broken glass. “Come any closer and you will discover precisely how wrong you are.” She tried to judge the distance to the door, took a cautious step.

And felt surprised when he moved away from her, toward the window.

“I do not doubt your skill,” he said dryly. “I saw you demonstrate it in the marketplace.”

He stepped into the pool of moonlight that poured through the open shutters.

Avril gasped, staring at him in open-mouthed astonishment. “You!” she choked out. “You are the trader who ran into me at the street corner.”

Her pounding heart seemed to fill her throat as she gaped at him. It was unmistakably the same tall, heavily muscled rogue who had collided with her. The same fierce, rugged face. The same bronzed skin and sun-colored hair, utterly at odds with the moonlight all around him.

“As I recall,” he said sardonically, one corner of his mouth curving, “it was you who ran into me.”

Avril felt a rush of dizziness, just as she had in Antwerp—mayhap because he seemed familiar, in a way she could not explain. There was something about his deep, quiet voice. Something in his gaze.

He had eyes of the palest blue, like a clear, cool lake reflecting a summer sky.

And as he regarded her silently, the unnerving sensation she had felt upon first meeting him shimmered through her once more—a dazzling heat, as if the sun had tumbled from the heavens to fill every fiber of her being. The impact swept over her so suddenly, so powerfully, it robbed her of breath, voice, of her very senses.

Even as she struggled to give the feeling a name, she sensed, somehow, that he felt it, too. Which only mystified and unsettled her all the more.

Shaken, she managed to tear her gaze from his, and realized that he no longer wore the homespun tunic and cloak of a trader. He was garbed in naught but a pair of close-fitting brown leggings, leather boots, and a gold armband encircling one thick bicep. A sheathed sword and knife hung from his belt.

Every hard plane and angle of his shoulders and chest and powerful arms was exposed to view. From his unyielding stance to the blunt tips of his fingers, he looked as strong and solid as the rocks that sliced up the sea below his keep.

He moved away from the window, and a moment later the center of the room flared with the glow of fire, as he used flint and steel to light the candles in an iron candle-stand. The golden warmth flickered over his back and arms, casting every muscle and sinew in sharp relief.

“Put the weapon down,” he said without looking at her.

Avril shivered. It was not a suggestion but a command. He spoke in the same way he moved—with an air of authority. As if he owned not only this place but everything in it.

She felt renewed fear curl in her belly. But she did not comply. She tightened her hand around the blade’s hilt, ignoring the sting in her injured palm.

Carrying one of the candles, he moved even closer to light a second candelabra. Avril held her ground—and, in the growing brightness, felt surprised to see that she was not in a bedchamber after all.

There were cook pots, copper utensils, and a cauldron beside the hearth. A table for eating in one corner. Shelves that held linens and soaps for washing, next to a rain barrel. This odd dwelling seemed to be some sort of long, one-room home.

Finished with his task, her abductor glanced toward her, mouth open as if he meant to issue another command. But then his gaze fastened on the revealing silk kirtle and skimmed down her body, taking in every inch of skin illuminated by the light.

Those pale azure eyes suddenly darkened in a blaze of heat. Avril inhaled sharply, filled with feminine alarm at the obvious direction of his thoughts. Every instinct urged her to flee, yet she could not move. And could not understand the tingle that coursed through her limbs, holding her fast.

“I left a tunic for you.” His voice sounded even deeper than before. A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “Did you not see it?” He nodded toward the foot of the bed, where a garment of black velvet lay draped over a trunk.

“I-I was more interested in finding a way out!” She tried to keep her voice from wavering, looked at the distant door. Wondered if she dared try to run past him. “Where am I?” she demanded, deciding boldness was her only choice at the moment. “Who the devil are you and what do you—”

“Put down the blade,” he repeated with measured patience, “and we will discuss this”—he seemed to search for the appropriate word—”situation calmly.”

“Calmly?” She sputtered. “I have been attacked by brigands, kidnapped, carried off to sweet Mary knows where, locked in a room, and now—”

“Milady,” he said in soft warning. Without another word, he advanced toward her, his patience apparently at an end. She retreated only a step.

Then she retreated three more.

As he kept coming, she decided that discretion might be better than valor at the moment. She dashed toward the bed, snatching up the black velvet tunic on the way and clutching it in front of her. She tossed the weapon into the center of the rumpled sheets.

“There. There, are you satisfied?” She kept moving, maneuvering around until the huge bed was between them. The sword was still within reach if she chose to lunge for it.

But he seemed placated for now. He kept his distance, reaching out to close his fingers around one of the dragon-headed posts.

“If I had meant you any harm,” he grated out, pronouncing each word distinctly, as if she were a slow-witted child, “if I had intended to kill you, or do aught else”—his gaze flicked over her body again—”I already had ample opportunity. You will have to trust me.”

Trust him? Trust him! Avril choked back a biting retort and quickly pulled the tunic over her head. It was obviously one of his, the sleeves much too long, the hem falling to her ankles. But at least she no longer felt as exposed as she did wearing only the ridiculous scrap of silk.

“Where am I?” she repeated more calmly once she was dressed, trying not to provoke him again. “How far are we from Antwerp? How long was I asleep?”

“You were asleep...” He paused, clearly choosing his words carefully. “A short time. I brought you here early this morn. That gown was the only female garment I had at the time. I have brought you some others, along with some additional female trappings you might require.” He nodded toward a pair of sacks he had left on the far side of the room. “As for where you are, this is Asgard Island. I bid you...” He paused again, sighing tiredly. “Welcome.”

Despite the greeting, his attitude was hardly hospitable. Naught that he was saying made any sense. This man had kidnapped her, yet he did not seem to want her here.

In fact, from the way his fingers gripped the bedpost, she had the distinct impression he wanted to throttle something. Or someone.

“Asgard Island?” she echoed, searching her memory for all the names of places she had read about, all the places Gerard used to describe when he spoke of his travels. “I have never heard of it.”

Those blue eyes met hers again. “I know.”

Somehow that simple comment was more terrifying than aught else he could have said. “Who are you?” she whispered. “And what do you want with me?”

“My name is Hauk Valbrand.” He inclined his head politely. “And in truth, I do not want you at all.”

Before she could ask him to explain that baffling comment, he continued.

“My only intention in the marketplace was to keep Thorolf from—”

“Who?”

“The man who was about to kill you. Thorolf. You angered him, and he is not a forgiving sort. If I had not stepped in to rescue you, you would have been drawn and quartered.”

“Rescue?” She clung to that word, her heart pounding with hope. “If your only intention was to rescue me, does that mean you intend to let me go?”

He stepped away from the bed, turning his back and staring down at the fire, “Nay,” he said, his tone one of regret. “That I cannot do.”

Avril was becoming more puzzled by the moment. “I-is it ransom you are seeking, then?” she guessed. Taking hostages was a common enough tactic used by men of a certain ilk, to gain riches or power from noble families.

He choked out a laugh, a humorless sound. “Does it look as if I am lacking in wealth, milady?”

She glanced around the room, seeing everything clearly in the wavering light. The long, single chamber was not only the size of a great hall—it was filled with fine goods, tapestries, costly artifacts, furnishings of every description. One nearby trunk, its top wide open, held an overflowing pile of silver and gold coins in many sizes, including some that looked ancient.

Her stomach started churning. Clearly her abductor was not in need of more riches. “Then why have you kidnapped me?”

“Because once I claimed you, I had no choice,” he bit out. “Neither of us has a choice any longer, milady.”

She shook her head, unable to breathe. “You are not making sense. Naught you have said makes any sense! What do you want with me? What happened to my friend—”

“Your friend is safe and well, as you are,” he assured her. “Neither of you has come to any harm, and neither of you will. You have my word.”

“What good is the word of a knave and a brigand who kidnaps defenseless women?”

“You are hardly defenseless,” he said dryly, turning to regard her once again. “And though you may believe me a brigand, I am in fact honor-bound to protect and care for you now. I know this is difficult for you to accept, milady.” He raked a hand through his tangled blond hair, looking frustrated. “You will understand eventually. But there is no time now to explain further. We are late for the althing—”

“The all-what?”

“Althing. There is a meeting of our council of elders tonight, and your presence is required.” He gestured toward the sacks he had brought in for her. “Change your garments. Let us be on our way.”

Avril gaped at him. Simple as that, he expected her to obey him? “Listen, you... you... overgrown oaf, I do not know who you are—”

“I have told you my name.” He frowned. “I suppose I should ask yours.”

“Lady Avril de Varennes,” she supplied hotly. “Of the family of the Duc Gaston de Varennes of the Artois.” She emphasized the word duc. “Mayhap you have heard of him. Mayhap you realize now what a mistake you have made. The Varennes family holds favor with King Philippe himself. They will be looking for me—”

“They will not find you.”

The confident way he stated that made Avril’s breath catch in her throat. “You are wrong! They will not rest until they find me. And when the duc’s men get their hands on you—”

“They will not.”

Again he said it as a simple matter of fact. Avril started to tremble. Her mind was spinning. She felt as if she were caught in a nightmare from which she could not awaken.

“Now, milady, we must go to the althing. You may leave the weapon.” Her abductor gestured at the sword in the middle of the bed, one corner of his mouth curved in a humorless grin. “You will not need it.”

Avril remained rooted in place, blinking at him. She did not know what to make of this mysterious, powerfully muscled, maddening man. Thus far, he had not tried to hurt or abuse her. He had spoken the truth about that. And his claim that he was honor-bound to protect and care for her sounded almost chivalrous. For a brigand.

Yet she dared not trust a word he said.

Lowering her gaze to the floor, she slowly moved around the bed, trying to appear docile and chastened and obedient. She walked past him, toward the sacks on the opposite side of the room, holding her breath. Judging the distance.

When she was a few steps from the door, she broke into a run, tore the door open, and rushed headlong outside into the night.

A frightened cry escaped her as she heard him giving chase, cursing with every step. Her heart pumping, she hiked up the silk kirtle and long tunic and raced into the darkness.

But though she was fast, she was not fast enough.

He caught her only a few yards beyond the keep, grabbing her arm. Panic made her strike out with her fists as he spun her around and pulled her against his chest.

“Let me go!” she screamed. “Let me—”

His arms tightened around her until she could not break free, could barely even wriggle.

“There is nowhere to run, milady,” he said with a growl, threading one hand through her hair, forcing her to meet his gaze. “Do you not understand? You are on an island. If you try that again, you will fling yourself over a cliff in the darkness and fall to your death!”

Unable to struggle, Avril was all too vividly aware of the way his hard body engulfed her, the strength of his arm around her waist, the way her breasts flattened against the solid muscle of his chest. Feeling trapped and helpless and terrified, she spat in his face.

He released her but kept one hand around her wrist like a manacle. “Heed me well, milady,” he grated out, wiping the back of his other hand across his cheek. “Whoever and whatever you were before, it no longer matters.” His eyes seemed to glitter unnaturally in the moonlight. “Now come back inside and garb yourself. We are late. The council awaits us.”

Chapter 5

Avril had already learned three valuable lessons about this formidable rogue who called himself Hauk Valbrand: he answered her every question with a riddle, he brooked no disobedience to his orders—and he was every bit as powerful and unyielding as he looked.

It had been foolish to continue fighting him after he caught her on the cliff and led her back into his keep, ordering her to change clothes.

He had some fresh scratches near his eyes, courtesy of her fingernails.

She had her hands bound before her, courtesy of his superior physical strength.

And she was now wearing a simple linen gown in a lovely shade of violet with purple embroidery along the bodice and hem.

“Milady, I have given you my word that you will not be harmed in any way. If you would cease causing trouble, you would make this unfortunate situation less difficult for us both.”

Avril did not reply, her breathing fast and shallow, her captor’s spicy, male scent invading her senses with every gulp of air. None of his many reassurances eased her fear in the least—not with his brawny arm encircling her waist as he carried her into the darkness astride a swift, dun-colored stallion. The horse’s dark brown mane and tail fanned out on the wind as they rode through the moonlit night, following a path that led down the hillside away from Valbrand’s home.

She would not make the mistake of arguing or fighting with her captor further. After taking her inside his keep, he had turned his back and given her to the count of twenty to don one of the gowns he had brought for her. She had obeyed quickly, calling him a few choice names under her breath, refusing his help in tying the laces up the back of the garment.

That she now regretted... because she could feel his bare skin pressed against hers, smooth and warm. He was holding her so tight, she half expected the pattern of the gown’s open laces to be branded into her shoulders by the hard, flat muscles of his chest. Clearly he was determined not to let her out of his sight or out of his grasp again.

She forced herself to ignore the uncomfortable sensation—and the equally disturbing heat that shimmered between them, growing more intense with each moment she remained in his company.

Mayhap it was only the island’s humid, sultry air that caused the strange feeling. It could be simply the hot weather making her light-headed, making perspiration trickle down her skin until the fabric of her gown clung to her body.

Or it could be the way her captor held her so close, her every curve fitted to the hard planes of his body.

She banished that thought furiously. Her stomach knotting with anxiety, she fastened her attention on her surroundings, thinking of what he had said on the cliff. Whoever and whatever you were before, it no longer matters. Arrogant oaf! He could take his threats and be damned. Whatever Valbrand’s intentions, she did not intend to be here long enough for him to make good on them. Gaston and his men would soon find her. Or she would find some way to escape. A way home to her little Giselle.

She remembered the last words she had said as they parted. I love you, ma petite papillon. I will be back soon.

Soon! Giselle had replied. I love you, Maman.

Avril blinked hard against a sudden rush of tears in her eyes. If it took every last bit of strength and breath and will she possessed, she would return home to her daughter. Soon.

Peering into the darkness ahead, she tried to make out the path her abductor followed, but could barely even see it. Both Valbrand and his destrier, however, seemed familiar with it. They galloped along the cliffs that soared at such dizzying height above the sea, until the trail widened into a road that veered inland. Off to the north, she glimpsed what looked like flickering lights in the distance, near the ocean.

A town, she thought, a spark of hope flaring inside her. If she managed to escape from her captor, mayhap she would find help there.

She kept that hope burning inside her as the road forked and they left the coast far behind, riding toward distant hills that rose like dark sentinels along the horizon. A short time later, Valbrand reined his horse to a canter as they entered a forest.

The air was cooler here, rich with the pungent scent of pine needles. Bushes laden with ripe berries sprawled across the path. Crushed under the stallion’s hooves, the fruit gave off a tangy, pungent aroma. Avril heard owls hooting and animals scurrying through the underbrush.

She tried to keep her thoughts on escape, and home. And Giselle’s sweet, smiling face. And the hope of finding Josette safe and well.

But as evergreen branches blotted out most of the moonlight, renewed fear closed in on her, like a hand tightening around her neck, squeezing off her air.

“Wh-where are we going?” she choked out.

“To the althing-vellir,” he said tightly. “The place of the althing.”

A few moments later the trees thinned and the forest gave way to an open meadow where a throng of men awaited—at least two score, gathered at the base of a rocky outcropping so tall that its upper reaches could not be seen in the darkness. A waterfall spilled over one edge, splashing down from the night sky in a glistening cascade, ending at the bottom in a clear pool and a moonlit cloud of mist.

Avril’s mouth went dry with shock and fear as she stared at the brawny warriors, most clad only in leggings, as Valbrand was. The crowd was a veritable sea of sun-bronzed muscle.

And at the foot of the wall of stone, apart from the others, stood a line of men—each holding a sobbing, hysterical woman by his side.

She had not realized that there were more captives here. “God’s breath, what is this?” Icy dread seized her and she struggled against her abductor’s steely hold. “What do you intend to—”

“Do not be afraid,” Valbrand said in a low tone. “No one is going to hurt you.”

She was no doubt supposed to find that soothing. But she could feel his voice rumbling through his broad chest, and it only sharpened her panic. “Nay, I do not believe you! I—”

“Avril, cease,” he commanded, holding her still as he reined his destrier to a halt, at a place just beyond the trees where dozens of other horses were picketed. “Your questions will be answered and all will be well. And I will stay by your side—”

“That is not reassuring!”

Muttering an oath, he swung his leg over the stallion’s back and leaped to the ground in one smooth motion. “We are late, milady. Hurry.”

He reached up to help her down, but just then she spotted a familiar figure in the middle of the line of men and women. “Josette!” Avril slipped from the horse’s back without help, despite her bound hands.

Before she could take one step, Valbrand caught her by the shoulder and pulled her back.

She tried to twist free, could not tell if Josette had heard her over the noise of the crowd and the waterfall. “Please, let me go to her—”

“You cannot stand before the men of Asgard with your gown falling off,” he said impatiently. His fingers working quickly, he tied the laces, brooking no protest this time. Avril did her best to endure in silence without flinching away.

But the feathery brushes of his fingertips along her bare spine made something inside her clench tight and sent a ticklish heat dancing along her limbs, the feeling almost like—

Nay. She stiffened in shock and cut off the thought before she could complete it. Nay, she was confused! This tension that had been burning between herself and Valbrand all night came from fear. Nervousness. Outrage. The island’s warm weather. The sensation had naught to do with any kind of... of...

She had not known feelings of that sort since Gerard’s death. Had not experienced so much as one flicker of awareness of another man in more than three years. How could she possibly be feeling that now, for a stranger who held her hostage?

“Are you finished?” she asked, the tension making her tone sharp.

“Aye,” Valbrand replied, a similar edge in his voice as he knotted the laces securely at the top.

The rogue seemed most familiar with the way of lacing a lady’s gown.

“Move.” He kept one hand firmly on her shoulder and escorted her into the crowd. The men parted to let him pass, offering what sounded like warm welcomes. He returned their greetings with curt nods, clearly not in the best humor at the moment.

“Take a place there, at the far end,” he said gruffly, guiding her toward the line of couples. “And speak only if you are spoken—”

“Josette!” Avril cried, trying to break free of his hold as they came within sight of her friend.

Josette whirled with a look of relief. “Avril!” Her face was pale and tearstained, but otherwise she appeared unharmed. The dark-haired young man next to her—the one who had carried her off in Antwerp—would not let her leave his side.

And Valbrand took a firm grasp on Avril’s arm. “Milady, we have kept everyone waiting long enough.” He tugged her away, heading for their place at the end of the line. “The elders are assembling.”

Avril kept fighting—until Valbrand tightened his grip enough to make her blood-starved arm tingle. She decided it would be wiser to obey, for now.

At least Josette seemed to be faring better than the other captives. A petite Moorish girl sobbed uncontrollably. A voluptuous Italian with curly blond hair cursed in her native tongue at her captor—who had to struggle to keep his hold on her. Next to her stood a tall, red-haired maiden who for some reason had no warrior by her side; she kept her eyes squeezed shut and recited prayers in English.

The five other women were all babbling or wailing or wide-eyed in numb shock. Avril noticed she was not the only one who had her hands tied.

Her gaze darted to the brawny men gathered around, their straight, white teeth gleaming in the moonlight as they smiled. All the air seemed to vanish from her lungs.

Were the captives meant to be shared with this horde? Raped here in the forest in the dead of night—far from the eyes of those in the town?

Or sacrificed in some kind of midnight, pagan religious ceremony?

All the blood drained from her face. For a moment, only Valbrand’s firm grip on her arm kept her standing. Her mind reeling, she clung madly to the promise he had made earlier. No one is going to hurt you, he had said. No one is going to hurt you.

Even the Italian girl fell silent as the elders arrayed themselves in an impressive, solemn line at the base of the wall of rock. There were fourteen of them. All garbed in richly embroidered, silk-lined mantles fastened by huge gold brooches. Oddly enough, none looked particularly old.

In fact, most appeared to be as young as Valbrand, whom she guessed was no more than thirty.

When the last of the fourteen took his place, every man present bowed to them, almost as one. Silence reigned, broken only by the splashing of the waterfall a few yards away.

Then one of the elders stepped forward and addressed the gathering. From his tone, it sounded like a most serious, solemn speech. Avril’s pulse slowed a bit. She even managed to take a deep breath.

All of this formality and ceremony seemed a bit excessive—not to mention unnecessary—if it was truly rape they intended. And none of the elders carried weapons of any kind.

She struggled to make sense of his words, frustrated that she could not understand what was being said and what it had to do with her and the other captives. This language was so foreign to her ear, she could not begin to even guess its roots. It was rough, guttural, yet it had a regular, almost musical cadence. Was it Germanic? Slavic?

The first man finished his address and stepped back, and another came forward, this one holding a sparkling silver chalice. Lifting his arms, he spoke in an impassioned tone, his voice booming up to the night sky. He used the cup to gesture to the waterfall, to the moon, then to each woman in turn. Reaching into his cloak with his free hand, he withdrew a handful of grain that he sprinkled across the ground.

Avril’s heart kept skipping beats. “What is—”

“Silence,” Valbrand whispered harshly.

The man with the chalice returned to his place and a third elder came forward, from the center of the fourteen. This one had cropped blond hair and a full beard, and carried himself with the assured, dignified air of a lord, mayhap even a king. A chain of gold encircled his neck, its massive links supporting a huge jewel of midnight blue.

Not saying a word, he strode to the far end of the line of captors and women, studying each pair in turn, his face set in harsh lines. The men in the clearing fell so silent that Avril could hear the beating wings of a bird taking flight in the forest.

He paused only briefly, before the English girl, then continued down the row—until he reached her and Valbrand. His gaze fastened on her for a moment, his eyes a clear, pale blue that made Avril gasp. With his sky-colored eyes, chiseled features, and golden hair, this man bore a striking resemblance to her captor.

She returned his probing stare in full measure, not glancing away or even blinking. She did not care who he was; she would not bow down to him or any man here. Lifting her chin, she steeled herself to face whatever might come.

But to her surprise, one corner of his mouth curved upward—so slightly that if she had not been standing only inches away, she would not have noticed—and the look in his eyes softened almost imperceptibly.

For an instant, his mien could only be described as... approving.

Almost kindly.

The impression lasted but a heartbeat, for he glanced at Hauk and the two regarded each other with cool expressions, the air between them all but freezing with iciness. Then Hauk lowered his gaze and bowed his head. A muscle flexed in his tanned cheek. His entire body seemed rigid, with some emotion Avril could not puzzle out.

If the two men were indeed related, she thought, it seemed there was little love lost between them.

Turning on his heel, the blue-eyed elder motioned for one of the other fourteen to join him. The man he had summoned came forth carrying a small, ancient-looking chest, and the two walked to the far end of the line of couples.

Standing before the first pair—a flaxen-haired young warrior and the frightened Moorish girl, who was still crying—the leader intoned what sounded like yet another serious, solemn speech. Someone from the crowd stepped up behind the pair, bending to speak to the girl in low tones.

After a moment, she stopped crying.

Avril’s brow furrowed. Was he translating for her? What had been said that could stop the girl’s tears? From her place midway down the line, Josette leaned over and glanced back at Avril with a bewildered look. Avril could only shrug and shake her head.

As the speech continued, the Moorish girl’s face brightened considerably—and Avril’s confusion deepened. With everyone’s attention focused on the pair, she seized the opportunity to look at the men gathered around, studying the inhabitants of this island in detail for the first time, struggling to discern who and what—and, more important, where—they were.

Their spare, simple garments offered few clues. And though many were fair-haired, others looked as dark as Spaniards. Most left their hair long and unbound, and several had beards, some so full they wore them forked or braided. They also seemed fond of jewelry, though it was simple as well. Arm rings. Brooches. Neck rings. Dangling pendants.

Those caught her eye, for many of the men wore the same device: a pendant in the shape of an upside-down ax or hammer.

Her heart started to pound. By all the saints, it looked almost like... but nay, that could not be. Not Thor’s hammer. That symbol had not been seen in the world for centuries.

With a gasp of disbelief, she returned her gaze to her captor, studying his profile. Suddenly it all started to make sense, as she remembered the frightening tales passed down from the time before her grandmother’s grandmother.

Tales of fierce raiders who came by sea.

Blond, bearded warriors who attacked with speed and daring, pillaging towns large and small. Ransacking churches. Burning homes. By the thousands, they had swept across the continent. They had even conquered Paris by sailing up the Seine.

In their dragon-headed longships.

An image of the dragon-headed posts on Hauk’s bed seared Avril’s memory. All at once the forest and night sky whirled in her vision. The words the elder was speaking struck her like icy rain. Little wonder she had not recognized their strange language.

The tongue they were speaking was Norse. Old Norse. This band must have been hiding here for centuries. Since the time when their kind had been driven from the continent. An uncharted island would make the perfect place of concealment for a hated, hunted people. They built their longhouses in the old way. Wore the sort of clothing favored by their ancestors. Worshipped the old gods.

And lived as pirates of the seas, raiding along the coasts.

Stealing women to warm their beds.

“By sweet, Holy Mary. You are Vikings,” she choked out, trying to wrest her arm from Valbrand’s grasp. “You are Vikings!”

“You have discovered our secret,” Hauk said in a hushed whisper.

He tried to sound convincing.

“Did you think I would not?” The surprisingly strong little demoiselle tried unsuccessfully to wrench free of his grasp. “I will not be made some kind of bond slave to warm your bed, Norseman—”

“Indeed you will not,” he agreed readily. “That is not our purpose here.” He wondered again whether he should have taken the time to explain the truth earlier, regardless of the fact that they were late. But she had been convinced her stay on Asgard would be short. Telling her she would spend the rest of her life here—as his bride—would have made her utterly impossible to manage.

At the moment, all he wanted was for her to be silent. They stood last in line. Once the ceremony was finished, he could scoop her up and make a swift retreat before she caused too much trouble.

She continued to struggle, cursing him. His uncle—Erik Valbrand, highest of all the eldrer—shot him a disapproving look from where he stood addressing young Svein and his Moorish captive.

Hauk tugged Avril closer, pressing his lips to her ear. “Mayhap I should have gagged and blindfolded you as well as tying your hands. I will remedy the oversight at once, if you wish.”

He had no patience left to deal with the demoiselle’s unruly temper. Not after the day he had endured. But the threat and a slight shifting of his grip on her arm were sufficient to quiet her for the moment—though she looked furious enough to murder him and every man here, even unarmed and with her hands tied.

By great Thor’s bearded goats, he thought with a rueful glance up at the night sky, what had he done to merit such a female in his life? Never had he met a woman so headstrong and spirited and reckless... and bewitching.

Whoever had named her had chosen well. Avril. French for April. Springtime. She was every bit as fair and tempestuous as that most unpredictable of all seasons.

Unfortunately for him, she was also intelligent. It usually took newly arrived captives days or even weeks to guess that their abductors were Norsemen. Avril had unraveled the mystery in less than two hours.

Odin help him if she proved equally quick at discovering the true nature of Asgard Island and its people. If he thought she was difficult to control now, he did not wish to imagine...

His uncle’s deep growl of a voice reclaimed his attention. The elders and their translator had finished their explanations to the Moorish girl.

Svein took his bride’s hand while Erik intoned the traditional closing words of the ritual.

“Svein, you have risked all to bring this woman to Asgard, and we now recognize her as yours. On your oath of honor, do you accept her life and her safety as your responsibility? Will you see to her needs and her happiness, and protect and care for her all the days of her life?”

“Ja,” the young groom replied solemnly. “Jeg gjor. I will.”

The second elder, Storr, opened the ancient horde that he cradled in his hands, reaching inside to withdraw a silver brooch encrusted with pearls. He lifted it toward the night sky and then toward the waterfall. As it glittered in the moonlight, it drew soft sounds of wonder from a few of the women—those who were not still crying, or cursing like the unruly Italian.

After accepting the brooch, Svein pinned it to his bride’s gown, his movements gentle, almost tentative, as if he feared that his delicate, fawn-eyed beauty might break. “Let it be known to all that this is Fadilah,” he announced, smiling at her, “wife of Svein.”

A cheer went up from the crowd. Erik and Storr moved on to the second man in line, who eagerly stepped forward to take his vows.

“What is happening?” Avril asked in an impatient whisper, watching as the ritual was repeated, clearly not understanding a word of what was being said. “What sort of ceremony is this? I do not—”

“Silence.”

His tone was enough to make her bite her lip and hold back whatever reply she wanted to make. She returned her attention to the ritual, brow furrowed.

Hauk only wished he did not understand what was happening.

He glanced away into the darkness, wishing he could escape the sound of his uncle’s voice. Wishing he were anywhere but here.

Here in this sacred grove that he hated so much.

His every nerve felt raw. And he knew that the uncommon heat smoldering between him and the lady at his side was only partly to blame. By all the earth goddesses, she seemed to burn his very fingers, even through the fabric of her sleeve.

If only he had been able to steal a few hours’ sleep, this place and this woman and this ceremony would not affect him so strongly. He was certain of it. But he had rested only fitfully during the voyage home and not at all since depositing Avril in his bed this morn. While she had dozed peacefully within the walls of his vaningshus, and the other raiders slept after their long absence from Asgard, he had gone to face his uncle. To report the events of the journey. And the loss of two men.

Two men who had been under his command. Under his protection. The eager would-be warriors had known the risks when they left Asgard, but their safety had been entrusted to him.

As his uncle had been swift to point out.

Erik Valbrand had ordered him to arrange their funeral, since few on Asgard were familiar with the ancient rites anymore. Hauk had spent the day preparing the bodies, with their families’ help, then set them out to sea after nightfall, in the very longship that had carried them to their fate, set ablaze.

He had had no time to mourn—and less than an hour to gather necessities for this bride he did not want, return to his vaningshus and collect her without getting a blade in his gullet, and bring her here to the althing.

Hauk stared up at the towering wall of stone before him. He had not attended an althing, had not even set foot in this part of the forest, in years. Everyone believed his absence was due to his well-known opinion that this custom, like so many others, should be changed. That it was a waste of breath to gather here at midnight on the night of the raiders’ return, offering toasts to the gods and listening to the elders’ endless speeches about the old ways and ancestral traditions.

No one knew the true reason he stayed away.

He resisted the tightening in his throat, the ache that filled his chest. But as he listened to the men in line taking their vows, one after another, he felt something inside him tearing open. Felt the memories rising from the deep, black place inside where he kept them locked away.

Karolina.

The thought of her name made the feelings spill through him.

How excited he had been, standing here beside his first bride. How proud and pleased with himself—just as young Svein and the others were now. Grinning like a witless fool, as eager as a stag in rut.

Utterly unaware of how soon it would all end.

He swallowed hard as the memories flashed across his mind, each one sweeter than honey and more bitter than the last dregs of spoiled wine. The gentleness of her voice. Her silhouette at the window in the mornings, her every movement so serene as she combed her long blond hair. The softness of her palm pressing his hand against her belly, so he could feel their baby kick.

The sound of her screams as she died.

Hauk shut his eyes. She had called out his name with her last breath.

And taken their unborn son with her.

He clenched his jaw, trying to force the unwanted emotions away. In command of himself after a moment, he opened his eyes and glanced up at the waterfall.

Only to be assaulted by memories of the second time he had stood here, years later. Beside Maeve.

Maeve, whose laughter had brightened his life like the sun. She had been so entranced by the moonlit waterfall, she barely uttered a sound during the ceremony. His cheerful, Celtic lass had been happy to leave behind her life of poverty in Ireland, had quickly fallen in love with Asgard’s beauty... and with him.

And for a time, he had known hope. Had allowed himself to believe that this time, it would be different. That she could heal the emptiness inside him, the loneliness that had been with him since he was a boy.

He could still see the look on her face when she found the first gray hair in her ebony tresses, how she had made a jest over it...

And when he lost her, as well, the emptiness inside him had widened and deepened, and his life was all the darker for having known even a brief touch of the sun.

Hauk dropped his gaze to the trampled earth beneath his boots, trying to shrug off the memories as Avril had tried to shrug off his hand earlier. None of it mattered any longer. He had learned his lesson: ’Twas better to be alone than to be left alone.

Better not to hope for a life different from the one the gods had given him.

In the years since he had lost Maeve, he had allowed every feeling, every desire, every dream inside him to cool and harden into ice. Blessed, numbing ice. Until he wanted nothing, felt nothing. Most of the time it was not even a struggle anymore.

Except here, in this place.

“Ja,” another young groom was saying happily. “Jeg gjor. I will.”

Nei, Hauk wanted to say. Nay, I will not. He had vowed never to allow another utlending woman—an outsider—into his life, his home. His heart. They were too fragile. Too rare and precious, like delicate blooms he could hold in his hands for only an instant of time. He preferred the occasional liaisons he enjoyed with Asgard women, which lasted however long he and the lady might wish.

Women like his last mistress, Nina, who had kept him company and shared his nights and asked naught more. She had shed no tears when they parted a few months ago. Mayhap because she understood that the only thing that endured in this world was time itself.

Understood that he needed to devote his attention to what mattered most: his duty. To protect this island and its people.

And its secret.

The elders came to the sixth place in line, where the red-haired English girl stood alone, and Hauk raised his head, bracing himself.

Thorolf stepped forward from the crowd.

He heard Avril’s small gasp of recognition and fear as Thorolf cast a cold look their way before shifting his attention to the elders.

“Mine eldrer,” he said, addressing the council in a determined, purposeful tone, “I wish to claim this female, taken by Bjarn. She will replace the woman who was to have been mine.” He pointed to Keldan’s lady. “That woman was in my possession before Keldan interfered and stole her from me.”

Exclamations of shock rippled through the crowd. Even to touch another man’s claimed female was a serious offense.

Hauk swore under his breath, but he had been expecting this. “Nei, mine eldrer. Thorolf does not tell the full truth.”

He was speaking out of turn, before the elders could talk to Thorolf—and his impertinence earned him an annoyed glance from his uncle.

But Hauk would not be silenced. Not even by that look, well remembered from boyhood, from this man who had raised him.

“It was Thorolf who first broke our laws,” he continued, directing his words to the full council. “He did not wait until the brunette was alone. He attacked a guard who was protecting her and killed him in the street. In full view of dozens of people.”

A louder ripple of surprise and discussion went through the crowd.

“Stille! Peace. Let there be peace,” one of the elders said calmly, quieting the throng. “Is this true, Thorolf? Did you use violence apurpose?”

The knave shook his head, managing to look offended at the very idea. “The guard came at me with sword drawn. I merely defended myself—”

“Nei, he attacked first, without warning,” Keldan corrected, stepping forward to join the fray. “And he only chose the lady out of spite, because he saw that Hauk and I had stopped to admire her and her friend.”

Hauk briefly thought to protest that he had not been admiring Avril, but decided it would be better not to dispute any part of Keldan’s explanation.

He heard knowing whispers going through the crowd behind him. All were well aware of the old animosity between himself and Thorolf. It occurred to him that he had in truth been staring at the little brunette just before Thorolf moved in to take her.

No doubt the knave had chosen her for that reason alone.

“Lies,” Thorolf insisted. “I obeyed our laws. I first saw the wench earlier in the day, long before Valbrand or Keldan ever noticed her. I waited until sunset, as we had all agreed, and I claimed her. I used violence only to defend myself against those who tried to stop me—”

“You used violence because you have a taste for it,” Hauk said in disgust. “It pleases you the way drink pleases some men. You even used violence against a female—”

This brought so many gasps and exclamations from the crowd, the noise drowned him out.

“Stille!” another of the elders commanded. “Let there be peace!”

“It is true,” Hauk insisted, gesturing to Avril. “When she tried to rescue her friend, Thorolf struck her so hard he broke her jaw.”

The crowd erupted in noise again. Avril, who had been glancing worriedly from one speaker to the next, seemed to realize the conversation had taken a sudden turn in her direction.

“What are you saying?” she demanded of Hauk with wide, frightened eyes. “What is going—”

“It is my word or theirs.” Thorolf spoke over her. “And Keldan has just admitted that the brunette was in my hands before he interfered. I have been wronged. I ask that either my claim to this woman be recognized”—he indicated the English girl, who stood whispering prayers and trembling—”or that Keldan be required to return the female he stole from me.”

Keldan looked thunder-struck, devastated at the possibility that his charming little brunette might be taken from him.

Hauk quickly came to his friend’s assistance. “Mine eldrer, you have more than our word. There were two other witnesses.” He nodded to Avril and her friend. “Ask the women themselves. They cannot understand what has been said, and they have no reason to lie about Thorolf’s actions.”

The elders gathered for a moment to discuss this suggestion among themselves. One of them who spoke French came over to stand before Keldan’s lady. Keldan immediately returned to hover possessively at her side.

“We have need of your help, ma demoiselle,” the elder said with a bow, his voice gentle and his expression warm. “Tell me, if you would be so kind, what is your name?”

The girl looked astonished to find herself suddenly addressed in her native tongue. She glanced over at Avril, seeking guidance.

Avril shook her head, clearly opposed to offering help of any kind. Hauk frowned at her.

But the brunette seemed to see no harm in revealing her name. “J-Josette.”

“Merci, Josette. And could you also tell me, when did you first see this man in Antwerp?” He pointed to Thorolf.

She cringed away from the black-haired giant who stared at her—only to bump into Keldan. But she did not protest the protective arm Kel draped around her shoulders.

“When... when he grabbed me.” She shuddered visibly. “At the fair.”

“You had not seen him before that?”

She shook her head. “Nay.”

“We would have noticed a man of his size,” Avril put in. “He does not blend easily into a crowd.”

“Do not interrupt,” Hauk chided, though it occurred to him that he had just done the same thing, speaking out of turn to help a friend.

“Nay, Valbrand, I would hear from her, as well,” the elder said easily. “Tell me, ma demoiselle, did Thorolf hurt you?”

“Aye, he...” Avril paused, lifting a hand to her cheek, her gaze on Thorolf’s massive fists. “He struck me so hard, I fell to the ground. The pain was so great that I thought my jaw was—”

“Fortunately, the injury has healed,” Hauk finished for her.

“Merci, mes demoiselles.” Bowing to each, the elder returned to translate the women’s answers to the other thirteen, while Thorolf stood waiting impatiently.

Avril remained very still, her fingers on her cheek. “But my jaw was broken,” she whispered. “I am sure of it. He hit me after I wounded him.” Blinking, she stared at Thorolf’s right arm. “With my knife.”

Hauk shifted uncomfortably, trying to think of how he was going to explain that away. Thorolf was close enough that she could see clearly there was no injury to his arm.

His skin was unmarred. There was no scar. No mark at all.

“The wound must not have been as serious as you thought,” Hauk said casually.

“But it was,” she insisted. “His blood was all over my gown—”

“It was twilight.” Hauk had burned the garment this morn, hoping she would forget that particular detail of the incident. “The shadows play odd tricks at that time of day.”

“But—”

“Silence. The elders have reached their decision.”

Avril quieted—more out of shock, Hauk guessed, than any newfound obedience. By all the gods, the quick-witted demoiselle was adding up the evidence before her eyes much too swiftly.

As the elders reclaimed their places, she even thought to look at her palm, which she had cut on a shard of glass in his vaningshus not an hour ago.

Already it was completely healed. There was no mark of the injury. No blood, no scar, not even a scratch.

Her mouth dropped open in a round O of disbelief.

If she thought to notice, he thought sourly, she might see that the scratches her nails had inflicted on his face were gone as well.

’Twas something she would have to grow accustomed to in her new life here on Asgard.

One of many things.

“We have reached our decision,” Erik announced. “Stille. Let there be peace.”

A tense hush fell over the crowd. For once, his uncle did not indulge in a long-winded oration, simply stating the judgment flatly.

“Keldan was indeed wrong to take the woman Josette when Thorolf already had her in his hold.”

Keldan uttered a strangled sound. Hauk bit back a curse.

“But Thorolf committed the more serious offense,” Erik continued, “by killing the guard instead of waiting until the girl was alone. He engaged in wanton violence, endangered the lives of others in his traveling party, and risked bringing unwanted, dangerous attention to the peaceful people of Asgard.”

Thorolf shot a simmering glare at Hauk and Avril, looking wrathful enough to kill them both for having thwarted him again.

Without even thinking, Hauk stepped in front of her, obeying an instinct to protect her.

“Keldan may keep the woman Josette,” Erik announced, “and Thorolf is also denied any right to the female that Bjarn had claimed.”

“Nei!” Thorolf shouted, his face awash in disbelief. “I risked as much in the voyage as the others. Am I to have naught to show for it?”

“Be grateful the punishment is so light,” one of the other elders said, his voice and his gaze cool. “And do not risk our ire further. Using violence against a female proves you unfit to be a husband. Bjarn’s woman shall be free to choose a mate from among those men of Asgard who are unmarried. She will not be given to you, Thorolf.”

Glowering at them, Thorolf started to say more, then apparently thought the better of it. With a curse, he turned on his heel and stalked away, shoving a path through the crowd.

Keldan looked like he would melt from relief.

The English girl opened her eyes, blinking in wonderment at Thorolf’s abrupt departure. She stopped muttering prayers, as if they had just been answered.

But as Hauk watched Thorolf stalk away into the night, he had the gut-churning feeling that the most troublesome malcontent among them had just been rendered even more dangerous.

The elders resumed the interrupted ceremony, Storr bringing over the chest of brooches, Erik moving to stand before the next man in line, while another elder came to lead the English girl away, quietly speaking to her in her native tongue.

The seventh bride, the Italian firebrand, was not nearly as accepting of her new status as the others had been. Once told in her language what was happening, she became even angrier, kicking and screaming. Her unfortunate groom, Gareth, had to take his vows quickly, then carry her off over his shoulder, his new wife pounding on his back.

Hauk sighed wearily, afraid he had just gotten an advance look at his own evening.

And then it was Keldan’s turn. Beaming, he took Josette’s hand and lifted it to his lips, brushing a kiss over her fingers.

Poor fool. He already looked to be half in love.

The elder who spoke French returned to tell the little brunette what was to happen—and though he spoke softly, Avril picked out just enough words to understand at last.

Eyes wide with shock, she turned to Hauk. “This is some sort of wedding ceremony?”

That, apparently, was the last guess she would have made.

“Aye, milady. I am surprised you did not deduce it sooner.” He arched one brow. “Did you think we savage Norsemen meant to devour you in some heathen sacrifice here under the moon?”

Color rose in her cheeks as she gaped at him—and astonishment seemed to have stolen her voice.

Her friend burst into tears, evidently less than pleased to hear that she would be spending her future here with Keldan.

But naught could dampen Kel’s spirits as he fulfilled his part of the ritual.

“Ja,” he said eagerly when it came to the traditional questions. “Jeg gjor. I will.”

With a broad smile, he pinned the silver brooch to Josette’s gown, though she tried to bat his hands away, sobbing.

“Let it be known to all that this is Josette,” he said gently, “wife of Keldan.”

Avril’s numb shock had given way to panic by the time Erik and Storr reached them. Hauk had to hold her with both hands to keep her from bolting.

“Nay! Let go of me!” She shook her head wildly, not even listening as the French-speaking elder explained.

“Ma demoiselle, you have been brought here to be this man’s wife, and will live here with him the rest of your days—”

“Nay.” She kept twisting, trying to break free. “I cannot. I will not! You cannot mean to keep me here forever. You cannot—”

“Avril, you will not be harmed.” Hauk tried to subdue her as gently as he could, her terrified words striking him like darts. “You have a new life here.”

“... Though you will never see your homeland again, you will know no hunger, no illness, no want—”

“Nay!” she shouted, clenching her fists. “You have no right to do this! You—” As if an idea had struck, she suddenly raised her bound hands, showing them the gold band that gleamed on her left ring finger. “I-I am already married!”

Hauk had noticed the ring this morn, when he undressed her.

But the fact that she already had a husband changed nothing.

He turned her to face him, holding her by the shoulders. “It matters not, milady. You are mine now.”

Defiance blazed in her eyes, so hot he felt it sear through him like a torch. “Never,” she spat. “I will never be yours! I will not stay here!”

His uncle Erik began the traditional questions. “Hauk, you have risked all to bring this woman to Asgard, and we now recognize her as yours...”

He forced away the memories that slashed at him.

“... On your oath of honor, do you accept her life and her safety as your responsibility?”

Avril bared her teeth, as if she longed to fasten them on his throat.

“Will you see to her needs and her happiness, and protect and care for her all the days of her life?”

“Ja,” he grated out reluctantly. “Jeg gjor. I will.”

His uncle handed him the pearl-encrusted silver brooch, adding an unexpected phrase he had not said to any of the others. “May she bear you many fine sons and bring you happiness.”

Hauk did not reveal the surprise he felt at his uncle’s good wishes. Nor did he correct his error.

Hauk did not want this defiant demoiselle to bring him happiness. Or any other emotion.

And she would bear him neither sons nor daughters—for he had no intention of bedding her.

“Let it be known to all that this is Avril.” He pinned the brooch to her gown as she glared up at him with green eyes full of fury. “Wife of Hauk.”

Chapter 6

Avril stood in the entrance of Valbrand’s darkened keep, her blood seething with outrage, her rapid breaths unnaturally loud in the silence. Flickering points of fire began to illuminate the long chamber, one by one. Her captor was slowly lighting candles, his boot steps echoing on the stone floor.

The cloth gag in her mouth prevented her from voicing any more of the choice words she had shouted when he carried her away from the althing. By nails and blood, if this arrogant Norseman thought he was actually her husband now, if he was under the delusion that he was about to enjoy a wedding night...

She twisted her hands, trying to loosen the leather thongs that bound her. He only bothered to light a few candles before returning to her side—the silver flash of a dagger in his hand.

The gag muffled her cry. But she stood her ground, summoned all her courage, and glared up at him. Curling her fingers into fists, she prepared to defend her virtue to her last breath.

His jaw was clenched, his pale-blue eyes unreadable. And he towered over her at a height that suddenly seemed as great as the cliffs above the ocean.

Yet when he lifted the knife toward her, he only sliced through the bindings that tied her hands, setting her free.

Avril choked out a muted exclamation of disbelief.

When he raised the blade again, her gaze snapped up to meet his.

But he merely reached for the gag—then paused, as if reconsidering.

“Milady,” he said, his voice low and rough, “let us strike a bargain. I am damnably tired and I would prefer not to spend any more time arguing this night. I want naught but to go to bed—”

With a muffled squeak of fear, she kicked him in the shin.

He dropped the knife, hobbling back a step. “Alone,” he added with an annoyed scowl, scooping up the dagger before she could grab for it. “I meant alone. I want only sleep. In truth, you may take the bed. I will make a place on the floor.”

Avril could not believe her ears. She flinched away when he reached for her again. Inhaled sharply when the cold edge of the blade pressed against her cheek.

Yet he surprised her a second time, cutting through the cloth that had rendered her mute. Before she could even exhale, he returned the dagger to its sheath on his belt and walked away from her.

“What I am asking is that we declare a truce between us,” he said in that same gruff voice. “At least for the rest of the night.”

Avril blinked at him, reaching up with tingling fingers to remove the bits of cloth from her mouth. She spat out a mouthful of fuzz, not taking her eyes from his broad, muscled back as he strode toward the bed.

He took a pillow and blanket and returned to this side of the chamber, dropping them in the far corner. Avril felt so confused she could not coax her tongue to form words.

Gallantry was the last thing she had expected from him.

“In the morn,” he continued, opening a nearby trunk and taking out another pillow, “I will explain more to you about the island and our ways. You will fare well here, Avril. Now that you have been recognized as my wife, everyone will—”

“Norseman,” she choked out, finally gathering her wits enough to interrupt him. “Allow me to make something clear to you. I am not your wife and I am not staying here.”

He sighed, letting the chest’s lid fall with a solid thwack. “Aye, unfortunately for me,” he said, “you are, and you will be.”

Avril glared at him across the firelit darkness. She could throttle the man. Happily. Surely God would forgive her.

Taking a deep breath, she tried to make him see reason. “Listen to me, Hauk Valbrand,” she said as politely as she could manage. “It is obvious that you do not want me here. And we both know that I do not want to be here. There is a simple solution to our problems. Let me go home.”

With an oath, he tossed the pillow into the corner, hanging his head. He raked one hand through his hair, the strands pale gold against the dark skin of his tanned shoulders in the candlelight. For a moment, despite all his size and sinew, he looked...

Worn out. Weary. Spent.

“I cannot.”

“Why not?” she demanded in frustration. “It should be a simple enough matter to return me to Antwerp the way we came—”

“The matter is out of my hands.” He shook his head.

“Are you afraid I will reveal your secret? Is that why you refuse to let me leave?” She moved toward him. “I swear to you I will not tell anyone.”

He glanced at her over one brawny shoulder. “Our secret?”

“That you are Vikings. Hidden away here all these years from a world that hates you. I will not tell anyone about this island. You have my word.”

He turned to face her. “And I am to trust your word? I am to trust that you would not have a change of heart once you were free? That you would not return here with men-at-arms to take vengeance and ensure we never go raiding again?”

She lifted her hands helplessly. “All I can give you is my word of honor.”

He shook his head. “That is why we have the laws. Once a woman is brought to Asgard, she may never leave. Regardless of how convincingly she promises to keep our secret.”

“And the woman has no choice in the matter?” Her temper flared. “That is barbaric! It is unspeakably cruel—”

“It may seem cruel, but it is the only way to ensure the safety and peace of this island and its people. There is naught to be done, Avril. Least of all by me. I am the vokter here. The peace-keeper. The man charged with enforcing our laws—”

“Well, you will not force me to obey them!” She stalked closer until they were almost face to face. “You had no right to bring me here and you have no right to keep me against my will! The devil take you and your laws! I will not sit tamely by while you destroy my life—”

He touched her cheek and her breath caught.

It was a gentle, startling contact of his palm, his fingertips, barely grazing her skin. The unexpected sensation of his hand—so strong, so warm—lightly stroking her face rendered her mute and held her still far more effectively than any force could have.

He touched her as if she were the most fragile, delicate woman he had ever met.

“I was trying to save your life,” he said roughly, his eyes dark, his voice somehow both quiet and forceful at the same time. “If I had not stopped Thorolf...”

He left the sentence unfinished. His words held an edge of tension, yet Avril also heard genuine concern, for her safety. For her. Which only confused her even more.

All at once, she was aware of how their breathing sounded together, rapid and shallow. How dark the room was. How his gaze traced over her features, the color of his eyes deepening to a midnight blue.

His attention settled on her mouth. Her heart fluttered, then began pounding hard. A muscle flexed in his tanned, beard-stubbled cheek.

Abruptly he withdrew his hand and turned away from her. “There is no point in discussing this further.” He stalked over to the cold hearth on the opposite side of the chamber. “You will not be leaving Asgard. You should not torment yourself by holding out hope of rescue, and you cannot escape. There is no way off this island.”

“I-I will make a way,” she insisted, wishing her legs would stop trembling.

“You misunderstand, wife. What I am telling you is that no one leaves Asgard Island.”

She spun toward him. “That is a lie! You left. You and the others who came to Antwerp—”

“Such voyages are rare. We do not even keep boats. The longship we used to sail to Antwerp has already been destroyed. Unless you are skilled at shipbuilding, you will not be leaving.” He braced one arm against the hearth. “Neither of us may like it, but this is your home now. And we are husband and wife—”

“We are not husband and wife! There was no church, no priest. I spoke no vows—”

“You will adjust. All the women do. It is but a matter of time.” He glanced up at the wall, at the display of weapons and artifacts. “And time is something we have in abundance here.”

Those words—or mayhap his hollow tone as he said them—sent a chill down her back.

“If I were here a hundred years, I would never stop trying to gain my freedom,” she replied hotly. “You do not understand. I have a daughter at home in France. A three-year-old daughter. She needs me. I must return to her!”

For a moment, he did not reply, remained utterly still.

Then he gave her a heated glance over his shoulder. “And to your husband as well? Does he not need you?”

“Aye,” she amended quickly. “I must return to my daughter and to my husband.”

She cursed herself for forgetting. He would never believe her word of honor if he caught her in a lie.

He turned around, leaning back against the hearth, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not mention him before?”

“Because...” Because I had no idea you meant to keep me here forever. Because he has been dead for more than three years. Because... “Why would I disclose anything to the brigand who abducted me? I told you I come from a powerful and influential family. And I wear a wedding band. You must have noticed it.”

“Aye, I did.” His gaze dropped to her hand and his voice dropped to a deep, almost predatory tone. “This morn when I undressed you.”

She gasped, partly from the bold way he said it—and partly from the heat that curled through her midsection as a shocking, unbidden image filled her mind.

Valbrand’s dark, strong hands on her body... sliding cloth downward to reveal bare flesh... gently lowering her to the sheets...

She clenched her left hand, as if the ring Gerard had given her were a talisman that could right her wayward thoughts and ward off this daring Norseman.

But the wedding band felt cold against her damp palm. Powerless.

And strangely, she swore she could feel heat radiating from the silver brooch that rested above her heart, where Hauk had pinned it to her bodice.

His gaze lifted to hers, slowly. “Odd that I noticed no husband with you in Antwerp,” he said when she did not speak. “What kind of husband allows his wife to go running about the streets unescorted?”

“He...” She fervently bade her jumbled thoughts to untangle themselves. When she fixed her mind on Gerard, the words came. “He is generous and kind and loving and the best sort of man.” Her voice strengthened. She added a bit more for good measure. “And I am his wife and I belong to him body and heart and soul.”

Hauk did not move. Not one muscle.

But the look in his eyes became hot. Intimate. Challenging.

“I am not interested in your heart or your soul,” he said in that quiet, predatory voice, pausing before he added, “or your body.”

Trembling, Avril wrapped her arms around her middle, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions that drenched her like hot rain. The silver brooch almost seemed to burn her skin. She tried to unfasten it, but could not work the clasp.

Frustrated, she ripped it from her gown and threw it aside. “Then you have no reason to keep me here!”

His attention suddenly fastened on her bodice.

Avril looked down and gasped. In tearing off the symbol of his claim over her, she had ripped her linen gown. The violet fabric gaped at the top, revealing the pale upper curve of her breast. She grabbed the torn material, covering herself.

And glanced up to find Hauk watching her with potent male hunger etched on his chiseled features. He straightened away from the hearth, took one step toward her. Then he started to advance slowly.

Avril felt that unnerving, unwelcome heat spilling through her. She stumbled backward a pace. Struggled to find her voice. “Nay.”

She did not know which she was denying: his intentions or her own bewildering feelings. But he halted. For a moment he remained frozen, his hands clenching and unclenching.

Then he turned sharply and stalked to a chest beneath one of the shuttered windows. “All that you have need of, you will find in the town.” He opened the trunk, took out a leather sack, and began stuffing clothes into it. “Food. Drink. New garments, if you do not like the ones I chose for you. Ask the shopkeepers for whatever you wish and it will be given you. We use barter rather than coin here.”

Avril could only stare at him, trembling, her thoughts tangled like a dozen strands of yarn all knotted together.

He let the chest’s lid fall and moved on to another. “A few people in the village speak French. If you cannot make yourself understood, one of them can translate for you. I will leave Ildfast, my horse, here for you. He can be unmanageable at times”—he slanted her a quick glance—”but I do not think you will have any trouble with him.”

She shook her head, surprise and disbelief battering her senses. “You... you are leaving?”

“One of my duties is to patrol the shoreline and see that our border remains secure. I am often away.” He took a pair of gloves and a length of rope from the next trunk and added them to his pack. “While I am gone, you are free to go where you wish—”

“Norseman—”

“See your friend. Visit the town. Explore the island.” Carrying the sack, he stalked toward the weapons displayed above the hearth. “But stay away from the cliffs. People fall now and then. And keep out of the western part of the forest. There are wolves there—”

“What makes you believe I will be here when you get back?”

He did not look at her as he selected a battle-ax and lashed it to his pack. “Do not hope that my absence will make it easier for you to escape from Asgard,” he said quietly. “It will not.”

He slung the pack over his shoulder and headed for the door.

Shaking with desperation, with astonishment, Avril followed him. “You cannot mean to keep me here! You must let me return to my child!”

He turned to face her. “Avril—”

“You are not a barbarian. If you were, you would have let me die in Antwerp.” She moved closer, touched his arm. “You seem to have some code of honor or chivalry by which you live.”

He did not reply, went utterly still.

She lowered her gaze to the stone floor, willing to abandon all pride, to humble herself, willing to do anything to get home to her little girl.

“Hauk,” she pleaded quietly, letting her hand drop to her side. “Do you want me to beg? Then I am begging you. Please, in the name of whatever gods you believe in, show mercy. My little Giselle is only three. When I left for Antwerp, I told her I would be gone but ten days, no more.” Dampness burned in Avril’s eyes. “She did not understand, so I gave her ten raisin sweetcakes and told her to eat one each day, and when the last one was gone, her maman would be home—”

Her voice choked out. Had Giselle eaten the last cake yet? Had she looked at Celine and Gaston with tear-filled eyes and asked why Maman had not returned, why Maman had broken her promise?

“S-she is barely more than a baby. I still sing her a lullaby every afternoon before her nap.” Avril lifted her head to find him looking at her intently, and she could not stop the tear that slid down her cheek. “She loves pink flowers and butterflies and pretty dolls. The toy I had in my hand in Antwerp, the one I dropped when you and I collided? I bought it for her. I promised I would bring her a spinning top from the fair. She calls them ‘pretty spinnys.’” Another tear slipped past her lashes. “Would you do this to an innocent child? Would you take a baby’s mother from her?”

He said naught for a moment, remained frozen.

Then he looked off into the darkness and answered her, his voice flat, emotionless.

“I already have.”

“Damn you!” She slapped him hard enough to leave the red imprint of her hand on his face. “Damn you to Hell’s deepest pit, Norseman! If you try to keep me here, I swear I will—”

“Kill me?” An odd, self-mocking expression curved his mouth. “I doubt that.”

Turning on his heel, he strode away from her. “Heed what I have told you and do not make things more difficult, Avril. I will return in two or three days. Until then, I bid you farewell.”

With that, he walked out and slammed the door behind him.

She could only stare in open-mouthed disbelief at the spot where he had last stood. Robbed of a target for her fury, she could not even move for a moment. Turning her head, she looked around the vast, empty chamber with its guttering candles and silent shadows.

Then she rushed over to the door and tried the latch.

It was open. He had not bothered to lock her in. Which meant he was entirely confident of what he said: There was no way to escape from this island.

Avril sagged against the door, despair closing in on her, dark and overpowering. She pounded one fist against the wood, but the futile gesture only hurt her hand. Her throat tightened until she could not seem to draw breath.

She shut her eyes, remembering the last time she had seen her baby, with her ruddy cheeks, her raven curls shining in the sun, her chubby fingers waving farewell.

“Giselle.” The cherished name came out as a sob. “My sweet Giselle.”

After a long moment, Avril pushed herself away from the door, shaking her head, refusing to accept what Hauk had told her. If she could not hope to be rescued, then she would rescue herself.

It was too dark to venture out tonight, but as soon as dawn broke, her escape efforts would begin.

“I will return home to you, ma petite papillon,” she vowed. “Even if I must build a boat with my own two hands!”

Hauk strode down the moonlit path, the sound of his pulse competing with the distant roar of the surf in the darkness. His fingers gripped the leather sash of his pack, but he was only distantly aware of its familiar weight on his shoulder, the jagged stones beneath his boots, the night wind cooling the sweat from his body.

He could hardly see or even think past the fatigue and frustration and unwelcome emotions that clouded his brain. By Odin’s black ravens, all he wanted was for this accursed night to end before some new torment presented itself.

How could a woman—any woman—affect him this way, in so short a time? Had he not sworn only an hour ago, at the althing, to remain cool and distant, to never allow his new bride into his heart? He could not even seem to make the vow last one night. Could not resist touching her. Was beginning to admire the way she stood up to him, all courage and boldness and curses.

And he had been utterly unprepared for the impact of her tears.

Hauk shifted the pack to his other shoulder and kept walking, trying to forget those two glistening droplets, gliding down her cheek one after the other. For one horrible moment, he had felt as if he were drowning in them.

In that instant, he had glimpsed a completely different Avril—not defiant and fierce, but tender and soft-hearted, utterly devoted to those she loved... and utterly vulnerable.

And he could not banish the uncomfortable feeling that stabbed at his belly as if he had eaten a bowlful of thorns.

Guilt.

I have a daughter. A three-year-old daughter.

His cheek still stung from Avril’s slap—but he felt as if she had punched him in the gut with those words. By all the gods, he had never suspected she had a young child awaiting her in France along with her husband.

But she would not be returning home to them. Not now, not ever.

He glanced up into the black, star-strewn sky and spat an oath, cursing the gods for throwing her into his path on that crowded streetcorner in Antwerp. If she had been a few moments earlier or he a few moments later, if Keldan had not insisted on chasing after her, if she had not attacked Thorolf...

Nei, it was too late for regrets now. What was done could not be undone. He could not risk the lives of everyone on Asgard for the sake of one woman.

Or even one child.

He fastened his attention on the trail before him. At least the child still had her father. At least she would not be alone.

That was more than he had had growing up.

Forcing those thoughts to the back of his mind, he focused on the familiar curve of the path beneath his boots, the brine-scented wind in his face, the journey that lay ahead. His life had been wrenched out of his control on that ill-fated voyage to Antwerp, and he felt an urgent need to put it back in order. What he needed was routine. Habit. A good night’s sleep and some hard, physical work.

He needed some distance from the mesmerizing little beauty who had just become his wife. Enough to keep him from thinking of her spice-scented hair and her body soft against his and her shamelessly ripe, full lips.

You are not a barbarian, she had said.

Hel, he had never felt more like a barbarian. Had he remained in her company all night, he would have done much more than merely caress her cheek. He would have had his lovely bride on her back in his bed, ravishing her until dawn, until they both...

He cut the image short, thoroughly annoyed. He would not allow himself to develop any sort of feelings for her. Not even desire. He would drown these heated thoughts in sweat. Remind himself of what was most important—his people and his duty.

When he returned in a few days, he would be able to deal with Avril’s presence in his life coolly and rationally.

It took half an hour to reach Keldan’s vaningshus. The young groom had spent the better part of the past year building it in a meadow west of town, in anticipation of enjoying a secluded and happy sojourn here with his new bride.

Hauk pounded on the door, a single blow of his fist. Since Keldan was mostly to blame for his predicament, Keldan could grant him a favor.

The polished pine door opened quickly—and the young groom in question looked surprisingly glad to see him. “Hauk! Why are you not with your lady? Nei, never mind. Thank the gods you are here!” Kel grabbed his arm and hauled him inside, his expression matching his agitated voice. “You must teach me to speak French. It is accursed difficult to woo a woman when she cannot even understand what you are saying.”

He gestured to the far side of the chamber, where pretty Josette stood in a corner, her face damp with furious tears, what looked like wreckage strewn about her feet—upturned jewel chests, ripped garments, shredded velvet pillows with their goose-feather stuffing spilled everywhere, and the remains of what had been a gracefully carved chair.

“The gifts did not work,” Keldan explained, dodging a flagon of perfume she flung at him. It sailed past him to shatter against the wall.

Hauk realized that Josette must have been hurling bits and pieces of debris at her new husband’s head for some time, for the wall behind Keldan had been newly decorated in disgusting shades of dripping wine and precious oils, with a few goose feathers stuck to the goo here and there.

“By Tyr’s blade, Kel.” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “It smells like a bawd’s bedchamber in here.”

“Do you have any helpful comments to make?”

“I was the one who warned you that language differences could be a problem.”

“That is not the kind of help I was hoping for.”

With a shrug, Hauk bowed in the lady’s direction and tried addressing her in French. “Good eventide, milady. How fare you?”

She only shouted curses and threats in reply. And reached for a piece of the chair.

Hauk stepped out of the way as it came flying at Keldan, grateful that he was not her target. “I fear I cannot help you, Kel. I would say this wooing may take months. Mayhap years. Thor’s hammer, I did not realize before that your bride had a sailor’s vocabulary.” A silk slipper smacked Keldan right between the eyes. “Or such excellent aim.”

“I do not understand,” Keldan said miserably, rubbing his forehead and frowning at her. “I have followed all the advice given in the Havamal.”

“Which shows how useful that ancient text is,” Hauk replied scornfully. Every young man of Asgard studied the Havamal before taking a bride, to learn how to be a good husband, how to please a wife. “The so-called wisdom of past generations is mostly poetic nonsense.”

“So you have said before.”

“Mayhap we had better speak outside, where the air is not so full of”—Hauk dodged the silk slipper’s mate—”projectiles.”

Keldan hastily led the retreat, closing the door firmly behind them once they had escaped to the relative safety of the outdoors. “You are enjoying this,” he accused with a scowl.

“Not at all,” Hauk lied, feeling one corner of his mouth curve. “I am afflicted with sorrow that your wife is not fawning at your feet as the women of Asgard have always done.”

“Ja, ja, I can tell,” Keldan drawled. Folding his arms, he nodded toward Hauk’s pack. “And how have you fared? It would appear you have declared defeat and deserted your new bride already. Have you come seeking a place to sleep for the night?”

“Nei. Nor am I deserting her.” Hauk looked to the south, where he could just make out his vaningshus in the distance.

How strange it felt, to see lights burning in his home at the cliffs’ edge when he was not there. To have someone else living in that place, waiting for him.

Waiting to bury a blade in his heart, he corrected himself.

“I thought it best to allow time for our blood to cool,” he explained. “I am going out on sentry duty.”

“But, Hauk, you took a vow—”

“Ja, and I will keep it. At the moment, we are like fire and tinder. If I stay with her, there is going to be an explosion and one of us might get damaged by the blast. I vowed to protect her, and for now the best way to protect her is to stay away from her.”

“But who will care for her and see to her needs?”

“Believe me, Keldan, there has never been a woman less in need of a man to take care of her.” An unwanted memory struck him: those two tears gliding down her face, how she had looked so vulnerable, so...

He shook it off. “Avril is more than capable of looking after herself. I only came here to ask you to check on her now and then while I am away. See that she stays out of trouble.”

“You want me to watch over the two of them?” Keldan looked like he might choke. “When I do not even speak their language?”

“You were the one who insisted that these women and no others would do, if you recall. You insisted that we have them. Well, now we have them.” Hauk arched one brow. “Or more accurately,” he said lightly, “now you have them.”

He turned to leave.

Keldan caught him by the shoulder. “But, Hauk, you go on sentry only once a month. Surely it could wait. It will take you a week to travel all the way around the island. You cannot mean to leave her—”

“Nei, trust me, it is better that I go now. And I am not setting out on a full patrol. I will be gone only two or three days.” Hauk returned the younger man’s disapproving regard with a hard stare. “Cease looking at me that way. I am not breaking my vows. I am seeing to her needs. She is safe and well. She is intelligent enough to stay away from the cliffs and out of the western part of the forest, as I have warned her. She has shelter, food, clothing—”

“But that is not all a woman needs,” Keldan said with the all-knowing confidence of a groom on his wedding night. “According to the Havamal—”

“Do not quote that accursed book to me,” Hauk snapped, shaking off his friend’s restraining hand. “It tells you only how a marriage is to begin. It does not reveal how it ends. But I know how it ends—in a black pit of misery and torment. And I may not believe in the Havamal or tradition or the justness of the gods anymore, but I do believe in one thing. I believe in sparing myself misery and torment.” He nodded toward Keldan’s home. “Your little cottage in a meadow by the sea is idyllic now, but it will change, Kel. She will change. Everything and everyone around us changes—”

“Mayhap someday when I am as old as you,” Keldan interrupted, “I will feel the same. But I hope not. And I think you are making a mistake, leaving your bride on your wedding night.”

“Well, it is my mistake to make.” Hauk turned again to leave.

Only to find Josette peeking out the door with wide eyes, watching the two of them argue.

“Milord?” she asked tentatively, opening the door a bit wider. “Please, what... what have you done with Avril? Is she all right? You have not—”

“Nay, milady, she is unharmed.” Hauk shook his head. Keldan’s little brunette seemed to fear they had been discussing some dire fate that had befallen her friend. “You may see her in the morn if you wish.”

She stepped outside when he started to walk away. “Please, milord, you cannot keep us here.” She gave Keldan a glare, as if she had been trying to explain that idea to him as well. “You must set Avril free.”

Hauk sighed, feeling the full weight of this endless day pressing down on him. “That I cannot do, milady. You ask for what is impossible.”

“But I am not sure you understand. She has a little daughter, at home in France—”

“I know. She told me. But there is naught that can be done.” As he looked down into a woman’s tear-filled eyes for the second time that night, regret tore at him with fresh, sharp claws. “I am sorry.”

Black lashes shaded her blue eyes as she glanced down at the ground. “But I...” Josette chewed at her lower lip, seemed to fight some inner battle. “I am not sure she has told you the full truth.”

“About what?”

“About her husband.” Still biting her lip, Josette lifted her gaze.

Hauk almost told her he did not care. It did not matter. He did not want to know aught more about this man in France who had claimed Avril heart and body and soul. Why should he?

“What of him?”

“I tell you only because it will make you understand why Avril must be set free.” Josette took a breath and spoke quickly. “Avril’s husband Gerard was killed three years ago. She is a widow.”

Hauk felt as if he had just been struck by a shower of hail. He could not speak.

She was a widow. She belonged to no other man.

Belonged to no man but...

He sliced off the last word of that thought. Resisted the quick, hot surge of male possessiveness that shot through him. “It matters not.”

“But do you not see?” Josette asked plaintively. “Little Giselle lost her father before she was even born. You cannot take her mother from her as well. You must let Avril return to her daughter. You must. If you do not, the poor child will be an orphan.”

Hauk turned away from her, feeling the thorns return to his belly. He thought for a moment he was going to be sick.

Had he truly believed this day could get no worse?

“It matters not.” He heard himself repeat the words. Numbly. Like a chant that he might believe if he only said it enough times.

“How can you say that?” Josette gasped. “How can you be so heartless?”

“Keldan, take her inside,” Hauk ground out. He had had enough of everyone pointing out his flaws for one day.

Without another word to either of them, he strode away into the darkness, barely even aware of the direction he took.

He had made a child an orphan.

Chapter 7

The warm touch of the sun against her cheek made Josette stir. She yawned sleepily, listening to birds chirping somewhere outside her window. Oh, but this would not do at all. Her brothers were forever calling her a lazy little feather-wit, and here she was proving them right. Opening her eyes, she blinked in confusion at the scent of warm bread and cinnamon. Who had brought food to her bedchamber?

With a gasp of alarm, she remembered abruptly that she was not in Brittany. She sat up, wondering how she had come to be in the bed.

Bright sunlight poured through the open shutters, along with the summery-green smell of the meadow and the birds’ noisy songs. Brushing her tangled hair out of her eyes, she saw him there: her dark-haired captor, Keldan. Seated at a trestle table on the opposite side of his long, strange dwelling, he was peacefully eating his morning meal.

“Good morn,” he said in broken French, regarding her with a tentative smile. “Sleep well?”

Josette scrambled backward until she came up against the headboard, clutching the blankets to her chin. But he did not move, did not look as if he intended to pounce on her. Yet. She quickly glanced around. He had cleaned away the mess she had created last night, even washed the paneled walls that had been dripping with perfume and wine.

She frowned, trying to remember what had happened after his burly blond friend left them. She had planted herself in the corner, clutching a broken arm of the chair as a weapon, determined to protect her virginity. But she must have eventually fallen asleep.

Blushing, she realized he must have carried her to bed and covered her with the blanket. She gave him an accusing, suspicious stare.

But she was still fully clothed, except for her boots, which sat on the floor beside the bed. And judging by the rumpled bedding on the floor near the table, it appeared he had spent the night over on that side of the room.

He held out a basket filled with bread toward her, as if it were a peace offering. “Hungry?”

“Nay.” Her stomach growled at the tantalizing scent of cinnamon, declaring her a liar. “Nay, I do not want food, I do not want gifts, I do not want to be married to you, and I will not stay here with you for the rest of my life.”

He only shook his head and shrugged, clearly unable to follow her.

“On my oath, this is maddening!” Josette dropped the blankets. “Can you not understand even a word of what I am saying?”

He cocked his head to one side, still smiling at her.

She folded her arms. “I wager I could say anything I want to you. I could even call you a...” She returned his smile and spoke softly, sweetly. “An ugly, swaggering, bug-eyed beef-wit who has the manners of a toad and smells like old socks.”

His grin widened and those dark eyes warmed with what looked like hope.

His reaction to her insults almost made her laugh.

Instead, she sighed. “But none of that would be true,” she admitted reluctantly. “The truth is that you have behaved most chivalrously so far.”

She studied him for a moment, perplexed by this gentle warrior who had abducted her. The lean, muscled width of his shoulders and chest left her no doubt he was strong enough to impose his will by force if he chose. Yet he had not tried to so much as kiss her.

And his angular features, ready smile, and thick, glossy black hair made it impossible to call him ugly.

On the contrary, he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. It brought an unfamiliar, fluttery feeling to her stomach to think of him lifting her in his arms last night, carrying her to bed.

“I want to go home,” she said plaintively. “Do you not understand that much? I want to go home.”

“Josette.” He pointed to the floor, his voice gentle. “Home now,”

She understood his meaning—this was her home now. “That is your opinion, beef-wit.”

“Keldan,” he corrected, grinning as if he understood that she was calling him a different, less complimentary name. Again he held out the basket of bread toward her. “Hungry?”

Josette caught her lower lip between her teeth. Thus far, she had refused to cooperate with him in any way.

However, if she starved herself, she would not have the strength to fight him off, if and when he decided to pounce on her.

“Mayhap just one piece,” she said slowly, walking over to the table. She gingerly plucked a small loaf from the basket in his hand. The bread was studded with raisins, soft and warm to the touch, and tasted as heavenly as it smelled.

“Mmmmm.” She closed her eyes, barely even aware of the low sound of pleasure that escaped her.

Keldan uttered a single, tense word in reply, but she was too busy looking down at the array of foods on the table to pay him heed. Biting off another mouthful of the delicious bread, she stared at bowls of bright raspberries and dewy plums. A platter piled high with thinly sliced, roasted meats. A jug of milk with the froth of cream still on top. And oranges.

“Saints’ breath, the last time I saw food such as this...” Josette took a handful of sugared nuts. And a plum, just to keep her strength up. “I do not think any but kings enjoy food such as this for breakfast where I come from.”

A moment later, her hands were so full, she doubted she could carry her booty away without dropping something.

“Josette.” Keldan chuckled.

She glanced up to find him regarding her with amusement sparkling in his brown eyes. He gestured to the empty bench opposite him.

She hesitated. “I do not think I should. Eating breakfast at your table would almost certainly qualify as cooperating.”

Keldan calmly picked up an orange, made short work of the peel, split it, then held half out to her.

The juice dripped through his long, dark fingers. Josette swallowed hard, wariness battling longing as she contemplated that rare, sweet fruit.

Slowly, cautiously, never taking her eyes from his, she sat down on the empty bench.

“Do not think this means I am giving in,” she informed him, hesitantly taking the orange. “Avril and I will be leaving at the first opportunity. I am...” She paused, unable to wait a second longer, and bit into the treat, transported to heaven by its ripe taste. “I am certain she is planning our escape even now.”

Escape was going to be impossible.

Avril reined the stallion to a halt on one of the hills to the west of Hauk’s keep, telling herself it was only the salty wind and loose strands of her hair that made her eyes burn with dampness. Tree branches and the ocean breeze had tugged her braid into disarray hours ago.

She was right back where she had started from at dawn, when she had set out to explore with high hopes—under the mistaken impression that she could circle the coast in a matter of hours.

All morning she had ridden along the shoreline, to the east and then back to the west, stunned by the vast size of the island. And as the sun had risen, her hopes had fallen.

She had not seen a single ship. Or a harbor. Or so much as one leaky rowboat.

Hauk had told her the truth. It truly seemed as if no one left Asgard Island. And she could guess why: to describe the coastline as inhospitable would be generous. Everywhere, towering cliffs gave way to the sea in a sheer drop, creating a series of narrow inlets. Even in those places where she could see a beach, it was little more than a thin ribbon of sand.

And all around, sharp, massive rocks protruded from the waters like the fangs of some giant, mythical beast, ready to crush in its jaws any passing ship.

Or anyone who dared try to leave here.

She lifted one hand to shade her eyes against the afternoon glare, looking out to sea. If the cliffs and rocks were not daunting enough, a silvery-white fog surrounded the island, hovering above the waves within a few miles of the shore. At first, she had thought it would dissipate when the sun rose, but the accursed stuff lingered, a mist that apparently remained unchanged no matter the time of day.

If it was a permanent feature of the weather here, she now understood how these Vikings had been able to remain hidden in this place so long. A ship could sail right past the island and never know it was here. Even if some sharp-eyed sea captain did notice Asgard, she doubted any but the most expert sailors would risk navigating such treacherous rocks. Especially in a fog like that.

She wiped at her eyes and nudged the stallion forward, the midday sun beating down on her, making her shoulders droop even lower. Though the air felt almost sultry, she shivered at the thought of that fog. It seemed unnatural somehow, reminded her of the mist she had seen around Gaston’s castle on the night before she left for Antwerp.

Shaking her head, she told herself not to be foolish. It was only fog. Harmless. A mere trick of the weather.

She turned the stallion inland, away from the sea and its silvery cloak. She had to find Josette. Avril had not intended to be gone all morning, had hoped to bring good news and a plan for escape back from her ride—and now she felt like both a terrible failure and a terrible friend. Her heart thudding with worry, she prayed that Josette was still safe and well.

She tapped her heels against the stallion’s flanks, galloping down the grassy hillside, heading for the town. Mayhap someone there would help her find her friend. Hauk had said she could visit but had neglected to mention where Josette would be.

The thought of her captor brought an unexpected knot to her stomach. She had been trying all morn not to think about the rough-hewn, perplexing Viking warrior who had brought her to this place. His words and actions last night still mystified her. What kind of man could kidnap her, marry her against her will, keep her from her child—yet also be capable of honor and gallantry, gentleness and concern for her?

And how was it possible that his every glance, his lightest touch, could rob her of reason and kindle unbidden heat within her?

Blushing, she banished Hauk Valbrand from her thoughts. She was supposed to be thinking of escape, not of her captor. For now he was gone, and for that she was grateful.

At least his destrier had proven to be more manageable than its owner. Ildfast responded well to her firm hand on his reins, carrying her swiftly down into the vale and across a rolling meadow. The wind caught at her braid and her skirts as she rode, the air thick with the scents of foliage and flowers in bloom. All around her, the sun blazed over tall grasses that danced in the wind.

The village that lay ahead had been built on a green, fertile plain, between the ocean on one side and a small range of mountains on the other. She could just discern the outline of the craggy peaks in the distance.

She might have called this place beautiful, Avril thought grudgingly, were she a willing visitor.

She slowed the destrier to a trot as she drew near the town, which was much larger than it had seemed from a distance last night. From here she could see scores of rooftops, large and small, of wood or thatch or stone. One odd fact made her brow furrow in puzzlement: There were no walls around this village. No towers, no gates, no defensive barriers of any kind. Not so much as a single sentry on patrol.

Her heart thudded. These people would not leave their homes so vulnerable to attack—unless they trusted that the cliffs and the rocky coast and the fog truly made it impossible for anyone to invade their island.

Or for anyone to escape.

The destrier’s hooves clattered on flat, smooth cobbles that paved a wide street as she entered the town’s outskirts. People bustled about their daily tasks—men, women, children. The air buzzed with dozens of conversations in that incomprehensible Norse tongue. Two boys of about fifteen walked by with fishing poles over their shoulders. Housewives leaned on windowsills, chatting with friends. A blacksmith’s hammer rang out on an anvil. A dog yapped at a squawking gaggle of geese.

Glancing around, Avril felt astonished. After being surrounded by a brawny sea of muscular Vikings last night, she had not expected to find the town so peaceful, so... normal. One by one, every head turned her way, and people slowly set aside their baskets and bundles and tools and pitchforks and stared at her.

Avril’s pounding heart seemed to fill her throat. For an instant, she regretted leaving behind the brooch Hauk had pinned to her last night. She refused to wear a badge of ownership that marked her as his.

But how would these people receive a strange woman in their midst? Especially when she looked a sight, as Avril knew she must, with her hair all askew and her gown stained with perspiration and dirt from her long ride. Might they be unpleasant, even hostile?

Several in the crowd started animated conversations with their fellows, gesturing at her and speaking quickly. Everyone gazed up at her with expressions of amazement and avid curiosity.

Then a few began to smile. Some called out what sounded like greetings.

And they all quickly left their work behind to gather around her, bowing or inclining their heads. Avril’s hand tightened on the reins and she drew the stallion up short, startled by the gestures of respect.

Ildfast tossed his head and she abruptly remembered that she was riding Hauk’s stallion. And from what little he had told her, he held a position of some importance among these people.

Apparently his wife—or rather, the woman they believed to be his wife—was due a certain amount of honor.

“Good... good day to you,” she said uncertainly, wishing more than ever that she knew a word or two of their tongue. Her whole life, she had been enamored of languages. Words in all their vivid colors fascinated her the way that spices in a kitchen fascinated other women. But now when she needed the skill most, it availed her naught. “Do any of you speak French?”

She doubted they could even hear her over the din. Her arrival was creating quite a commotion. Dozens more people came out of their dwellings to take a look at her. Before she knew what was happening, someone thrust a bouquet of flowers into her hands. Then a basket full of fruit.

“Wait... nay... I do not want any gifts. I need to find my friend. I—”

Ildfast snorted and reared skittishly. One of the men took hold of the reins to calm him. Someone else tucked a flower into his bridle. Before Avril or her horse could protest further, they were being led through the town in a festive procession. Someone started to sing a song.

“Wait, wait,” Avril cried, baffled at the way these people seemed so overjoyed to meet her. “I do not have time for this. Please, I must find my friend Josette—”

“Avril!”

Avril turned to see Josette pushing her way through the throng. “Oh, thank God!” She slipped from Ildfast’s back, thrust her armful of goods toward the nearest happy villager, and rushed into her friend’s embrace.

Josette wrapped her in a fierce hug. “Avril—”

“Josette, sweet mercy, are you all right?” Avril stepped back to hold her at arm’s length, breathless with relief to find her safe. “Hauk told me that you would not be harmed, but I was not certain I could believe—”

“Do not worry over me, Avril. I am fine. It was you I was concerned about. After breakfast this morn, Keldan and I stopped by your vaningshus—”

“Who? My what?”

“Vaningshus. That is their word for these odd dwellings of theirs.” She indicated the homes along the street, most built in the same style as Hauk’s: long structures made of stone, with roofs covered in thatch or overlapping squares of tree bark.

“And who is Keldan?”

“That is his name.” She indicated the tall, dark-haired man who elbowed his way through the crowd until he stood at her side—the man who had “married” her in last night’s ceremony.

“He speaks only a few words of French,” Josette continued, hooking an arm through Avril’s and leading her down the street. Some of the festive crowd followed along, one of them bringing Ildfast. “I cannot understand most of what he says, but he has been quite kind.”

“Josette, he abducted you.” Avril bestowed a frown upon her friend’s grinning captor. “That is hardly kind.”

“Aye, of course, you are right,” Josette corrected herself, a hint of color in her cheeks. “But... he has been most chivalrous. And today Keldan has been showing me the town.”

“Keldan has been showing you the town,” Avril echoed, surprised and a little concerned at the way her friend seemed so charmed by her handsome companion.

“Aye, and when we stopped by your vaningshus—he has also been teaching me a few words—you were not there.”

“I was out riding.”

Josette nodded. “I thought you might be exploring.” She glanced at the man beside her, then lowered her voice to a whisper. “Have you found a way for us to escape?”

Avril hesitated. She had worried about frightening her friend with this news—but Josette seemed anything but frightened. And she needed to understand the situation. “Josette, from what I saw of the island, I do not think Gaston and his men will be able to help us. I think... I think we must depend on ourselves.”

“Well, you will think of something. I know you will.”

Before Avril could explain about Asgard’s lack of boats, Keldan interrupted.

“Come see,” he said in heavily accented French, taking Josette’s elbow and gesturing down a side street. “Good place. Come see.”

“He wants to show us something.” Avril regarded him warily.

“Aye.” Josette exchanged a look with her, then shrugged. “I do not think any harm will come of it, do you? This truly is the prettiest town I have ever seen. It rather reminds me of some of the villages in Brittany.”

“It does that,” Avril admitted reluctantly, thinking of the rugged coast and lush, green land dotted with sleepy villages. “Except that Brittany is not this warm.”

“True.” Josette turned her face up to the sun, closing her eyes and sighing in a way that made Avril feel decidedly uneasy. “Nor is it this wealthy.”

Avril kept a firm hold on her friend’s arm as Keldan led them down the side street. She noted that this was indeed a most prosperous hamlet—the cobbled streets neatly swept, the people dressed in fine, embroidered garments with gold and silver fastenings. Some of the dwellings had their shutters open to the ocean breeze, and she could see families at work and play within, amid polished furnishings and vivid tapestries.

The merry revelers following at their heels attracted a great deal of attention, and at every turn, more inhabitants came out to greet them with what seemed like genuine warmth, their eyes curious and their gifts plentiful—especially those they presented to Avril.

She finally gave up trying to decline. What had started with a bouquet of flowers and some fruit soon turned into a flood of foodstuffs, necklaces of sparkling beads, clothing, perfumes, lace, jewelry. When it all became too much for poor Ildfast to carry, someone fetched a cart.

As they walked on, Avril noted that hunger did not seem to be any problem here. They passed by many animals in pens: flocks of chickens and ducks, shaggy-looking brown sheep that sported huge, curling horns, and a herd of... She blinked as they walked by that particular pen, staring at the creatures with placid faces and broad, felted horns. “Josette, is the sun playing tricks on my eyes, or are those—”

“Reindeer.” Josette nodded. “Apparently they raise them for both meat and milk. I had some of the milk at breakfast, and it is very sweet—”

“But reindeer are usually found only in the North.” Avril’s heart thudded. “Judging by the weather, I thought this island was located in the South or East.”

“Mayhap you guessed wrong.”

“Oh, Josette,” Avril said mournfully. “I do not have the first idea where we are.”

“Do not despair. After walking about today, I have guessed something that might be useful to us.” Josette lowered her voice again. “I think these people may be Vikings.”

“Aye.” Avril tried to keep the frustration from her voice. “Indeed they are. Hauk admitted it to me last night. They have been living here for centuries in hiding—and they are determined to keep this place secret. That is why they will not let us leave.”

“Oh.”

They fell silent as they followed Keldan into another part of town, one that played host to many flourishing craftsmen. As they walked along the rows of shops, Avril could recognize some from the implements hanging outside or the goods displayed in windows fitted with glass: jewelers, goldsmiths, a baker, a weaver, a tanner.

Keldan opened the door to one of the shops, and they left their flock of jolly followers behind. One of the townspeople tied Ildfast’s reins to a tall post carved in the shape of some sort of mythical wood sprite.

“Like here?” Keldan asked in mangled French as he ushered them both inside and closed the door. “People nice here,” he said with an enthusiastic, hopeful smile.

“Aye, they are,” Avril admitted, plucking a stray flower from her hair. She sneezed on sawdust. Keldan had found them refuge in an unoccupied carpenter’s shop.

The scents of oil and fresh-cut pine stacked along the walls filled the air. Pieces of furniture in various stages of completion sat on counters and tabletops, and woodworking tools hung from the ceiling, glinting in the afternoon sun that poured through the glass windows.

“Indeed, your people seem very nice,” Josette said politely. “But you must let us go home. We cannot stay here. Do you understand? We must return to France.”

“France, France, France.” He sighed as if tired of hearing that word, nodded to indicate he understood what she meant when she said it. “Why?”

Josette frowned. “What an odd question. Because it is our home, of course—”

“Because you cannot simply go about kidnapping people and expect them to be happy about it,” Avril grumbled.

“And because Avril has a daughter at home,” Josette continued, “and as I told your friend last night, the poor child will be an orphan if—”

“What?” Avril sputtered. “What did you say to Hauk?”

“I...” Josette coughed nervously and glanced away. “I was going to mention this to you. But I was not sure whether you—”

“What did you tell him?”

“Oh, Avril, you must forgive me. I was only trying to help! I told him the truth about Gerard. I thought if he knew that Giselle’s father was dead, it might soften his heart and persuade him to set you free—”

“Josette, how could you?” Avril cried. “Now he knows that I was lying to him. I already tried to soften his heart and I failed.”

“I am sorry.” Josette dusted off a chair and sank down on it.

“Saints’ breath, Josette, we have to help each other, not...” Avril lifted both hands and let them drop back to her sides, feeling even more frustrated and helpless than before. Turning away, she stared out the window. “I do not suppose it matters now. I had hoped he might trust me enough to set me free, but he will never trust me.” She shut her eyes. “And these men have no intention of setting us free.”

An uncomfortable silence descended. Keldan disappeared into the back of the shop and came back a moment later. Avril turned just in time to watch him place a delicate, beautifully carved chair in front of Josette, with obvious pride. Josette gasped.

“What?” Avril muttered in confusion. “What is it?”

“Did you make this?” Josette asked him. “You are a carpenter?”

He pointed from himself, to the shop, and then to the chair, nodding.

“Oh, my oath.” Josette glanced at Avril. “This matches a chair he gave me last night. I... I smashed it against the wall.”

“You smashed a chair against a wall?”

“I was very angry. And I had no idea he had made it for me. Oh, now I feel terrible.”

“You have no reason to feel terrible,” Avril pointed out. “This man abducted you. He brought you here against your will. He is your captor. He is...”

Her friend was not listening. She was looking up at Keldan, smiling shyly. “Thank you.”

“Josette,” Avril said in exasperation. “Do you hear what you are saying? You cannot accept that. We do not want gifts from these people. We want our freedom. We want to escape.”

Josette glanced from her to Keldan and back again. “I am sorry. You are right. It is just... it is rather hard for me to remember to be angry with people who are so kind.” She dropped her gaze to the sawdust-covered floor. “And this place is so lovely. The weather is perfect, the food abundant. And it seems so peaceful. Have you noticed?”

“Aye.” Avril turned to look out the window again, studying the people gathered in the street. “Everyone seems happy and healthy—” Another quality they all seemed to have in common caught her attention. “And young. Josette, I do not see anyone beyond... two score years, at the most. Even the elders we saw last night did not look especially old.” She turned to study Keldan.

He stood watching them with that hopeful, warm expression, his attention on Josette.

Avril guessed him to be about thirty. The same age as Hauk.

“Something is not right here,” she said uneasily, glancing out at the street again. She could see people of her own age, and younger, and a few women who seemed to be in their middle years, with wrinkles etched by time and gray in their hair. But most of Asgard’s inhabitants were surprisingly youthful. “What do they do with all their older people? And if everyone is so healthy and happy on this island, why abduct us? Why have they brought us here?”

Josette shrugged. “Mayhap they simply want to share this lovely place with others.”

Avril gave her a pained look. “Josette, that is a most charitable thought. But if that were true, kidnapping would not be necessary. An invitation would suffice. And no matter how ‘nice’ this place is, I will never accept being held captive.” Facing the window, she folded her arms. “I must return home to Giselle. I will not let anyone or anything keep me from her.”

“I am sorry, Avril. Of course, you are right.” Josette rose to stand beside her. “But how are we to escape? We are in the middle of the ocean somewhere. We do not even know in which direction home lies—”

“We are not going to let that stop us. We grew up in Brittany, after all. On the seashore. We know a brace from a bowline and a cog from a clinker. We might even...” Avril hesitated, looking over at Keldan, but he clearly could not follow what they were saying. “We might even be able to build some kind of seaworthy craft, somewhere in secret.” She glanced at the ceiling. “With the right tools.”

“Mayhap some of the other captives will want to join us,” Josette said uncertainly.

“Aye. That is a good idea. If we all work together, we can succeed.” She touched Josette’s arm. “I will need your help, Josette.”

Josette looked from her to Keldan and back again before she said, softly, “Of course I will help.”

“Thank you.” Avril hugged her. “I believe I have an ideal task for you. We will need information about where this island is located. How far it is back to the continent, and in which direction we must sail to get home. Since you and he”— she gave Keldan a smile—”are on somewhat cordial terms, you may have the best chance of finding out what we need to know.”

“I will try.”

“Good. I know you can do it, Josette.” Avril felt her spirits lift for the first time all day. “Now, I think I will go and try to find some of the other captives. You stay here with your carpenter and seek information. Try to be subtle.”

“That should be easy, since we each hardly understand a word the other is saying.”

“Just be careful, Josette.” Avril waved farewell to Keldan and headed for the door, leaving her friend to consort with the enemy.

Hoping Josette would not forget that he was, in fact, the enemy.

Chapter 8

Rain pattered against the shutters of Hauk’s keep, a steady downpour that had started before daybreak and only strengthened as the hours slipped past. Sighing in frustration, Avril stood at an open window, gazing up at the gray clouds that blotted out the afternoon sun. Thunder rumbled overhead. Another slash of lightning stabbed at the roiling sea. The storm showed no sign of abating.

She drummed her fingers against the wooden sill of the window. Her successful, stealthy meetings with the other captives yesterday made her impatient to put her plan of escape into action—but tromping about in the rain would only earn her a good soaking and make her ill.

If she intended to lead a half-dozen women on a dangerous sea voyage, she would need all her health and strength.

Only the Moorish girl had been too fearful to even consider trying to escape. And Avril had not yet been able to speak to the English girl alone, for she had been under the escort and watchful eye of the chief elder, the one who looked like he was Hauk’s relative.

And then there was the worrisome matter of the Italian girl.

Closing her eyes, Avril offered another prayer that the sharp-tongued signorina was all right. The Italian would no doubt prove to be the most daring and strong-hearted sister-in-arms... but she had not been seen since her captor carried her away from the althing ceremony kicking and screaming.

The two of them had disappeared somewhere.

Avril shivered as cold raindrops spattered against her face, not wanting to imagine what the woman might be enduring even now.

Her stomach in knots, she turned away from the window, closing the shutters against the gathering wind. She would have to wait until the morrow to venture out and look for a suitable, secret place to begin building their boat. Mayhap by then the signorina would be found safe and well.

Holding fast to that hope, she tiptoed around the piles of goods bestowed upon her by the people in town, and reclaimed her place on the floor, amid a stack of dusty books. She lit another candle to ward off the gloom and huddled over the text she had been studying since midday.

To her surprise, she had discovered scores of ancient volumes while searching through the trunks and chests that cluttered Hauk’s chamber. While the Norse runes were little more than tangled squiggles to her eyes, some of the cracked, yellowed pages contained drawings—a night sky, trees, the island’s rocky shoreline. If she could make sense of the writing, find a description of this place or a map of some kind, it might help in the escape.

She kept turning pages, listening to the rain pounding on the tree-bark roof, trying not to feel guilty for having rifled through Hauk’s belongings.

Belongings that were clearly personal. And most unexpected.

The things on display in his keep—or vaningshus, or whatever they called these odd, long houses—suited a Viking warrior, from the weapons and hunting trophies on the walls, to the dark paneling with its runic carving, to the massive bed topped by those ferocious, dragon-headed posts.

But in the trunks, she had found possessions that bespoke a much softer side to the man: a delicate length of Damascus silk, carefully folded around an ivory hair comb. A pair of ice skates made of bone. Board games. A wooden statue of what might have been a Christian saint, its paint chipped away by time. A small velvet bag filled with seashells.

And most unexpected of all, the large number of books. Aristotle’s philosophies in Greek, painstakingly copied and illuminated by some long-dead monk. Texts on hunting and astronomy in Latin. An entertaining rendition of the Arthurian legends in French.

If given only the contents of the trunks to judge by, she might have guessed Hauk to be a man of gentle, even scholarly inclinations.

For some reason, that brought a lump to her throat. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore the troubling feeling. Turning another page, she kept her mind on returning to Giselle as quickly as possible.

A soft, solid object bumped against her back, interrupting her concentration—and almost knocking her over.

“Not again,” she complained lightly, glancing over her shoulder. “Do you wish to find yourself outside in the rain?”

The reindeer calf bleated at her, its voice somewhere between the honking of a goose and the bawl of a sheep.

“Oh, by all the saints.” She gave in reluctantly and scratched behind the animal’s oversized ears, undone by the forlorn look in its large, liquid brown eyes. “You should not be in here at all, you know.”

The gangly newborn made happy, snuffling sounds. All legs and downy gray fur, it was too small to be away from its mother—which was how it had come to be in her care.

Since her appearance in the village yesterday, a steady stream of townspeople had arrived at the door, offering her greetings and gifts. Every table and trunk in Hauk’s vaningshus now groaned under piles of foodstuffs and furs, blankets and baskets, clothes and cookpots, goods of every description.

This morn, in the rain, a girl of about ten had shown up with the baby reindeer in her arms, a drooping red bow around the animal’s neck. Her elder brother had accompanied her, a lad of about sixteen who spoke just enough French to make the gift understood: Apparently, the calf had been born a sickly runt, its mother had rejected it, and the girl’s father planned to put the animal out of its misery.

But if Avril would accept the little reindeer as a gift, the girl promised to visit often enough to take care of him. She had already named him: Floyel. Which meant “velvet,” the boy said.

Looking down into the girl’s hopeful face and teary eyes, Avril had not been able to refuse. And when the child had hugged her with gratitude and joy, she had felt her own heart breaking.

Sweet Mary, how she longed to feel Giselle’s arms around her so tight.

Blinking hard, she reached out now and stroked Floyel’s velvety nose. “Do not grow accustomed to being in my care,” she advised him, her voice wavering. “I will not be here for long. My little girl needs me, and no ocean, no Viking warrior, and no helpless reindeer will keep me from her.”

The animal nibbled at the wide sleeve of Avril’s garnet-colored gown—another pretty gift—before clopping off to the corner. Avril had used straw from Ildfast’s stall and a few of her new blankets to make a bed for him near the hearth.

“Hauk would certainly not like having you in his keep,” she said as she returned to her reading. “Which is why I am allowing you to stay,” she added, a mischievous curve tugging at her mouth. “Imagine the havoc you will wreak when you grow large enough to have horns. I wonder how long that might take.”

For another hour, she sat poring over the Norse books, until she was forced to admit that they would be of no help, though the drawings were lovely. Apparently, some Vikings were of more poetic than warlike spirit. Whoever had written these volumes long ago possessed an artist’s eye and a deft touch with pen and ink. In addition to the drawings of the island, there were sketches of European cities, castles and cathedrals, the ruins of Roman aqueducts, sailing ships, a snowy mountainside.

And one sketch that was particularly striking: a beautiful young woman caught in a moment of laughter, her black hair blowing in the wind.

Avril closed the book with care, for some of the pages were so old and fragile, they crumbled at her touch.

She stood and returned the texts to the trunks where she had found them, hoping Josette and the others were having better luck in discovering the island’s location. They had all agreed to share word of their progress tomorrow night. The townspeople were planning some sort of grand celebration to welcome the new brides formally to Asgard.

A knock sounded at the door. Startled, Avril turned. Who would venture out in this drenching downpour to pay a visit, other than a child with a homeless reindeer?

Whoever it was knocked again. Sharply. Impatiently.

“Saints’ breath.” Avril crossed toward the entrance. “Have I not been greeted by the entire town yet?” She glanced at Floyel sleeping in the corner. Mayhap little Marta could not wait to see him again.

She lifted the latch, opened the door, and stepped back, letting in gray afternoon light and a chilly breeze wet with rain.

And a tall, cloaked figure who was definitely not Marta.

Her visitor hurried in out of the storm, reaching up with slender hands to lower the cloak’s hood—revealing an elegant, feminine face framed by a wealth of auburn tresses. The lady’s movements were so graceful, her bearing so regal, that Avril almost felt as if she should drop in a curtsy.

Was this the wife of one of the elders, or one of the prosperous merchants, come to offer even more presents?

“No more gifts,” Avril pleaded, pointing to the overflowing tables. “Too many now. No need.”

“My, what a charming way of speaking you have,” the woman replied in fluent French, shaking out her damp hair and running her fingers through it. Her voice was as cool as the gray eyes that skimmed Avril from head to slippers in a quick, assessing glance. “And you are even lovelier than everyone said. But I am afraid I brought no gift.” She smiled.

It was not one of the warm, welcoming smiles that Avril had become accustomed to.

The woman made a disapproving tch, tch sound with her tongue. “Well, do not simply stand there staring at me like a sheep.” She swept off her cloak and tossed the sodden garment toward Avril, scattering water all over her. “Show a bit of hospitality.”

Avril could not catch the cloak, recover from her confusion, and summon a reply all at the same time.

“Imagine my surprise upon hearing that Hauk Valbrand had returned from the voyage with a new bride.” The woman brushed past her, looking around the chamber. “I simply had to come and see for my—by all the gods, is that a reindeer?” she asked with distaste.

Floyel bleated at her, then buried his head in his blankets.

“Indeed it is,” Avril said at last, dropping the cloak over a chair, brushing raindrops from her face and gown. “If you are looking for Hauk, he is not here. And I have had—”

“Oh, I know he is not here, my dear,” her visitor replied with cool amusement, glancing at the gifts piled everywhere, pausing to run her hand over a white fur. Ruby and sapphire rings glittered on her long, tapered fingers. “I heard that he left on sentry duty. You poor, poor child, to be deserted already. So soon after the wedding. The man is so accursedly devoted to duty.”

“Is he indeed?” Avril frowned, watching as the woman moved from one heap of presents to the next, unable to guess her purpose. Had she come all this way in the rain in hopes of procuring a few unwanted wedding gifts? “If you will pardon me, I have had rather a large number of visitors since—”

“You must not let it hurt you, you know. The way Hauk abandons you in favor of his work. You must not take it personally.” The lady glanced at Avril over her shoulder, her white teeth gleaming in the candlelight, her voice low. “I never do.”

Avril inhaled sharply, feeling foolish for not having guessed sooner that this stunning, coolly regal woman was his... his... “How interesting,” she said woodenly, her cheeks burning. “But it matters not to me what he—”

“Nay, my dear, do not protest to me that you do not care that he has abandoned you. And so soon after the wedding night,” the woman repeated, her smile widening as if that fact pleased her immeasurably. “Once a woman has had a taste of Hauk Valbrand, she is never quite the same. Of all the men of Asgard, he is the most...” She paused, stroking a tasseled pillow someone had brought, sighing dreamily. “Gifted.”

Avril felt a strange, cold sensation lance through her, as if she had been stabbed with an icicle. “How kind of you to come and keep me company,” she choked out. “But I am truly not interested in hearing any more of this. Now if you would—”

“Nina.” Pushing gifts off a large, carved oak chair, the lady helped herself to a seat, curling up comfortably and tossing her russet tresses. “You may call me Nina. And I have not come here to keep you company, or to pay court as everyone else has. I came here to reclaim something that belongs to me.”

She pierced Avril with a chilly glare, and for a moment, the noise of rain drumming on the roof made the only sound.

“My white silk kirtle,” Nina continued lightly, her lips curving upward. “I left it here some time ago, but I suppose I must retrieve it now. Mayhap you have seen it? It is cut low here”—she trailed a fingertip between her breasts—”and high here.” She traced a line up her thigh.

Avril gritted her teeth, not certain for a moment which of them vexed her more: Hauk, who had dressed her in a garment that belonged to his paramour, or the wench who sat here waiting for her to erupt in outrage or crumple in tears.

“If I happen across it,” she said smoothly, “I will have it returned to you.”

“You are so kind,” Nina drawled. “I cannot understand why Hauk left you so soon. I would think someone as young and charming as you would hold his interest.” She arched one slim, red-gold brow. “How old are you, my dear? Eighteen? Nineteen?”

Avril folded her arms. “Three and twenty.”

“Three and twenty!” Nina laughed—a deep, throaty laugh that had poor Floyel burrowing for cover—as if this were the most amusing jest she had heard in a long time. “Oh, the way you say it! As if you are far too sophisticated and mature to be mistaken for eighteen.” Her shoulders shook. “My dear, you are barely out of swaddling clothes.”

“But you cannot be more than... five or six years older than I,” Avril replied, not understanding the woman’s amusement.

Nina kept chuckling. “You flatter me, silly child. But then, I do adore flattery. And I have aged well, haven’t I?”

Avril sighed, gesturing toward the door. “You have also worn out your welcome. It has been a pleasure making your acquaintance, milady, but now you must allow me to bid you—”

“Oh, by Frigga’s mother.” Nina waved a hand dismissively and made no move to rise. “Your kind are always so sensitive, so delicate, so fragile.” Her voice was laced with disdain, and her eyes as she regarded Avril suddenly burned with resentment. “But the men seem to find that attractive for some reason. When Hauk and I last parted, I assumed he would return to me anon. I never suspected he was secretly longing for one of your kind.”

“My kind?” Avril demanded. “What do you mean, my kind? Captives? Women who have been forced here against their will?”

“Utlending,” Nina spat. “You are utlending. A foreigner. I am innfodt,” she informed her loftily, rising gracefully from the chair, crossing to a mirror that hung over the washbasin. “A native-born woman of Asgard.” She studied her reflection, running her fingertips over her flawless ivory skin.

“I see. Well, mayhap I should correct a mistaken impression you seem to have—it was not my idea to come here. I would like naught better than to leave this island and let you claim Hauk and his clifftop dwelling and whatever gifts you say he has.”

Nina turned to stare at her, eyes wide with surprise. “He has not bedded you yet, has he?”

Startled by such a question, Avril opened her mouth but no sound came out.

“Nay, clearly he has not.” Nina brightened, looking even more pleased than before. “If he had, you would not be so eager to leave.”

“Hauk Valbrand is a... a brigand. A rogue. He is keeping me here against my will. I would never let him take me to his bed!”

Nina laughed, softly this time, glancing down at the toes of her embroidered slippers. “Oh, I do not think that is true. But if you are indeed unhappy here, if you truly wish to leave Asgard—”

“I must leave Asgard. I have a three-year-old daughter awaiting my return home.”

Nina’s head came up. “A daughter?” She paused, something shifting in that icy, gray gaze. “You are a mother?”

Avril could not reply, astonished by the change in Nina’s tone and expression. For once, the woman was not mocking her.

“Aye, and I am... I am all my little Giselle has left. I was widowed three years ago.”

Nina’s long lashes swept downward, concealing her eyes, and she turned away. “Then of course you must return home.” After a moment, she glanced over her shoulder. “And I am willing to offer my help,” she said, her voice cool and regal once more.

Avril regarded her warily, still trying to puzzle out what emotion she had seen in Nina’s eyes for that brief instant. Whatever it had been, it was gone, replaced by that remote, faintly superior air.

Which made Avril reluctant to trust Nina’s offer of help. The woman clearly viewed her—however mistakenly—as a rival for Hauk’s affections. Avril could too well imagine what kind of help Nina might offer.

She might happily help her fall off a cliff.

“Would you not be breaking the laws?”

“It would involve a certain amount of risk,” Nina admitted. “But we cannot think of that, with our happiness at stake—both yours and mine.”

“Hauk told me no one ever leaves Asgard.”

“Did he?” Nina shook her head, smiling ruefully. “That is not entirely true. Hauk himself leaves, now and then. It is part of his duty as vokter.”

Avril turned away, biting back an oath. He had lied to her. That son of a cur—

“He keeps a knorr—a small sailing ship—in a sheltered cove on the western side of the island. It is only a few hours’ journey through the western part of the forest.”

“I see.” Avril felt angry enough to spit. No wonder he had told her to avoid that part of the woods.

Unless...

She turned again, studying Nina, cautious. “I thought the western part of the forest was dangerous. Someone mentioned there were wolves there.”

“Aye, there are. But there is a safe way to reach the cove. How do you think Hauk goes there and returns safely?” Nina rested her hands on her slender waist. “I would be happy to show you where to find it, little utlending. I will escort you myself.”

She looked sincere.

Or was trying to look sincere.

Avril held her tongue and listened to the rain, uncertain what to do or whom to believe.

Which one had lied to her? Was there in truth a boat in a sheltered cove—or was Nina making up the tale, thinking to lure her into danger? Finding a boat would be faster, and safer, than attempting to build a seaworthy craft of her own.

Avril glanced away, and the glitter of steel above the hearth caught her eye.

Which gave her an idea. “Thank you for the offer,” she said lightly, picking up Nina’s wet cloak from the chair, “but I am afraid I must decline.” She went to the entrance and opened the door, holding it for her guest.

Nina sighed. “As you wish.” She walked over and plucked the cloak from Avril’s hands. “But if you change your mind, you will find me in town. And it might be best if you did not tell Hauk we have met—else he will suspect that you now know about his ship.” She donned the cloak, lifting the hood as she stepped past Avril, into the rain.

Then she paused and turned, her expression concealed within the depths of the hood as the storm spattered them both with wind-driven water. “I truly am willing to help you, little utlending, in any way I can.”

Before Avril could respond, Nina turned and walked away into the storm.

Watching her go, Avril wondered again if she should accept the woman’s offer. But with so much at stake, she dared not take the risk. And she did not need to: She had more trustworthy allies in her fellow captives.

And a wall full of weapons at her disposal.

In the morn, she and her sisters-in-arms could go and search for the boat on their own.

Chapter 9

He tenderly kissed her tears away, whispering words she had not heard in such a long time. Words of love. His strong hands touched her intimately, each caress slower than the last as he gently aroused her.

Moaning softly, she lifted her hips, wanting to take him inside her. Please, mon coeur, it has been so long, I need... I need...

He nudged her thighs apart, positioning himself there at the silky core of her body. Then he raised his head, and in the firelight she could see the passion in his eyes—those pale-blue eyes, like the sky lit by the sun’s hottest rays, his hair like strands of gold between her fingers.

Avril jerked awake with a sharp cry, eyes wide, heart thundering.

The night sky tilted dizzily in her vision. She thrust out a hand to steady herself. Felt the sand beneath her, a warm sea wind blowing through her hair. Waves swept rhythmically onto the shore a few paces away. The torch she had staked into the sand flickered beside her. She had been dreaming. Only dreaming. She had come down to sleep on the beach after the storm abated. Hauk was not here. He was...

God’s mercy, he was the man in her dream.

“Nay.” She stumbled to her feet. “Nay!” The ocean breeze billowed her emerald cloak out behind her and cut through her linen shift, cooling the perspiration from her body, her breasts. Her limbs still tingled with arousal.

Hauk Valbrand could not be the man in the sensual dream that had tormented her for months. How could he be? She had not even met him until a few days—

The roar of the surf seemed deafening as she remembered their first meeting in Antwerp. That jarring moment of time when he had seemed familiar. His face. His eyes. His voice. So hauntingly familiar.

Only now did she understand why.

Because he was the man she had been making love to in her dreams.

Stunned, breathless, she touched her mouth, aware of the lingering heat of a kiss there. Nay, it was impossible! She was confused. Tired. Overwrought by Nina’s visit and her talk of Hauk’s “gifts.”

That was the reason Avril had fled his vaningshus. But it was not enough that she had avoided sleeping in his bed. Not enough to banish him from her thoughts.

From her dreams.

With a wordless sound of confusion and denial, she grabbed the torch and hurried blindly down the shore, gulping mouthfuls of air that still held the lingering scent of rain. The damp sand gave way softly beneath her bare feet. The storm had ended hours ago, yet the moon barely glimmered through the clouds hanging overhead.

Waves rushed up to bubble around her ankles and dampen the hem of her shift and the embroidered cloak, one of the wedding gifts she had received from the kind people of Asgard. Her steps gradually slowed but she kept walking, too restless, too agitated to stop.

Oddly, the water felt cold. Icy cold—in stark contrast to the island’s summery weather and lush greenery and air that, even down here, was warm and scented with the fragrance of exotic blooms.

Avril tucked the water’s temperature away in her mind with all the other troublesome, conflicting bits of information she had been gathering about Asgard Island.

And the man who had brought her here.

Even now she could not chase him from her thoughts. Could not keep herself from wondering where he was. If he had found shelter in the storm. Had he been gone two days now? Or was it longer?

She halted, chastising herself. It was ridiculous to feel worried about her captor. And if she found it difficult to count the days since she had seen him last, mayhap it was because the pace of life seemed so slow on Asgard.

Almost as if time itself moved more slowly here.

Frowning, she continued down the shore, wondering if God had purposely designed this place to confuse and confound any poor mortal who set foot here.

She would try to make sense of it all tomorrow. Tomorrow, when she had the chance to meet with her fellow captives and discuss whatever answers they had found. Tonight, she was too exhausted to think anymore.

A short distance down the beach, looming out of the darkness, she noticed a massive tangle of broken trees, lodged among rocks at the base of the cliff. Driftwood, washed ashore by some long-ago storm. The jagged trunks created a sheltered place away from the wind and waves.

She walked over and staked her torch into the sand, then took off her cloak, spreading the garment out. Sinking down onto the silk-lined fabric, she lay on her back within the driftwood’s shadow and gazed up at the gray clouds high overhead.

The clouds concealed the stars as well as the moon, but one silvery glimmer managed to pierce the murk, just for an instant, winking at her. Avril’s heart pulled tight.

Whenever Giselle saw a star wink like that, she said it was her father, smiling down on her from Heaven—watching over her and winking at her. Though Giselle had never known him, she stated with a three-year-old’s certainty that she felt him close to her sometimes, especially when she was afraid. That she could reach up to the stars and he would hold her hand.

Avril closed her eyes against the hot dampness that filled them. “Stay close to her, Gerard,” she whispered. “Watch over her, until I can return.” She lifted her lashes, searching the sky for another star. “Hold her hand.”

Just as she said that, another star winked through the clouds. And though it was ridiculous, utterly nonsensical and ridiculous, a sense of peace stole over her.

A feeling that, here in this sanctuary of driftwood and sand, she was a little closer to the daughter she loved.

She rolled onto her side, drawing the cloak with her, resting her cheek on her bent arm. Blinking drowsily, she tried to stay awake, for she was reluctant to let herself drift off, to let herself dream...

It was a shout that awoke her—a high-pitched, feminine cry. Startled, Avril pushed herself up on one hand, not certain how long she had been asleep. The torch had almost burned out, offering naught but a dull glow that did little to help her see into the darkness.

The shout came again, a squeal that rose and just as quickly tumbled an octave or two, dissolving into a laugh. Sitting up, Avril saw the source a moment later: two dark silhouettes near the water. A man and woman, playfully splashing each other as they wandered down the beach.

The woman gave her companion a thorough dousing, laughing and running from him. He gave chase and caught her by the edge of her cloak, and the two wrapped around each other in a heated embrace, filling the night air with sighs and hungry moans.

Cheeks flaming, Avril grabbed her torch and scooted back into the shadows beneath the driftwood trees, embarrassed at being privy to such intimacy. But she need not have bothered, for the pair had eyes only for each other. Untangling themselves at last, they strolled past her hiding place, hand in hand, oblivious to her presence.

Avril’s jaw dropped when she recognized them.

It was the Italian girl!

And her companion was the very man who had hoisted the poor signorina over his shoulder and carried her kicking and screaming from the althing two nights ago.

But the poor signorina had clearly not spent the past days suffering the sort of torments Avril had imagined. Peeking over the tree trunk, Avril caught them in another kiss, heard the woman whisper an endearment in Italian when they finally came up for breath.

As they walked on, the signorina rested her head on his shoulder, and he draped an arm gently around her waist.

Avril clutched the tree trunk, fighting the urge to chase the pair down the beach and slap some sense into the woman.

“He is your captor,” she whispered, half tempted to shout it. “Have you taken leave of your reason?”

When they were a few yards farther away, she stood up, gripping her torch and watching in amazement as the couple continued down the beach, looking for all the world like a happy, newly wed husband and wife. Avril shook her head.

How could this have happened? How could the man have so changed the Italian’s feelings toward him? What sorcery had he used? What potion? What...

Nina’s voice suddenly flitted through her head, sighing dreamily that the men of Asgard were exceptionally gifted at lovemaking.

And Hauk the most gifted of all.

“Not possible,” Avril said aloud. No man could be that skilled. “Not possible.”

“What is not possible?”

Gasping, Avril whirled at the soft question—to find another brawny male silhouette looming out of the darkness behind her.

For a moment, she had the dizzying sensation that she must still be asleep.

That she was dreaming.

It was Hauk.

Her heart filled her throat as he appeared out of the night shadows, as silently as if he were made of fog and sea air. He carried no torch; not until he drew near could she see him by the sputtering glow of the one in her hand.

He looked tired and worn from his journey, a stubbly beard of burnished gold darkening his jaw, not thick enough to obscure the hard angles of his face. He still wore his pack and a traveling cloak tossed back over his broad, tanned shoulders, fluttering in the wind, held in place by a thick chain across his muscled neck.

His gaze met and held hers with an intensity that stole her breath. She lowered her lashes, trying not to notice the way her heart skipped a beat. “You... you are back.”

“Are you all right?”

She looked up, curious at the unexpected question and the edge of tension in his voice. “Aye, I am well enough—”

“What are you doing down here?”

“You said I was free to go wherever I wished,” she said defensively.

“I also warned you to stay away from the cliffs. Yet I return home past midnight to find my vaningshus unoccupied and the bed not slept in. Until I saw your torch, I thought you—” He cut himself off, glanced away. “Never mind. It matters not.” He dropped his heavy pack, running one hand over his grizzled face. “Why is there a reindeer calf in my home?”

“He was a gift.”

“That gift relieved himself all over several other gifts.”

Avril suppressed a grin at that news. “Do not blame me. The fault is entirely yours.”

“I do not remember asking anyone to give me a reindeer.” He released a low sound that might have been a sigh. “Any more than I remember asking the gods to give me a wife.”

“I am not your wife,” she said lightly. “And if you had left well enough alone in Antwerp, you would not now be in possession of me or a reindeer.”

He looked at her with a dour expression, started to say something in reply, then apparently changed his mind. For a moment, the noise of the surf rushing ashore and the faint crackling of the torch in her hand made the only sound.

At that very instant, Avril abruptly remembered what she was wearing.

Or rather, what she was not.

She was standing there garbed only in a thin linen shift, holding a torch that no doubt cast enough light for him to see through the fabric.

As if he had read her thoughts, those pale-blue eyes left hers to trace downward, slowly. Avril felt her cheeks flush with warmth. Her pulse quickened, her body tingling in response to the hungry, possessive way he looked at her. Her breasts drew taut.

By the time his gaze reached her bare feet, she could hear his breathing, deep and unsteady—matching hers. That familiar, dazzling heat that always seemed to shimmer between them unfurled within her, flowing to the very core of her being.

Shocked at her body’s response, she could not move. Could not understand this unsettling bond they seemed to share. Could not fathom how, without even touching her, this quiet, enigmatic Norseman could rouse her in such a way.

She forced her limbs to move, reaching down with all the grace she could muster—when she wanted to make a mad dive—to pick up the cloak she had left on the ground. But she could not don the cloak and hold the torch at the same time.

“Allow me, milady.” His voice sounded deep, husky.

She felt the torch plucked from her grasp before she could decline his assistance. His other hand felt warm and strong on her shoulders as he helped settle the heavy cloak around her. A little frisson of awareness and anxiety tingled down her back.

But his touch was surprisingly gentle, and as soon as she covered herself, he gave her back the torch and moved away a few paces.

She wrapped the garment snugly around her, surprised once again at his gallantry. “Thank you.”

“Are you certain you are well, Avril? You seem pale.” His eyes searched her face once more. “And tired.”

The concern in his gaze, in his voice, brought an uncomfortable, ticklish sensation to her stomach. “Not all women thrive in captivity,” she said quietly. “You need not trouble yourself over my well-being.”

“I am bound by my word of honor to trouble myself over your well-being.”

She looked away. “If I am tired, it is because the hour is late and I have had bad—” She caught herself. “Trouble sleeping,” she finished awkwardly.

He did not reply.

Avril felt her cheeks turning red. “The storm kept me awake,” she added quickly. “After being inside all day, I found your keep rather stuffy, and while riding yesterday, I had noticed a path down to the shore. So after the rain abated, I decided to spend the night on the beach. I often did so when I was a child, in the summer, on the shore at home in Brittany.”

She was babbling. God’s breath, why was she babbling?

And why did the man not say something? No doubt he expected her to return to his vaningshus with him now.

All at once, a rush of heated images flashed through her mind like lightning: she and Hauk in his bed, his mouth on hers, his hard body pressing her down into the sheets, his hands in her hair, her fingers caressing his back, their voices blending in groans and sighs.

Shocked, Avril wrestled her thoughts under control, her heart thumping. She sat down, deciding she would spend the rest of the night right here, where she had planned. She staked her torch into the sand again. He could have his vaningshus all to himself.

A moment later, his cloak hit the ground beside her.

Startled, she glanced up. “What are you doing?”

“If you wish to spend the night out here, we will spend the night out here—together.”

Together. Avril forced herself to remain still as he went to retrieve his pack. He was only being chivalrous again, conceding to her wishes.

Was he not?

The possibility that he might have a moonlight tryst in mind almost made her jump up and run. But she did not want him to know he had such an overwhelming sensual impact on her. Her feminine instincts warned her that would be a most serious mistake.

At least sharing a night in the open, she reasoned, was better than sharing the privacy of his keep.

“By all means,” she said lightly as he returned to her side. “Help yourself to a patch of sand.” She shrugged as if his actions did not matter to her in the least, then looked at the sea, as if she found the waves far more interesting than him.

He sat on his cloak, opening the pack and fishing through it until he produced a wooden trencher, which he tossed onto the sand.

Then he began untying the thongs that molded his boots to his legs.

“Now what are you doing?” she tried to keep her voice light, casual. Steady.

“I have not had supper yet. I keep a few nets and traps out there among the rocks.” He nodded toward the water, then slanted her a curious glance. “I often come here to enjoy the night air and some fresh shellfish. Must I change my habits now that I have a wife?”

She shrugged again, trying to hide her chagrin that the driftwood sanctuary she found so appealing also happened to be a favorite place of his.

“You do not have a wife,” she reminded him. “And pray do not change any of your habits on my account. If you wish to douse yourself in that freezing water, by all means do so.” She smiled prettily at him. “Mayhap you will develop a cramp and drown.”

“There is always hope.” He returned her smile with a slow, wry grin, a flash of white teeth that revealed dimples in his bearded cheeks. “But unfortunately for you, I am a strong swimmer.”

Avril could not summon a clever reply. Or tear her gaze from his. She had never seen him smile before, at least not with genuine amusement. The expression brought a warmth, an appealing gentleness to his rugged face that had a strange effect on her heartbeat.

“Milady?” Taking off his boots, he reached for his belt. “Am I offending your sense of modesty?”

“Nay, why would you think so?”

“You are staring.”

She glanced away, managed to laugh. “Fear not. I am hardly some blushing maiden who will faint at the sight of a man disrobing.”

“Indeed?” He stood.

She hoped it was too dark for him to tell that she was blushing as furiously as any maiden.

His weapons hit the sand—his sheathed knife and sword. His belt followed. Avril kept her gaze fastened on a distant rock in the darkness, wondering whether he meant to remove all his garments. Tensing, she poised to flee if he reached for the waist of his leggings.

“Would you care to help me, milady?”

“What?” Her voice came out as a squeak.

She heard him searching through his pack, and a moment later, something heavy hit the sand beside her.

A flat cooking pan.

“Start a fire and have that hot when I return,” he suggested.

Avril picked up the pan as he headed for the water, half tempted to fling it at him for teasing her. He had indeed left the leggings on, she realized. Thank the saints.

As she watched his tall, broad-shouldered silhouette moving through the moonlit darkness, she thought she might not need to start a fire.

The pan was already hot from being held in her palm.

Chapter 10

Not even a cold midnight swim had been enough to cool his blood.

Hauk watched the firelight caress his wife’s skin and deepen the tempting shadow of the cleft between her breasts. Sitting next to Avril, before a crackling fire, he had barely touched the shellfish on his trencher. Though his hair and beard still dripped with icy seawater, he felt painfully aware of the heat simmering in his gut, his arousal rigid against the leggings he wore.

He had dreamed of her like this.

While on patrol, he had barely slept, tormented by a fevered vision of Avril looking just as she did now—her eyes languid and drowsy, her hair mussed from sleep, her body veiled by a thin shift, rumpled in just the right way to reveal an enticing glimpse of pale, feminine secrets.

A shift so delicate, he could slip it from her shoulders with a single brush of his fingertips.

His breathing deepened. His blood seemed to flow hot and thick in his veins. In his dream, she had not been sitting on a moonlit beach, daintily nibbling seafood, her kirtle half concealed beneath a green cloak.

Nei, she had been in his bed, her lips parted for his kiss, her hands drawing him near, her whispers filled with wanting and welcome. And he had pressed her back into the sheets, poised to join his body to hers, to thrust deeply inside and feel her tight and hot and wet—

The snap of a burning driftwood log wrenched him back to the present. His heart thundering, he tore his gaze from Avril, unnerved by the power of the images that fogged his senses. By Odin, when he left two days ago, he had thought he would regain his reason, be able to deal with her presence in his life calmly and rationally upon his return.

Instead, his new bride wreaked havoc with his senses and ruled his thoughts all the more.

And if that were not annoying enough, she seemed oblivious to his suffering.

At the moment, she was ignoring him, her gaze on the flat rock she had found to serve as a trencher. She was using his knife to crack open a lobster shell.

“By all means,” he commented, his voice taut with a different kind of hunger, “enjoy my supper.”

“You are not eating much.” She broke a claw in half and fished out the steaming meat.

Words failed him as he watched her lift the morsel to her lips, watched the juices glisten on her fingers, on her soft, pink tongue as she drew the tidbit into her mouth. Her appreciative sigh of pleasure made his entire body burn with need.

It was a shame, he thought ruefully, that she could not plunge the knife into his heart and put him out of his misery.

She merely swallowed and continued eating, still blithely unaware of his plight. “I see no reason to waste all of this. It has been years since I—”

“Purloined a man’s meal from under his nose?”

An amused smile tugged at one corner of her mouth. “Since I have enjoyed fresh seafood. It is almost impossible to obtain inland.” Her voice became wistful. “When I was growing up in Brittany, my parents used to love to cook on the beach like this. Before my mother took ill.”

Her smile fading, she continued eating in silence.

Hauk toyed with a crab claw on his trencher, ignoring the curiosity that buzzed through his thoughts like a pestering fly. He was not going to question her about what had happened to her mother. Did not want to learn aught about her past, her family, her home—the life he had taken her from forever.

He already knew more than he wanted to know.

Studying her pale cheeks, the shadows beneath her sable lashes, he realized there was something different about Avril tonight, though he could not discern what it was. She spoke little, avoided looking at him... yet she remained by his side. As if she were a curious sparrow that had hopped near enough to steal a few crumbs from him.

He wondered if she would take flight if he made any move toward her.

He lifted the crab claw to his mouth, gnawing at the soft meat as he turned that thought over in his mind. Mayhap she seemed different tonight because this was, in truth, the first time he had seen her sitting still. The Avril he had grown used to was a vivid bundle of conflicting emotions, constantly changing, endlessly provoking him, always in motion.

He had never seen her like this: quiet, at rest, almost...

Nay, not tame. That word would never apply. But there was a certain sweetness about the way she sat there enjoying her lobster, her hair in tangles, her lashes dipping sleepily low over her emerald eyes, her bare toes peeking out from the hem of her rumpled nightclothes. She looked like she needed to be scooped up and carried to bed.

Hauk dropped his gaze to the sand, not liking the unexpected, unwelcome feelings that stole through him, softer and warmer than the desire that stirred his blood.

By all the gods, she was so young. So much younger than him. And she did not even begin to guess.

He crushed the crab shell in his fingers and flicked it away, annoyed. Seeing her this way—so vulnerable and sweet—only reminded him of how delicate his lovely utlending bride was. How different from him.

How fragile.

Reminded him too vividly of the fear he had felt earlier today when he cut his journey short. When he had discovered Thorolf missing from his enclave on the eastern shore.

The place had been deserted. Abandoned. Thorolf might have gone off somewhere to sulk, as he often did, but he was also vicious enough to seek vengeance against those he blamed for his punishment by the eldrer.

Including Avril.

For one moment, standing in the doorway of Thorolf’s empty dwelling, Hauk had felt a stab of cold fear—not for his people, or for his friend Keldan, but for the bride he had left alone and unprotected.

He had run all afternoon through the rain, not even stopping to eat, pausing at Keldan’s just long enough to warn him. Then he had finally reached his own vaningshus —and found Avril missing.

Hauk forced the memory away, not wanting to relive the dread he had experienced. Or the relief and gratitude to the gods he had felt upon finding her safe and well. He could not allow her to stir his heart this way.

Misery and torment, he reminded himself. She can only bring you misery and torment in the end.

Avril sighed in enjoyment as she finished her meal—and Hauk realized he had unintentionally fulfilled one of the commands set forth in the Havamal: A new husband was to discover his bride’s favorite foods and provide them for her.

Just as he was to discover all of her favorite, secret pleasures.

“Did you eat naught while I was away?” he asked, chagrined.

“What?”

“You eat as if you had been starving, and you are”—despite himself, he found his gaze drawn back to her—”unusually quiet.”

They regarded each other across the scant distance that separated them, the cookfire making the night air crackle with flames and heat.

As before, she held his gaze only a moment before she glanced away, color rising in her cheeks. “If I seem quiet, it is simply because I am tired. As I told you earlier, the storm kept me awake.”

Her blush deepened.

Hauk frowned at her in confusion, unable to fathom why she would turn scarlet because a storm had kept her awake.

Unless it was not, in truth, the weather that had disturbed her sleep... but something else.

He almost choked on his own breath, remembering the unfinished explanation she had offered earlier, just before she began babbling on about the storm.

I have had bad...

Dreams? Was it her dreams that left her blushing and breathless?

Had she been unable to sleep for the same reason as him?

His heart thudded a single, violent stroke then began pounding. He had heard legends of Asgard men and their mates who shared a bond so deep that they did not need words to communicate, even when distance separated them—a bond so strong they even shared the same dreams.

He had always dismissed such tales as fanciful nonsense.

But he could not dismiss the way Avril was reacting to him tonight. How different she seemed. His brain rioted with questions.

Had she been dreaming of him? Was it desire that made her blush? Was that why she remained by his side—because she was drawn to him in the same powerful, inescapable way he was drawn to her?

How might she respond if he closed the distance between them now, if he drew her near and kissed her? Would it win him a slap? A knife in his gullet?

Or the kind of response he had dreamed of?

Her gaze still lowered, she wiped his knife in the sand and tossed it aside. It landed next to his discarded sword. “Sword, knife, battle-ax,” she mused. “You travel heavily armed, Hauk. Was your journey dangerous?”

“Were you worried for me, wife?” His voice sounded husky, even to his own ears.

“Do not call me that,” she chided.

He noticed she had not answered his question.

He also noted that at some point, she had started calling him by his first name rather than “Norseman” or “Valbrand.”

How would she taste? Would her mouth be hot and hungry beneath his, or sweet and soft?

“Fear not,” he managed to say, “I am unharmed. I suffered naught but a small gash.” Lifting his right hand, he revealed an angry red mark that ran up his arm from wrist to elbow, earned when he slipped on a jagged outcropping of stone while running home through the rain.

She gasped. “Sweet Mary.” Lips parted, she started to say more, then stopped herself, regarding him with a look that held...

By all the gods, it was concern he saw in her gaze. Concern for his pain. For him. She had been worried about him.

Just as he had been worried about her.

He turned away abruptly, shaking off the feelings, unable to look into his wife’s sparkling emerald eyes a moment longer. He would not do this to himself. It was bad enough that she trespassed on his thoughts waking and sleeping. Bad enough that she made him want, in a way he had not wanted in half a lifetime.

He had to accept her presence in his life, had to protect her and see to her needs—but he could not allow her to stir the ashes of feelings he had forgotten how to feel. For the sake of his sanity, he had to leave them buried. Buried, like the sketches and belongings he kept shut away in trunks because he could not bear to look at them and could not bring himself to destroy them.

He stretched out on the sand, on his side, giving her his back. Then he reached for his cloak, pounding it into the shape of a pillow and jamming it under his head. Avril was merely a woman, like any other. He could control the desire he felt for her, and the other feelings as well.

It was only fatigue that made the task seem unusually difficult.

“You are going to sleep?” she asked curiously.

“It is what I normally do when I am tired after a long journey,” he grated out.

“Oh.” She remained quiet a moment. “I thought we might...”

He clenched his teeth to resist the suggestive replies that sprang to mind: Kiss? Slowly undress one another? Discover how your naked body would feel against mine? Make hot, passionate love under the moon?

“Talk,” she said.

He released a harsh breath. “We can talk on the morrow.” Horn of Odin, if he had to look at her again, he was not sure he could keep himself from pulling her into his arms, pressing her down beside the fire, lifting the hem of her shift until her naked bottom met warm sand and his fingers found soft, wet silk.

He wrestled his unruly thoughts under control, thwacked his pillow for good measure. “Go to sleep, Avril.”

After a moment, he heard her move away a few paces, then stretch out on the sand. Grateful, he shut his eyes and prayed to all the gods to grant him sleep.

Dreamless sleep.

But apparently the gods were busy elsewhere this night.

“I am certain your wounded arm will heal,” she said quietly. “No doubt within the hour.”

“That does not make it hurt any less,” he muttered. The ocean breeze felt cool against his chest, the fire’s warmth hot against the bare skin of his back. The soothing, familiar sound of the wind and waves might have lulled him to sleep eventually.

If he had not been blessed with a talkative bride.

“How can that be?” she prodded. “How is it that wounds heal so quickly here? My jaw was broken in Antwerp, I am certain of it. And the other night, when I cut my hand, it healed almost at once. And everyone in the town seems to be in perfect health.”

He did not reply.

“Hauk?”

He glared into the night, annoyed with himself for having leaped to half-witted conclusions earlier like some naive, first-time groom. He had been wrong, of course. He and Avril did not share dreams or desire or any gentler sort of feelings.

This was why she had remained near him: because she hoped to glean information about Asgard, while he was tired enough to be careless. Information that might help her in whatever escape attempt she was no doubt planning.

“Hauk? Are you awake?”

He could pretend to be asleep, but he had known from the beginning that he would have to answer her questions about the island sooner or later. Revealing part of the truth—a small part—might satisfy her curiosity for now.

And keep her from asking questions he truly did not wish to answer.

“Asgard has certain natural healing qualities,” he said simply, remaining on his side with his back to her. “Injuries heal swiftly and illness is unknown among us.”

He could hear her sitting up. “But how is that possible? Is it some quality of the air? Or the water or the food? Or... or some unique herb or root found here and nowhere else?”

“We do not know.”

She uttered a scoffing sound. “I do not believe you. You know but you do not wish to tell me.”

“I am speaking the truth. Many among us have sought to answer the question you ask.” He paused for a moment, an image of his father bright and sharp in his mind. “But no one knows for certain. It may be a combination of several qualities found in nature here, native to Asgard. We do not know.”

She fell silent, as if weighing what he had said and trying to decide if he was telling the truth.

“It is a shame that it remains a mystery,” she said at last.

“Aye,” he agreed, with a bitterness he doubted she could fathom.

“But even if you do not know how this place offers such wondrous healing, why do you not share it with the world? Why take such care to keep your island secret? Imagine the good you could do. Imagine the people you could help—”

“Imagine how quickly Asgard would be overrun and destroyed,” he said flatly. “We must keep it secret. It is the only way to protect our home and those who live here.”

A soft note of understanding came into her voice. “And that is why you will not allow any of the captives to leave.”

“Aye.”

There was more to it than that, but he was not ready to reveal the rest. There was no telling what a woman as unpredictable as Avril might do—especially when she was still bent on escape.

“But why bring captives here at all?” she asked, sounding bewildered. “It seems a terrible risk to take, merely to...” She hesitated. “To what? What in the name of all the saints do you want with us?”

He rolled onto his back, sighing wearily and staring up at the cloud-darkened sky. It seemed he would get no more sleep tonight than he had the last two nights. “I told you before, I do not want you at—”

“Aye, I know. You do not want me at all. You acquired me purely by accident,” she said dryly. “But what about the others? Why would men risk so much simply to get a wife?”

“Some young hotheads find risk exciting. And they want what most men want. Companionship. A comely wench to warm their beds.” He slanted her a glance.

Avril reddened and lowered her lashes. “But why not marry one of the women who are already here?” she persisted. “Why not marry a... an innfodt woman?”

Hauk narrowed his eyes, wondering who had told her that word—and how much she had been told about the difference between utlending and innfodt women. That discussion was supposed to be left for a husband to have with his wife. When he decided the time was right.

“Some do,” he said slowly. “But others want...” He paused, assaulted by shards of memories, hopes and dreams shattered long ago. The unborn son he had lost. The family the gods had never granted him.

He shrugged, the sand rough against his bare back. There was no need to open that painful subject. Not yet. Not now. “Bringing utlending brides here is a tradition.”

“It seems a foolish tradition.”

“Aye, I have said the same. Many times. But young ears are too often deaf to reason.”

If she understood that he included her in that comment, she gave no sign.

Still looking down, she drew a fingertip through the sand. “Then if you agree that it is a foolish tradition, and if I vowed by my child’s life that I would keep your secret—”

“I still would not be able to set you free. By Thor’s hammer, Avril, save your breath and cease asking.” He let his head fall back, flung an arm over his eyes, wished he could shut her out. “And I would be a fool to trust your word of honor, since you have already lied to me once. Your friend told me the truth about your husband. About the fact that you are a widow.”

“You cannot blame me for lying about that.” Avril’s voice sharpened. “Josette should not have... she did not mean to...” She whispered an oath. “She mistakenly thought she was helping me.”

The breeze caught the flames of the dying cookfire, making them snap and hiss.

“I could bring her here to live with you.”

“Josette?” Avril asked in confusion.

Hauk let his arm drop to the sand, realizing he had just voiced an idea that had been forming in his mind the past two days.

“Your daughter,” he said quietly. “It might be possible for me to bring your daughter here to live with you.”

For an instant Avril seemed incapable of speech. “What?”

He pushed himself up and met her gaze beyond the dancing fire. “Despite your belief that we Norsemen are uncivilized and barbaric, I would not see a child made an orphan.”

She gaped at him, blinking, as if the moon had just fallen through the clouds and landed beside her. “You would go and get Giselle?” she whispered. Her face brightened. “Aye, it is an excellent idea. I will go with you. I will take you there myself—”

“Nay, milady, you will not,” he said with a frown, not taken in for a second by that suggestion. She meant to escape the instant she set foot on her home soil. “You will remain here. I would go alone.”

She lowered her gaze. “But you will not find her without my help. And Gaston and Celine would not simply hand her over to a stranger. Her uncle will never allow you to take her—”

“The uncle who is a duc, who lives in the Artois region?” He had thought the child might be in Brittany or somewhere else.

Somewhere closer.

“Aye, Duc Gaston de Varennes.” Her head came up, her eyes widening. “Hauk, he is not a man to be trifled with. You cannot even think of going there without me. He would kill anyone who tried to take Giselle—”

“The Artois is too far.” Hauk shook his head, not sure what bothered him more: the fact that he had actually considered the idea, or that he felt genuine regret because it would not work. “It is impossible.”

Avril was silent a moment.

Her voice sounded unsteady when she spoke again. “And I would not see my daughter made a captive along with me,” she admitted. “Her life and her freedom mean more to me than my own. It is out of the question.” She closed her eyes, her lashes dark against her pale cheeks. “But you are... kind to be concerned about her well-being.” Slowly she looked up, her eyes searching his face. “You are not uncivilized and barbaric, Hauk. That is not what I think of you. You are... much different from what I thought a Viking warrior would be like. I did not expect kindness of you. Or thoughtfulness or gentleness.”

Hauk could not summon a reply, the warmth in her expression playing havoc with his heartbeat. He did not want to be thoughtful or gentle or kind. Did not want this spirited, emerald-eyed lady to rouse such tenderness within him, make him remember what it was like to feel concern. And protectiveness.

And caring.

Not only for her, but for a child he had never even met.

“I am not so virtuous,” he said roughly, half in denial, half in warning. “I merely want you to accept your new life here.”

Shaking her head, Avril rose. “That I can never do.” She walked around the fire, toward the water, and stood facing the waves.

The silence stretched out for a long moment before she said, “I thought you told me that no one kept boats on Asgard.”

“Aye, that is what I told you.” He watched the wind play through her long hair and swirl her cloak and shift around her slender body.

“So you lied to me,” she said with soft accusation, looking over her shoulder at him. “And if it is possible for you to leave—”

“I am the only one who leaves,” he said firmly, “and I leave only rarely.” He had ventured out more often in his youth, but it had become too painful to glimpse the outside world—with all its variety and excitement and constant change—only to be forced to return here. To remain here.

Where even the perfect weather varied little from day to day, season to season, year to year.

Avril turned to face him. “Then what did you mean when you said ‘the Artois is too far’?”

“No one can leave the island for more than six days at a time. It is—” Impossible. “—the law.”

She arched one brow in surprise. “If that is so, then Antwerp must be no more than six days from here. Nay...” A hint of satisfaction came into her voice as she looked out over the ocean. “Three.”

Hauk cursed, annoyed that he had just heedlessly revealed information she might use to try to escape.

He thrust himself to his feet and stalked over to her. “Avril, do not think what you are thinking. You cannot escape Asgard.”

She lifted her chin and stared up at him, defiance in her eyes. “So you have said.”

“By Hel, woman, do not act like a reckless little fool.” He took her arm, his fingers digging into the soft fabric of her cloak. “If you are drowned or crushed against the rocks, your child will be an orphan!”

“Do you care so much?” Her eyes were suddenly bright with tears. “Do I matter to you so much?”

Her tears burned him. Her question froze him.

“I am trying to make you listen to logic,” he insisted hoarsely. “Logic and reason.”

She struggled to wrench free of his grasp. “Reason does not matter to me. Your laws do not matter to me! You do not...”

She seemed unable to finish that sentence, looked startled and dismayed that she could not. Her voice dissolved in a thready whisper. “Y-you do not...”

The pain in her eyes made his heart strike a hard blow against his ribs. His hand came up to brush her tears away, as if his will were no longer in command of his movements.

And then all logic and reason vanished.

She leaned toward him, even as she uttered a wordless sound of denial. His hands tangled in her hair. And all at once their mouths came together in a deep kiss, a heated joining that held no restraint, no gentleness, only hunger and longing.

The first taste of her set Hauk ablaze with need. Need that should have stopped him. Should have made him release her.

But her lips were impossibly sweet beneath his, as full and lush as he had imagined from the moment he met her. As he had dreamed. He slid one arm around her back. Her hands closed on his bare shoulders, but she did not try to push him away.

Instead she melted into his embrace, the low sound in her throat filled with need that matched his. She held onto him as if the world had shifted beneath her feet.

He crushed her closer, sensations flooding through him, all of his senses flaring to life. She smelled of woodsmoke from the fire and the lingering scent of some spicy perfume. Tasted of feminine sweetness and a salty trace of the sea from the meal they had shared. Her cloak had fallen open and he could feel every inch of her body, so lithe and soft against his. Her breasts flattened against the muscles of his chest. Her nipples hardened to pearls beneath the thin fabric of her shift, the fragile garment all that separated his bare skin from hers.

A groan wrenched from deep in his chest. But even as he angled his head, urging her lips to part, his mind struggled for sanity. For control. He should not... he had not intended to...

Her lips parted, letting him inside her—and he was lost.

He thrust his tongue against hers, plundering the satin of her mouth. She returned his passion in full measure, moaning, her tongue meeting every stroke, her hold on him so fierce that her nails marked his skin. Her response sent a blade of heat lancing through him. Her sensual fire was just as unpredictable and bold as everything else about her—and he had never experienced anything so intoxicating in all the years of his life.

The restless sounds she made, the feel of her in his arms, the silky taste of her sent him plummeting into a sultry abyss. He wanted more. Now. Her breath, her body, her nearness. Her. Avril.

His wife.

Slowly he sank to his knees in the sand, drawing her down with him, his fingers seeking and finding the clasp that held her cloak in place. He unfastened it. The garment slid from her shoulders, landed softly on the sand behind her. She shivered in his arms but did not stop kissing him.

He shifted his hold on her, cupped one breast, his palm kneading, his fingers possessive. She lifted her mouth from his with a sharp gasp of uncertainty.

“Avril.” He trailed kisses along her jaw, down the pale column of her neck. “I want you,” he said roughly. “I want you. And you want me.” His voice had become a deep, husky entreaty. “Let me show you how it could be between us.” He nuzzled the sensitive hollow of her throat... lower. “Let me show you.”

He wrapped one arm around her, urging her to lean back as his other hand cupped her breast, lifting the delicate softness to his mouth. He kissed her through the thin fabric that scarcely veiled her curves—a light touch of his lips across the taut peak, a teasing flick of his thumb that made her breath catch. Then he parted his lips and drew her all the way in, sudden and deep, and all hesitation in her voice vanished in a groan of pleasure.

He echoed the sound as he suckled her, the fullness so ripe and luscious in his mouth. His pulse thundered through his veins. The hard length of his arousal pressed against the restriction of his leggings. By all the gods, how he needed to be inside her.

He shifted his attention to her other breast, this time scarcely circling the nipple with his tongue, trailing his fingertips down the graceful curve of her spine at the same time. Her back arched, her fingers digging into his shoulders. “Hauk—”

“Do you wish me to stop?” His breathing was ragged. “Say it. Tell me that you wish me to stop.” He began sliding the fragile garment from her shoulders, peeling the damp fabric away from her breasts, exposing her to the night wind, to his kisses.

She was perfection in the darkness, her naked skin dusted with cool silver and hot gold by moon and fire. He shaped her breasts in his hands, stroked her nipples with his fingers, teased with tongue and teeth until a string of oaths tumbled from her lips.

“I... I...”

“Wish me to stop,” he supplied, since she seemed unable to recall the words.

Her eyes were shut tight, her breathing harsh, her skin sheened with sweat. And the only word she said was his name, fierce and urgent. “Hauk.”

He drew her into his arms again and their mouths met in hungering kisses, both of them shaking, the fever between them almost unbearable. He pressed his lips to her ear. “There are many exquisitely sensitive places on a woman’s body,” he whispered, “and a wise husband takes the time to find them all. One...” He nipped a spot just below her jaw. “By...” He nuzzled the curve of her shoulder, easing her down toward the sand. “One.”

He lowered her onto her back, stretched out above her—and flinched when her thigh pressed against the rigid evidence of his desire for her.

She froze in his embrace, her eyes opening wide. She blinked as if suddenly awakened from a dream. “Nay! I—”

“Avril,” he groaned, closing his eyes.

She fought against his hold. “Nay! Let me go!”

Her frantic words cut through him, cold as steel—and though her gaze was still dark with passion, her lips swollen from the shared ardor of their kisses, he did not argue with her. He let her go.

She stumbled to her feet, snatching up her cloak and gathering it around her, backing away from him. “I cannot...” She could not seem to breathe, shook her head wildly. “I cannot stay here!”

The words came out as a choked sob.

Then she turned from him and ran.

Hauk lurched to his feet, almost chased after her, stopped himself. The ocean breeze quickly cooled the sweat from his body and cleared the fog from his senses. By Loki’s dark daughter, what had he been doing? How had one kiss—one kiss—led to so much more so quickly?

Nei, he did not want an answer to that question.

He had merely been satisfying a physical need that had become painfully sharp. Showing her the pleasures they might share together. She was his wife.

Ja, she was his wife—and it was time for both of them to accept that fact.

He kicked sand over the cookfire to douse it, snatched up his weapons and pack and set off to follow her. There was no need to complicate this difficult situation with any sort of emotional... entanglement. But it was his responsibility to persuade his bride to stay willingly, to please her and see to her happiness.

And there was no need for them to keep denying their mutual desire.

Avril’s passionate response to him tonight erased any doubts: She did want him. Just as intensely as he wanted her. He had not been wrong about that.

But he had gone too far, too quickly.

As he strode down the beach after her retreating silhouette, he muttered an oath, not relishing the impossible task he faced. With Thorolf missing, he had to watch over his reckless bride more closely, stay with her every moment. But he also needed to allow her time to adjust to her new life, to this place, to him.

He needed to go slowly. Resist temptation.

He would simply have to be strong.

Ja, he thought derisively, unable to take his gaze from her slender shadow ahead of him. As strong as a man parched with thirst trying not to sip from the brimming, sweet, beautiful cup so close within his reach.

Thorolf stood in the shadows a safe distance from Valbrand’s vaningshus , waiting. Patient. Running his thumb along the smooth glass surface of the slender flask in his hand, he reminded himself that he had worked and planned for this a great many years. Another few hours would not matter.

Especially if it meant adding sweet vengeance to sweet freedom.

After his humiliation at the althing, he wanted the former almost as much as the latter. The vokter had thwarted him for the last time.

And this time he would pay.

At last, the woman returned, garbed in a hooded cloak—but Valbrand was only a few steps behind her.

Thorolf bared his teeth in a frustrated snarl. How like Valbrand to ruin his plans. Again! Just when Thorolf learned that the vokter had unexpectedly left his new bride alone, he unexpectedly returned to her.

As if he were purposely foiling Thorolf’s plans.

But that could not be. He could not know. No one knew.

Thorolf paced restlessly across the grass, gripping the flask. By Kvasir’s blood, if he had to waste one more day on this accursed rock, he would go mad. He was not a sheep, like the others, so satisfied with their placid, peaceful, dull little lives. He was meant for more.

An entire world of new places and pleasures awaited him beyond the boundaries of Asgard. And he meant to enjoy them all. The elders and the vokter and their laws could burn in Hel for all he cared. He had lived too long under their rule.

But he would not have to endure much longer. Freedom was tantalizingly close now.

He literally held it in his hand.

The thought cooled Thorolf’s ire as he turned to stare at Hauk’s cozy clifftop home.

Valbrand was always saying he wanted change. And his wish was about to be granted.

All Thorolf needed was one of the utlending women. That was why he had taken part in the Claiming voyage in the first place.

He was not about to test his potion himself. Not after failing in the past. He was reasonably certain that he held in his hand the answer that the men of Asgard had sought for centuries. The elixir would bring him wealth and acclaim throughout the world, make him a king. A god.

Yet there was still a chance, however small, that it might prove to be a deadly poison.

He meant to find out—with the help of Valbrand’s pretty bride.

The thought made Thorolf smile. All he had to do was keep his temper in check, and he would succeed. Patience was the key.

Patience.

He could wait one more day. Turning, he walked down the grassy hill. He would move his boat and conceal it better, now while he still had the cover of darkness.

Then he would return here. The vokter could not watch over his bride every second. She would be alone at some point.

And Thorolf would be here, lying in wait.

His smile widened. On the morrow, Hauk Valbrand would lose his new wife.

Chapter 11

The sun felt glorious after yesterday’s rain. Josette could not help but sigh as she relaxed against a tree, warmed by the shimmering rays, a basket of fresh-picked berries in her lap. A pair of horses grazed a few yards away, and Keldan lay stretched out on the grass beside her, eyes closed, one hand behind his head. He still had traces of dark juice on his face and chest.

Their morning ride had ended with the two of them picking their breakfast fresh from the fields—and their berry hunt had ended in a laughing berry battle.

Smiling, Josette popped one of the sweet fruits in her mouth, its taste as refreshing as the breathtaking view from this hilltop. From here, she could see the entire island spread out in an endless, colorful expanse: fields dotted with bright wildflowers, the western forest a rumpled blanket of leafy green; lavender mountains rising in the distance; streams glinting here and there, streaks of silver amid the darker, lush shades of the meadows.

A gentle breeze warmed her face, rustling the branches overhead. It was so pleasant here. So peaceful.

So difficult to keep her mind on the task she had been assigned. She was supposed to be gathering information about the island’s location. Avril would be expecting her report tonight, at the celebration in town.

But thus far, Josette had no useful contribution to make to the captives’ escape plan.

Feeling guilty, she ate another berry and looked down at Keldan.

Yesterday’s drenching rain had kept the two of them inside his vaningshus—so it was not actually her fault that she had been unable to carry out her assignment. After all, they could hardly understand each other.

Although that had not kept them from enjoying a most agreeable day. They had played draughts, and chess, and a game he said was called hneftafl, which involved colored stones and a decorated board. After a leisurely supper, he had worked at his carving and she had fallen asleep listening to the rain and the sound of his deep voice humming a Norse tune.

When she awoke this morn, she realized he had once again carried her to bed and retreated to spend the night on the floor on the opposite side of the chamber.

Josette chewed at her lower lip, knowing that this friendly companionship growing between them should make her uneasy. He was still a stranger to her, and as powerfully built as any warrior she had met.

Yet, despite their language differences, she already felt as if she knew him somehow.

There was such a playful quality about him. Something so endearing about that hint of a smile that always curved his lips, about his unfailing cheerfulness. He seemed to take such pleasure in making those around him smile, both the people in the town... and her.

Watching the wind ruffle his black hair and the sun warm his tanned skin, she felt an unfamiliar sensation inside her, like hot ribbons whirling together, all ticklish and shivery.

Mayhap it had something to do with the fact that she liked him. She had never enjoyed a man’s company so much.

As if aware of her gaze on him, he opened his eyes. His crooked grin widened.

Josette felt warmth flood her face, embarrassed to have been caught studying him with such rapt interest. She shifted her attention to the basket of berries in her lap.

Barely stirring, he picked a tall blade of grass and reached up to tickle her cheek with it.

“Gress,” he said.

She did not look at him, but smiled as she stared down into her basket. This was a game they had devised, to teach each other their native languages. “Gress,” she echoed, before translating the Norse word into French. “Grass.”

“Grass,” he repeated in his thick accent. “Josette...” His voice turned serious as he sat up. “Happy here?”

She glanced at him, sitting there beside her with a hopeful expression and a blade of grass in his fingers, this gentle Viking who liked to make furniture and hunt berries for breakfast and laugh with her beneath a sun-drenched sky.

“Ja,” she admitted softly. It was one of the first words he had taught her. “Ja, Keldan. I know I should not be, but I am happy here with you. No one has ever...”

Keldan looked at her earnestly. She did not know why she kept talking, when he could not understand. Mayhap it was because he could not understand that she felt she could tell him the rest.

“No one has ever made me feel special the way you do,” she continued, blinking away the dampness that suddenly filled her eyes. “In truth, no one ever had much time for me.”

She dropped her gaze again, shaking her head. “But I am supposed to be helping Avril. Giselle needs her.” Her throat tightened. “I have to find out from you which direction we will have to sail to get... to get...”

She felt Keldan’s hand lightly touch her chin.

“To get home,” she finished, her heart beating hard as he tilted her head up.

His dark eyes held as much gentleness as his touch.

“Josette,” he murmured, “home here now. Stay.” He added another word that she did not realize he had learned yet. “Please.”

Her lower lip trembled. She could not find breath to respond.

His fingertips slowly glided along her jaw, downward... coming to rest over her pounding heart,

“Hjerte,” he whispered, taking her hand and placing it in the center of his chest.

She could feel his heart pounding as fast as hers. Their gazes met and held.

“H-hjerte,” she repeated, whispering the word in her language as he leaned closer. “Heart.”

He kissed her, a gentle brush of his mouth over hers. It was the first time he had ever kissed her.

The first time any man had kissed her.

And it felt as warm and sweet and tender as the sunlight that dappled the meadow. He tasted of the berries they had gathered, his lips a soft, intriguing contrast to the muscles flexing beneath her hand, so hard and solid and male. The shivery-hot ribbons spun tight within her, and when he lifted his head all too soon, the sigh that escaped her carried a longing that was new and confusing to her.

And tantalizing.

The sound he made was a deeper echo of hers; she could feel it rumble through his chest, could feel him breathing fast and shallow. He dusted kisses over her chin, her nose, her forehead.

“Josette, home here,” he whispered. “Home. Hjem.”

Her senses danced like the leaves overhead, warmed by the sun, by his caress, by the yearning in his voice that so matched the feeling inside her.

And all she could think was that the word for home sounded rather like the word for heart.

“Ja, Keldan.” She sighed, whispering the word against his mouth as he lay back in the grass, drawing her with him. “Hjem.”

Avril paced in front of the hearth, examining Hauk’s collection of weapons and entertaining thoughts of mayhem. Floyel’s small hooves clacked on the stone floor as he followed at her heels.

“Must you do that?” she bit out, halting in her tracks and turning to give him a stern look.

The little reindeer bleated loudly, his brown eyes large and innocent as he gazed up at her.

She sighed. “I am sorry.” Bending down, she scratched beneath his furry chin. “Poor little Floyel, I should not snap at you. It is not your fault I have been trapped in here all day.”

She moved restlessly to the open windows, where late-afternoon sun and warm, fresh air poured in to brighten the chamber. The weather was ideal for exploring, and she had planned to do just that today, to go and find Hauk’s ship. But he refused to let her go riding—or anywhere, for that matter—alone.

He had offered to accompany her wherever she might wish, but she had declined. She could hardly take him along as she searched for his boat.

And she thought it best to keep as much distance between them as possible.

She turned away from the window, suddenly awash in memories of last night.

His hands in her hair. His mouth, hot and ravishing on hers. The way she had trembled with wanting, parted her lips, reveled in the fierce strength of his arms around her. She had lost herself in all of it—in him—for one wild moment... and then another, and another...

She shut her eyes, unable to stop herself from remembering every vivid detail. The velvet thrust of his tongue along hers. The roughness of his beard against her chin, her throat... her breasts. The heat of his mouth on her naked skin.

She wrapped her arms around herself. God’s breath, her body still felt fevered even now. Last night, Hauk had ignited something within her that she had believed long vanished. Forgotten. Something passionate and reckless that had nearly made her surrender to the husky promises he whispered.

Shaking her head, she struggled to right her thoughts. She had been too exhausted to think clearly last night. Exhausted and vulnerable. And confused by their conversation—by the way he kept surprising her with unexpected compassion and thoughtfulness. And caring.

For a few scorching moments, she had forgotten everything else. A few moments of madness. Weakness. But she could not allow herself to be weak.

Not if she wanted to get home.

Since their moonlit encounter on the beach, they had barely spoken more than a few, tense words to each other—and she meant to keep it that way. She could not let herself view Hauk Valbrand as aught but her abductor. An obstacle to be overcome on her way back to Giselle.

No matter how his touch and his words and his kisses made her melt.

“Saint’s breath,” she whispered miserably. “How am I to ignore the man when I cannot stop thinking about him?”

Floyel, ever at her heels, snuffled at her hand as if in sympathy, before ambling off to plop down on his bed in one corner.

“Thank you,” she said with a reluctant grin as she wiped her moist palm on her skirt. “At least reindeer kisses do not cause me to take leave of my senses.”

Releasing a frustrated sigh, she returned to the chair she had occupied for the past hour and picked up a book. She had dug out the Norse texts again, hoping she might notice something helpful that she had missed before. Thumbing through the pages, she tried to think of a way to sneak out without Hauk seeing her.

It would be difficult, since he had been working outside all day, hammering away at some kind of repairs to Ildfast’s stall. No doubt he suspected she was making plans to escape. He might not even allow her to attend the celebration tonight—and then how would she meet with her fellow captives?

Whispering an oath, she shut the book. This was maddening. She was accustomed to going and doing as she pleased. Having a man restrict her every movement was intolerable. It made her blood simmer, made her feel like doing something rash and—

The door opened and Hauk strode in, his face and chest streaked with sweat, dirt, sawdust. Avril lowered her gaze, partly to conceal her unruly mood... and partly because a different kind of heat shimmered through her blood and curled in her belly.

Curse the man, how could the merest glimpse of him affect her this way?

“Where did you get those?” he asked with a growl. She looked up. He was frowning at the books stacked beside her chair.

“I meant no harm,” she said defensively. “Since you will not allow me to venture out, I must pass the time in some way, and I enjoy reading—”

“I never said you could not venture out.”

“I meant alone.” Lifting the book in her hands, she placed it atop the stack. “I am sorry, I should not have gone through your books without permission.” He had every right to be angry with her. “I will put them back.”

“Nay, it matters not,” he said more evenly. Brushing sawdust from his dark-gold hair, he walked over to the rain barrel against the nearby wall. “What is mine is yours now. You are my wife.”

Avril bit her tongue. It was pointless to keep correcting him about that.

He reached for a wooden pipe above the rain barrel, releasing a spigot that let fresh water flow in from outside, where it collected in troughs below the eaves. “If you are bored, milady,” he said above the splashing of the water as it filled the half-empty barrel, “I am willing to entertain you.”

Heat flooded her as she imagined what sort of entertainment he had in mind. “I would prefer to be alone, thank you,” she said coolly.

He slanted her a glance. “I only meant that we might go for a walk. Or mayhap play a game. Chess, draughts—”

“Darts?” she suggested innocently. “It has always been my favorite.”

He arched one brow. “I am not sure it would be wise of me to supply you with small, pointy objects in my vicinity.”

“I might miss the target,” she admitted, unable to suppress a sly grin. “But probably only once or twice.”

A smile dimpled his unshaven cheek. “Why is darts your favorite?” He twisted the spigot again to shut the water off. “It is usually played only by men, by archers.”

“Aye, but it is also one of the few games of skill in which women can compete. And win. Even against men.”

“Most women do not like to compete against men.” Hauk splashed his face and chest, and washed the back of his neck.

“Only because the men get so churlish when a woman wins.” Avril felt her mouth go dry as she watched the play of muscle and sinew across his back and shoulders, the water gliding down his tanned skin. “But I am not like most women.”

“Nay.” He sighed, and she was not sure whether it was admiration or chagrin she heard in his voice. “You are not.” He dunked his head under the surface, quickly, then straightened and ran his hands through his wet hair. “Gods, but the water is cold today.”

Avril could not reply, unable to stop staring at the glistening rivulets cascading down his bearded face, his chest, over the rippling muscles of his stomach. Fire bloomed in her at the too-vivid reminder of how he had looked last night—when he strode ashore like an untamed, golden god risen from the sea.

She glanced away, vexed that she was once again blushing like a maiden.

Mayhap he would believe the constant color in her cheeks had been put there by Asgard’s hot sun.

Keeping her eyes averted, she quickly sought a safe topic of conversation. “You have a great many books,” she said lightly, running her hand over one leather-bound volume. “I have been in the castles of lords and barons who did not have so many. They must have cost a great deal.”

“They did not cost a single coin.”

“You stole them?” She glanced at him in surprise.

He frowned. “I wrote them.” Turning his back, he reached for a length of folded linen on a shelf next to the rain barrel.

“Nay, you jest.” She shook her head in disbelief. “You wrote these books? These, with the sketches of European cities, castles and cathedrals and sailing ships—”

“Aye.”

“But how could that be? You said that no one left Asgard for more than six days.”

“True.”

“Then if you wrote these,” she said dubiously, “you must have barely had time to glimpse these places.”

He did not answer for a moment, rubbing his face and hair with the linen. “Most of them are from journeys made in my youth.” He paused. “Brief journeys.”

His voice was quiet, and he seemed entirely serious. Avril felt stunned, remembering what she had thought when she first found the books: that whoever had written them possessed an artist’s eye and a poet’s spirit.

Never had she guessed that the powerful, hard-muscled Viking warrior who had abducted her could be that man.

Glancing down, she studied the weathered volumes with their yellowed pages, and her brow furrowed. “But you could not have written these,” she said softly. “They are all so old.”

He tossed the damp cloth aside. “Salt air and sea winds take a merciless toll on paper.”

She had not thought of that. “And the other books?” she asked curiously. “The texts on hunting and astronomy, the discussion of Aristotle’s philosophies in Greek, the retelling of the Arthurian legends in French—”

“Mine as well.”

She blinked at him in astonishment. Not only did he have the eye of an artist and the spirit of a poet, but the mind of a scholar. “But how—when—have you managed to pursue so many different subjects? I thought you said your duties as vokter occupied your time.”

Shrugging, he rested one lean hip against a table beside the rain barrel. “As I told you before, time is something we have in abundance on Asgard. Illness is unknown here, food is plentiful, poverty unknown among us. So we do not have to spend our lives struggling to eke out an existence, or battling our neighbors.” He picked up a small stone sculpture from the table, turning it in his fingers. “We each have time for many interests and pursuits. And every man—or woman—is free to choose a trade according to his talents and skills, whether as shopkeeper or storyteller, merchant or farmer—”

“Or warrior and artist.”

He looked up, his gaze and voice gentle. “Avril, do you begin yet to see that Asgard has much to offer? Do you still think your homeland so much better?”

She lowered her lashes, realized her hands were clenched tightly in her lap. He was being kind to her again. Trying to make her feel at home here.

He simply did not understand that this could never possibly be her home.

“My home is with Giselle,” she said softly.

He was silent a moment.

Then he set the sculpture down on the table and changed the subject. “It is time to prepare for this evening’s celebration, milady. Let us not be late this time.”

Avril held back an exclamation of relief. She had been prepared to argue or cajole or sneak away for her rendezvous with her fellow captives.

He hunted through the piles of wedding gifts still heaped on the room’s tables and chairs, digging out a gown of pale gold edged with shimmering embroidery. Walking over to her, he held it out. “Wear the gold.”

She stood, about to protest that she was not going to allow him to choose her clothes. It was too personal, too intimate—

Then his fingers brushed hers as he handed her the gown, and she could not speak at all.

“The color will be most becoming on you,” he added.

The husky depth of his voice made her heart flutter. She suddenly had to fight an urge to reach up and touch those dimples, to run her fingertips over the whiskers that darkened his strong, square jaw.

A muscle flexed in his cheek, as if he felt her touch there, though she had not moved. She felt his body tense. His sky-colored gaze settled on her mouth and her breath caught. He leaned closer, angling his head.

A voice at the door calling in Norse made them both freeze.

Hauk looked toward the entrance and Avril darted out of his reach, the gown clutched in her shaking fingers. Their visitor was Marta—and from her tone, the little girl seemed impatient about something.

Hauk spoke quietly to the child and sent her on her way before turning to translate to Avril. “Marta reminds me that I have kept her waiting rather a long time. I am supposed to be fetching her troublesome pet.”

Her heart beating too hard, Avril nodded and turned away, not trusting herself to speak.

He walked over and scooped up Floyel, who bleated in alarm at being lifted so high above the floor.

“I will leave you to dress, milady,” Hauk said as he headed for the door.

Watching him cradle the small bundle of gray fluff in his massive, muscular arms, Avril felt an unexpected knot in her stomach. Curious to know where he was taking the animal—and half afraid he intended to make sweet little Marta take the creature back—she followed him.

Peeking out the door, Avril covered her mouth to stifle a sound of surprise.

He had not spent the day repairing Ildfast’s stall; he had been adding a small shelter for Floyel.

Despite all of Hauk’s cursing and bluster about the animal last night, especially as they had cleaned up the mess Floyel made, he was naught but gentle as he carried the bawling reindeer out to its new home. He set Floyel down in the shelter, and Marta looked delighted, hugging her pet.

Then she turned and hugged Hauk with equal enthusiasm.

Avril could only see him from the back, but she noticed him flinch... then he bent down and hugged the little girl close.

Avril’s vision suddenly blurred, her heart beating unsteadily.

He was not at all what she had once believed him to be. He was not a ruthless, harsh Viking warrior but a man of gentleness and soft heart. She wondered why he tried to keep that side of himself hidden, like the books he kept shut away in the trunks.

Turning, she pulled the door closed and forced the perplexing question aside. She had to get ready for the celebration, for her rendezvous with the other captives. Hauk would have to remain a mystery to her, forever.

Because she and Josette and the others would be leaving at the first opportunity.

Chapter 12

“I cannot believe three more of our fellow captives would abandon our cause,” Avril said mournfully. Walking beside Josette, she struggled to keep her voice low, despite the music of pipes and harps and drums that filled the night, and the noise of men, women, and children all around them, laughing and singing and conversing. Torches brightly lit the clearing on the outskirts of town. “Three more, Josette. That leaves only... God’s breath, it may leave only you and I to make the voyage.”

Josette was apparently as troubled as she, for she offered no comment, her attention on the orange she was eating for dessert.

The three women Avril had just referred to moved to the center of the clearing—with their captors—joining a group that had gathered to dance, now that supper was finished and the trestle tables carried away.

“Look at them,” Avril lamented. “When I spoke to those women but two days ago, they were all eager to escape—and tonight they tell me they do not wish to leave. All they can do is stare at their husbands with absurd grins on their faces, acting like... like...”

“Happy new brides?” Josette offered meekly.

Avril muttered an oath. “By the suffering saints,” she sighed in exasperation. “I never expected all of them to be so quickly bewitched.”

A hearty male cheer went up behind them, and Avril glanced over her shoulder. In addition to dancing and music, the townspeople were being entertained by jugglers and ballad singers and storytellers, and some of the men had formed a group off to one side, challenging each other to tests of strength. They were currently lifting and throwing boulders, huffing and grunting and roaring with the effort.

Hauk stood among those watching the sport, talking to his friend Keldan and to others who came over to bow or shake his hand or slap him on the back, all smiling broadly. People had been greeting him happily all night. From everyone’s reactions, it seemed as if many had not seen him in some time.

Avril felt grateful to have finally gained a bit of distance from him. Sitting next to Hauk at supper, she had barely managed to say a word or eat a bite, too aware of the husky sound of his voice, the tangy pine scent of the soap he had used for shaving, the way her stomach knotted every time he leaned near to refill her cup. And every time he looked at her—

Just as the thought entered her mind, Hauk happened to glance her way. He had been keeping a close eye on her since she left his side. Their eyes met across the crowd, and the air around her seemed to shimmer with warmth, as if there were no distance between them at all.

Her heart fluttering, she dropped her gaze to her sapphire-blue skirts. She had refused to wear the gown he had chosen for her. Nor had she donned the silver wedding brooch he had given her the night of the althing, the one Josette and all the other new brides were wearing.

Avril feared that if she allowed herself to give in to such requests, to please him in such small ways, she would be unable to keep herself from giving in to him, and pleasing him, in far more meaningful ways.

She clasped her hands tightly, until her wedding band left an imprint on her palm. She had to return home to Giselle.

Even if she and Josette were the only two left to make the voyage.

“What of the Italian girl?” Josette asked as they stopped to watch a juggler and his dog perform tricks. “If you could find her, I am certain she would help.”

“I already found her,” Avril said ruefully, “and I am afraid she will not be joining us. I also managed to speak to the English lady before supper was served, and you will not believe what she said. It seems she was traveling through Antwerp on her way to join a convent. She feels it is God’s will that brought her here, so she wishes to stay and try to convert these people to Christianity.”

“Oh?” Josette nibbled at the last bite of her orange. “That seems... noble. But... but there are still the other two captives, are there not? The other two who said they wished to escape—”

“The ones who did not even attend the feast tonight? They have not been seen all day.” Avril sighed. “And unfortunately, I think I know what may be keeping them busy elsewhere. I am afraid we can no longer count on them either.” She frowned as they walked on. “It seems rather foolish to hold a celebration to welcome the new brides when a third of the new brides do not even attend.”

“One of the townspeople told me that this celebration is normally held the night of the althing,” Josette said, “but it was postponed out of respect for two men who died during the voyage to Antwerp.”

Avril shook her head. “So they risk even death to kidnap a wife,” she said under her breath. “I still do not understand it.”

She glanced over to where Hauk stood watching the other men enjoy their competitions, remembering how tense and curt he had been that first night. She wondered if the loss of the two men had grieved him, if that could account for his ill humor that night.

A tap on her arm made her turn and look down. A boy of about eleven was holding out a folded piece of parchment. Saying something in Norse, he thrust the paper into her hands.

“What is it?” Josette asked.

“I do not know.” Brow furrowed, Avril opened the page to find two lines written in French.

I wish to speak with you. The child will show you where. Nina.

She glanced up, wondering what Nina could possibly want with her. Searching the crowd, Avril did not see her—but she did notice Hauk looking this way again.

Keeping her back to him, she folded the note and slid it into the sleeve of her gown. It would be impossible to go anywhere without him following her.

“Thank you,” she said to the boy, “but Nina will have to wait.”

“Who?” Josette asked curiously.

“No one of importance.” After sending the lad away, Avril linked her arm through Josette’s and led her onward through the milling townspeople. She stopped near a group gathered around a piper, whose playing was both merry and loud enough to drown out their conversation.

Avril took Josette’s hand, giving it an encouraging squeeze. Her friend had been uncharacteristically quiet this evening. “Josette, all will be well, I promise. Do not be afraid. We do not need the others. You and I can manage on our own.” She smiled. “Think of it as an adventure, the sort we always loved when we were small—the two pirates of Morlaix ride the high seas again.”

“The two pirates of Morlaix.” Josette’s expression was wistful. “We had such fun in those days, Avril. You have always been my closest friend—”

“And I always will be. And I am sure we will reach home safely. Using Hauk’s boat will make our journey much easier and less dangerous.”

“But...” Josette glanced away, chewing at her lower lip. “You said you do not even know where his boat is.”

“True.” Avril flicked an irritated glance in Hauk’s direction. “He would not let me venture out today, but mayhap on the morrow, when everyone is tired from the festivities, we will be able to slip away and search for it. I was able to find out from Hauk that Antwerp is no more than three days distant,” she whispered. “Were you able to discover any helpful information? Did you learn aught from Keldan about which direction we must sail to reach home?”

“Well, I—” Josette cleared her throat. “Avril, I have been trying to think of a way to tell you this. Today I...”

“What, Josette? What did you learn today?”

Josette blushed to the roots of her brown hair.

And Avril felt her heart thud against her ribs, suddenly guessing that her friend had not been quiet and awkward tonight because of fear about their upcoming voyage.

“Josette,” she said hollowly, full of dread. “What have you and Keldan been doing since I saw you last?”

“Berries!” her friend blurted. “Today w-we were picking berries.”

“All day?”

Josette had turned as red as a berry herself.

“God’s breath, Josette, tell me he did not—”

“Nay! I... h-he only kissed me. And... and...” She stared at the ground as if fascinated with the toes of her slippers. “Well, he is a carpenter, you know, and...”

Avril regarded her in complete puzzlement.

“He has...” A hint of a smile curved Josette’s lips—the same blissful smile all the other brides had been wearing. “Very sensitive hands.”

Avril felt as if one of the boulders the men were throwing had landed on her. “Josette, you cannot be thinking—nay, we must return to France! I have to get home to Giselle, and you—”

“What?” Josette raised her head. “What do I have waiting for me at home in France?”

Avril frantically searched for a way to make her see reason. “Your brothers! What about your brothers? I am certain they are mad with worry that you are missing.”

“Aye, I am certain they are mad.” Josette nodded. “Mad that I have caused them such trouble. Mad at the thought that they might be asked to pay a ransom to get me back.” She shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “My family is not like yours, Avril. They never were.”

“I know that. Oh, my friend, I know.” Avril took both of Josette’s hands in hers, holding tight. “But you cannot be thinking of... of...”

“Of accepting a sweet and caring and gentle man as my husband?”

“He brought you here against your will!”

“But is that so different from the way women marry in France? If I were at home, my brothers would be choosing a suitor for me. From the day a woman is born, her father or brothers or overlord rules her life. They decide what we do and where we live and whom we wed. What woman ever lives by her own will?”

“I live by my own will,” Avril declared hotly.

Josette pulled her hands free of Avril’s. “Your own marriage to Gerard was an arranged match.”

“That was different.”

“Why? Because you fell in love with him? Because he made you happy? Avril, I remember your letters from the weeks after your wedding—how you spent all your time fighting with him, crying, wanting to come home to Brittany because you thought you had made a mistake.”

Avril folded her arms and looked away, uncomfortable at the reminder, barely able to remember that time in her life when she had so disliked Gerard. It seemed as distant as the stars that speckled the night sky overhead.

“And then you grew to love him,” Josette continued softly. “I have to confess, I never truly understood how your feelings for him could change so completely.” Whispering, she glanced over at Keldan. “Until now.”

Avril did not know what more to say. She felt helpless, stunned.

Lost.

“I have been happy here,” Josette continued gently. “Happier than I ever was at home. Asgard is such a peaceful place—have you noticed that no one carries weapons?”

“Nay.” Avril had not noticed. She glanced at the people milling around, at the men on the other side of the clearing.

Not one was carrying a sword, or even a knife.

Except Hauk, who was armed with both.

“How odd.” She frowned. “These Vikings do not at all match the savage reputation their kind have earned over the centuries.”

“Aye. Apparently fighting is not allowed among these people,” Josette said. “Any disputes are settled by their council of elders. There are no wars here, no battles. They take their laws most seriously.”

“But, Josette, I still think you are making a mistake. There is too much we do not understand about this place and these people. Such as where all the older people might be.” She studied the crowd, noticing again that only a handful were beyond their middle years. “They may have some sort of shortened life span. Or mayhap the men die at a young age,” she added, seeing a few couples in which the wives seemed older than the husbands.

Then another fact struck her, one she had not noticed before. “And do you see any young children here? Or any babies? I do not think I see anyone younger than... than eight or nine.”

“The littlest ones would all be abed by this hour, would they not?”

“True,” Avril admitted. “But, Josette, do you not see that you cannot—”

“Avril, please. Do not try to change my mind. I have always allowed others to make my choices for me. For once, I...” Her voice faltered, then grew stronger. “I am making a decision for myself. I want to stay here. With Keldan.”

Avril’s throat felt dry. Her voice became hoarse. “Josette, you have been my closest friend since I was... since I was old enough to know what a friend is. How can I simply leave you behind?”

“I do not want to lose you, either, my beloved fellow pirate of Morlaix.” Josette hugged her. “But I cannot go with you.”

“And I cannot stay.” Avril held on tight.

“I know. I am sorry that you have to do this alone.” Josette stepped back, wiping at her eyes. “But I will do whatever I can to help you, Avril. I promise I will find out the information you need and bring it to you as soon as I can.”

Avril could only stand mute as her most cherished friend hurried off into the crowd—toward her husband.

The sounds of the festivities were but a muffled hum, here a few streets away from the clearing, in the silent, almost deserted town. Avril kept glancing behind her, but she had chosen her moment carefully, waited until Hauk’s attention was elsewhere. He had become embroiled in a lengthy conversation with the elder who looked like his relative, and she had seized the opportunity to slip away.

She edged into the darkened space between two dwellings, following the boy who had led her. “Nina?” she whispered.

“My dear child, what a pleasure to see you again,” Nina drawled, stepping out of the shadows. The jewels on her fingers flashed in the moonlight as she waved the boy away. “You certainly took your time. I do have better things to do than wait for you all night, you know. And the air is taking on a chill—”

“I am sorry for the delay.” Avril darted a nervous look behind her.

“I take it you have decided at last that I am worthy of your trust?”

“Mayhap,” Avril replied uneasily, not about to reveal the truth.

I have no one else to turn to. Her throat threatened to close. She prayed that she could trust the woman. That Nina truly meant to help her rather than harm her.

“Do not fear, silly utlending.” Nina sighed dramatically. “I would not have gone to this trouble, and come all this way to see you, if I meant to do you ill. My friends and I have been enjoying a private gathering in my vaningshus this evening—”

“Private gathering? You did not attend the celebration?”

Nina laughed as if the very idea were ridiculous. “Nei. I am playing hostess to some of my fellow innfodt women who chose not to attend tonight’s celebration.” She crossed her arms. “Because we see no reason to celebrate.”

“I see,” Avril said warily. “And you have left them in order to speak with me.”

“I told you when we last parted that I would be willing to help you in any way I can.” Nina paused. Her lashes swept downward to conceal her gray eyes, and for a moment, the frost melted from her voice. “I may not be a mother, but I can imagine how you must feel, being separated from your little one.”

Avril finally recognized the emotion that tinged Nina’s voice, the one she had not been able to identify before.

Envy.

“You do not have children of your own?” she asked gently, her heart filling with sympathy for the older woman.

“Do not pity me, utlending.” Nina looked up sharply, her gaze once again cool. “I am quite happy with my life. I am an adoring aunt to my nieces and nephews, I have my work as a jeweler, and I may even have a husband one day—if the best men of Asgard would give up this foolish tradition of bringing home foreign brides.”

“Do you mean you can only choose among the men of Asgard?” Avril asked in confusion. “The women here are not free to venture out and seek foreign husbands?”

“Women are hardly capable of kidnapping men,” Nina scoffed.

“A woman as beautiful as you would hardly need to resort to kidnapping to attract a husband.”

Nina’s red lips curved in a smile. “I do adore flattery. But unfortunately, there are laws and traditions that prevent such—”

“Laws that apply to the women and not to the men?” Avril shook her head. “That is unfair. Mayhap you and your innfodt friends should start a new tradition.”

Nina arched one auburn brow. “What bold ideas you have, little utlending.” She looked away, musing half to herself. “Women going on a Claiming voyage. Mayhap...” Then she flicked one bejeweled hand in an impatient gesture. “This is all most interesting, but you and I really do not have time—”

“Aye,” Avril agreed, glancing over her shoulder again. “As soon as Hauk realizes I have left the festivities without him, he will begin searching for me.” She returned her attention to Nina. “We need to make plans. I want you to take me to Hauk’s boat on the morrow—”

“That may no longer be necessary. As I started to explain, before you began asking so many questions, I discussed your plight with my friends this evening. And one of them told a tale you may find of interest.” She smiled, looking quite pleased with herself. “I believe I have found you another boat, my dear. One that is much closer at hand than Hauk’s.”

Avril gasped, overcome with surprise. With hope.

“Well, do not stand their gaping.” Nina motioned for Avril to join her and started down the street. “We may have little time to spare. Let us be on our way.”

“You mean to take me there now? Tonight?”

“Aye, unless you prefer to take your chances in the western forest.” Turning, Nina planted her hands on her hips. “I for one have no desire to end my days as a wolf’s toothsome tidbit.”

Avril moved forward a step, then paused, looking back. She could still see the glow of the celebration that lit the night sky, could hear the distant strains of music and laughter.

Nina released an exasperated sound. “Do you wish to escape or not?”

“Aye,” Avril said, her voice wavering, before she repeated it more firmly. “Aye.”

“Then come along, my dear.” Nina turned to lead the way through the darkened streets. “If all goes well, you will be leaving Asgard tonight.”

“I do not believe I have ever seen you clean-shaven, Valbrand. Ja, that is what seems different about you.”

“Can a man not change one aspect of his appearance without half of Asgard making comment?” Hauk grumbled, wishing everyone would stop noticing.

Hamar, the ale maker, laughed heartily as he refilled Hauk’s cup. “Nei, not if he has worn a beard for as long as you have.” He scratched at his own thick red whiskers, winking. “But then, a married man must think of his wife, must he not? Ladies are so accursed reluctant to kiss a man with whiskers.”

Hauk muttered an oath into his cup while Hamar moved on with his jug of ale. His uncle Erik, standing beside him, chuckled.

Hauk took a long drink and slanted him a glance. “I am so glad I amuse you, Uncle.”

“So am I,” Erik replied, in an unusually light mood tonight. “I had forgotten how enjoyable an evening such as this could be.”

Hauk scowled, wishing he were having so pleasant a time. It had been torture to sit beside Avril during supper, burning for her while she remained cool and remote and resisted all his attempts at conversation.

If he had dared think he might eventually persuade her to accept her life here, she had disabused him of that notion today. She would never accept Asgard. Or him.

He had taken her away from her child, an innocent little girl who would grow up an orphan because of what he had done—and for that, she could never forgive him. Not that he could blame her.

“You cannot begrudge everyone being happy for you,” Erik commented. “You have lived a solitary life for far too long, out on the cliffs. Our people are surprised and pleased that you have brought a new bride to Asgard. That you might at last have a family of your own.”

Hauk did not reply, seeing no need to explain that there was little chance of that happening. He was not about to discuss the real reason behind his churlish humor tonight, not with his uncle.

Erik Valbrand was normally aloof, stoic, and a rare visitor to such festive events; he was present tonight only because he needed to introduce the English girl, Blythe, to the island’s unmarried men, so that she might choose a husband.

At the moment, Blythe stood beside Keldan’s bride, who was cheering Keldan on in the wrestling matches that had begun after the strength competitions.

Hauk took another swallow from his cup. “My mind has been on my duty tonight, Uncle, not on courting my wife. I should think that would please you.” All night he had been watching the crowd for Thorolf, concerned that the black-eyed knave might come here to cause trouble. But thus far there had been no sign of him.

His uncle turned to regard him with a more serious expression. “You and your new bride seemed to be getting along well enough during supper.”

“We managed to be civil,” Hauk said curtly. “We are not getting along.”

“Indeed? And when do you intend to remedy that?”

Hauk bit back an oath, which only would have been drowned out by the cheers and shouts that rose as Keldan pinned yet another opponent to the ground.

Hauk winced as his bruised and battered friend rose and immediately motioned for the next challenger. Kel was trying to exhaust himself into unconsciousness. Which, as Hauk had tried to point out, would not help at all.

He should know, he thought ruefully—he had tried all day to do the same.

Only Josette would be able to ease poor Keldan’s suffering.

“You must give your wife time,” Erik advised. “Show her care and gentleness. And affection.”

Hauk pierced his uncle with a glare. “That is strange advice, coming from you.”

Erik Valbrand had shown precious little care or gentleness or affection while Hauk was growing up. He had always been determined that Hauk should be strong enough and tough enough not to repeat his father’s mistakes.

Not to chase his father’s dreams.

“Men can change,” Erik said, meeting his accusing glare without flinching. “You can change. You must have a son one day. There must be another Valbrand to carry on the tradition—”

“By all the gods,” Hauk swore, “that word again.”

“Ja. Tradition. One day you may wish to turn your attention to other pursuits, and there must be another ready to take your place and serve as vokter.”

“Are you so dissatisfied with how I have carried out my duties, Uncle?”

“Nei, that is not what I meant.”

“I have no intention of abandoning my post,” Hauk said flatly. “I am not my father. And as for my wife—”

He glanced behind him, to where Avril had been standing the last time he saw her, visiting with Marta and her family.

But she was no longer there.

Turning, he looked around, alarm slicing through him.

She was nowhere to be seen.

Chapter 13

“How am I to know what Thorolf would be doing with a boat?” Nina said in an impatient voice. “Do we really care to pause and ask questions at this moment?”

Avril stood blinking in the moonlight, barely able to believe what lay before her on the rugged strip of shoreline. She stared, speechless, her heart soaring at her good fortune.

Nina continued throwing aside branches and underbrush to reveal a small sailing vessel—single-masted, shallow-keeled, with a curving prow and stern. Mayhap a fishing boat, or a pleasure craft meant for rivers and lakes. It was about twenty paces long, sitting partly in the water. And it looked new.

“Mayhap Thorolf wished to take up fishing. He is always searching for some new way to amuse himself.” Nina found a heavy anchor stone that had been used to keep the boat from drifting out with the tide. “My friend sometimes comes to this secluded stretch of beach with her”—she flicked a look at Avril—”favorite companion, and she mentioned that the two of them saw Thorolf here late last night.”

As Avril moved closer, Nina started tugging at the rope knotted around the stone. “My friend said that Thorolf kept looking around nervously, as if afraid someone might see him. She could not think of what a man like him would be doing sneaking about the shore at such an hour, unless he was breaking one of our laws—”

“Such as the one against leaving Asgard.” Avril pulled back a length of canvas flung over the stern, uncovering a jumble of supplies. “Look at all of these barrels and chests, and baskets of food and...” She opened the lid of one trunk, to find it gleaming with jewels and coins. “He has a king’s ransom in riches here.”

“Is there drinking water?”

Avril uncorked a flask. “Aye. But what could he—”

“Good. That is all you will need for your voyage.” Nina tossed the anchor rope aside and placed both hands on the stern. “You must promise me you will not tell anyone about Asgard, little utlending, or ever try to return here. You must keep our secret.”

“Aye, of course, you have my word. But I cannot go tonight.” Avril was paralyzed by fear as she looked out across the black sea, toward the distant fog and those towering rocks that stood ready to block her way. “I will leave in the daylight, on the morrow—”

“The boat could be gone by the morrow. There is no telling when Thorolf might move it. Whatever his purpose, he would not risk leaving it here for long—”

“But I would have to be mad to try to sail through those rocks in the dark!”

“The moon and stars are bright enough to guide you. And there is an easy passage at this part of the shoreline—just there.” Nina pointed to a towering pair of twin stones that poked up through the mist. “Aim for that spot and you will be free in a trice.”

Avril’s pulse seemed to roar in her ears, louder than the surf. Free. From the moment she had first awakened in Hauk’s bed, she had hoped and planned for this moment—but now the ocean and the jagged fangs of rock looked impossibly huge, and the boat so small.

She glanced up at the deserted cliffs high above her. She and Nina had been careful to slip out through the back streets, but their walk from town had taken less than half an hour. And Hauk was no doubt looking for her already. If he came this way—

“Utlending, there is no time for second thoughts,” Nina said emphatically. “You may never get another chance like this.”

Taking a deep breath, Avril turned and planted both hands on the port side of the stern.

“Finally.” Nina huffed. “Now push, little utlending. Push!”

“Aye aye, mon capitaine,” Avril muttered under her breath. Every muscle in her arms and shoulders and back hurt as she threw all her weight against the boat. Slowly she felt it sliding across the sand, one inch at a time. Straining with all their might, side by side, she and Nina managed to shove the small craft farther out into the water.

It slid forward, bobbing on the waves. Scrambling to keep her grip on the side, Avril sloshed through the shallows, grabbed the railing, and pulled herself up and over. She landed with a wet splat on the flat wooden thwarts that served as seats. “Nina”—she looked back over the railing—”in which direction am I to sail? Which way is it to the continent?”

“Southeast, of course.” Nina gave the boat one last shove. “You should reach your homeland in three days.”

Avril would have to trust that she was telling the truth about the direction, since she was telling the truth about the distance. “Thank you.” Sitting up, Avril took hold of the tiller, her heart thrumming with anxiety and excitement and gratitude and the first real hope she had felt in days. “I know you are breaking your laws by helping me.”

“Do not worry for me, utlending.” Nina almost had to shout to be heard over the crashing waves. “No one will know that I had aught to do with this. My friends are not about to hand me over to the council of elders.” Her smile flashed in the moonlight. “And in a few days, after Hauk accepts that you have truly escaped, I will go and console him. Now off with you. Quickly.” After a moment, she added, “The gods be with you and carry you safely to your daughter.”

Nina picked up her wet, ruined silk skirts with regal grace and hurried back toward shore.

Avril turned her attention forward, shivering from the icy water that soaked her gown, her stomach bobbing as violently as the boat. She had sailed often in her youth—but never alone on a three-day journey across the open sea. She had counted on having a crew of other women to help her.

She had counted on Josette.

Swallowing hard, she snatched up a rope and lashed the tiller to the railing to keep the ship on a steady course. She did not need anyone’s help. She would manage alone.

Quickly, one last time, she looked back, anguished that she had not even had a chance to bid her friend farewell. “Adieu, Josette,” she whispered. “Be happy.” Closing her eyes, she offered a quick prayer for her.

And added a plea that she herself would reach home and Giselle safely.

Then she stood and picked her way forward across the thwarts to take up the oars. Sitting amidships, she slid each oar into its pivot and started pulling on the smooth wooden handles.

But the tide was so strong, it felt as if she were trying to move a full-size warship all by herself. Her arms and back ached and her bare hands stung after only a few strokes. She kept at it, hauling on the oars, teeth clenched.

Yet all her work scarcely moved the boat forward a dozen yards.

She stopped trying to row, hanging her head, panting for breath. The boat was too large for a woman to manage alone. Too heavy to make any headway against the surf. She shut her eyes, unwilling to believe she had come this far only to be halted by the very ship that should be carrying her home.

Home to Giselle.

Her petite papillon, her sweet little butterfly... who might be crying herself to sleep even now, praying that her maman would return to her.

Avril lifted her head, flooded with determination. She would not let anything keep her from her little girl. Raising the oars, she pulled them back into the boat. Then she hurried aft, to the supplies Thorolf had stowed aboard.

He had lashed them in place. She yanked on the ropes and started dumping the chests and sacks and barrels over the side. One after another they hit the surface and sank. She was careful to keep the food and drinking water, but sent his riches and all the rest to the bottom of the bay.

The boat sat higher on the waves by the time she finished. When she reclaimed her place at the oars, she discovered to her relief that the lightened ship moved much faster over the water. Rowing still made her muscles painfully sore, but she began to gain distance from the beach.

With every rhythmic splash of the wooden poles against the water, Asgard faded into the night behind her, the island becoming naught but a dim shadow as she left it behind.

Left him behind.

She would never see Hauk Valbrand again.

Instead of bringing relief or happiness, that thought left her feeling strangely hollow inside. The idea of never again seeing one of Hauk’s slow, reluctant smiles, or hearing his husky voice, or being surprised by his gentleness, or losing herself in the heat of his kiss filled her with a confusing tangle of emotions.

She would miss him. It made no sense at all, but she would miss the man who had brought her here against her will and held her captive.

Glancing over her shoulder, she refused to think on it further. She was halfway between the shore and the fog-enshrouded rocks now. It was time to let out the sail. After taking in the oars, she leaped up and took a firm hold on the leech lines, yanking them free. The rectangular sail unfurled with a smooth snap and caught the wind.

Avril ducked under the foot of the sail as it swung around. The boat heeled hard onto its port beam, the rail dipping toward the sea. Struggling to keep her balance, she grabbed one of the halyards and made her way aft. She untied the rope she had knotted around the tiller and took a seat, using the halyard to hold the sail in place while grasping the tiller with her other hand.

Salty air and splashing, icy spray chilled her face and hands. The wind felt much colder this far out—and stronger. For a moment, she regretted throwing all of Thorolf’s belongings overboard. She should have thought to look for a cloak and gloves. She did not want to escape the island only to die of exposure.

It was hard to remember that it was autumn everywhere else, after experiencing the summery warmth of Asgard.

But she could not regret the speed she had gained. In full sail, the lightened boat glided over the waves as fast as a skate over the ice. And it was not as hard as she had expected to control both the sail and the tiller. She guided the boat toward the twin rocks Nina had pointed out.

With the sea breeze tangling her hair and the island now far behind her, Avril felt a rush of confidence.

Then the first tendrils of fog curled around the boat.

And the circle of dark, giant rocks loomed ahead of her all at once—much faster than she had anticipated. With a stab of alarm, she suddenly realized her mistake.

Dumping Thorolf’s supplies had helped her escape the pull of the tide, but without the extra ballast, the shallow-keeled boat was moving so fast that she would not have time to plot a safe path through the fog and the rocks, into the open passage.

She lunged for the sheets and leech lines to take up the sail. But before she could reach them, the wind shifted abruptly, sending the ship heeling over onto its opposite beam. Avril cried out, tumbling, the lines torn from her grip. The fog closed in, as swift and thick as a January blizzard. It blotted out the moon and stars. Left her in darkness.

Another gust of wind howled through the rocks and the boat skipped sideways, like a stone tossed over the waves by a mischievous child. She grabbed the rudder and held on with both hands. It fought her grasp like a living thing.

A fierce, cold draft blew in from leeward and she heard the sail rip. Looked up to see a towering wall of stone looming out of the mist off her starboard rail. A terrified oath tore from her. She threw her full weight against the tiller.

But she could not change course fast enough.

“Mercy of God!”

The boat’s side sheared along the rock. She felt the entire vessel shudder with the impact. Heard wood scraping. Splintering. And still the treacherous winds forced the battered craft onward.

Avril could barely see through the cloak of fog—but she felt water sloshing around her feet.

Water bubbling in through a hole in the boat’s side.

Stark terror drenched her. She relinquished her hold on the tiller, ran forward, and tore a gaping section of the sail’s canvas free from the snarl of lines. She stuffed it in the breach, desperately trying to staunch the flow of the sea into the boat’s wounded side.

For an instant, she thought of shouting for help—but knew she was too far from the island. The shore was deserted. No one would hear her.

And nay, she would not give up! Not while there was even a chance she might escape. She could do this!

For Giselle’s sake, she could—

Before she even completed the thought, a huge wave snatched the boat up like a toy, tossing it high and letting it fall. Avril felt herself dropping with the boat, heard her own scream fill the darkness.

A rock shattered the hull in two and Avril felt pain explode through her body. She hit the water, plunging into the depths with the broken remains of her ship. Stunned by the impact, she floated downward. Then panic made her fight the icy blackness.

She clawed her way to the surface. Broke above the waves and gasped one breath of salty air and fog and water before the merciless ocean overpowered her and pushed her under again.

Dear God, help me! She grabbed a piece of wood, bobbed upward, but her muscles felt limp. Her body blazed with agony. She could not hang on. Her gown was too heavy, dragging her downward, the water so cold, her arms too weak from rowing.

From somewhere deep inside her, a panicked, desperate plea filled her mind and heart and soul. Hauk, help me!

Hauk jerked Ildfast to a halt so suddenly that the startled destrier reared and danced sideways.

By Thor’s hammer, what was that? It had sounded like Avril’s voice.

As clear as if she were riding beside him. Breathing hard, he looked around in the darkness, saw only the silent cliffs, the sea far below. Heard only the wind and the distant sounds of the celebration in the night air.

But he swore he had heard Avril calling him.

Calling for help.

The fury and annoyance that had gripped him from the moment he found her missing abruptly shifted. To a far more disturbing, unfamiliar feeling.

Fear.

He dug his heels into the stallion’s flanks, set off at a gallop along the cliff’s edge, back toward town. He had checked his vaningshus, thinking she had simply gone home without him. Josette had suggested that as the most likely possibility when he questioned her.

But Hauk had not found his troublesome bride there. Or on the beach below.

And now another possibility lanced through him: Thorolf.

Hauk had not seen the knave at the celebration. Could not imagine him walking up and snatching Avril from the middle of the crowd. She would have screamed. Someone would have noticed. Everyone would have noticed. He would have noticed. He had been keeping close watch over her until he had been drawn into arguing with his uncle.

Avril would never have gone with Thorolf willingly. But if the whoreson had gotten his hands on her somehow, if he had hurt—

Hauk, help me.

Choking out a curse, Hauk yanked Ildfast to a halt again, his heart beating violently, his pulse thundering in his ears.

That was no trick of the wind! He had heard her clearly.

Not only heard her but... felt her. Felt a crashing wave of pain and icy terror and helplessness that washed over him—and vanished just as suddenly.

Shaken, trembling in the grip of those feelings, he could not pause to question where in the name of all the gods the unnerving sensation had come from. Or how it was possible.

Because in that moment, he felt—knew—where she was.

His gaze was drawn to the fog-cloaked sea, to a distant point off the coast, north of town.

She was not with Thorolf.

She was out there. Alone. Helpless. Hurt.

He swore viciously and struck his boots against Ildfast’s sides, sending the destrier leaping forward into a headlong, rock-spewing gallop. Hauk did not follow the road back to town, did not veer from the cliffs. Did not take his eyes from that spot offshore.

And did not hear her again.

He felt an icy numbness fill his veins and could not tell if the feeling was hers or his own. Racing along the cliffs at a lethally fast speed, he found an ancient footpath. He pulled hard on Ildfast’s reins, threw himself from the saddle, and ran down the steep trail in the darkness until he reached the shore.

In the moonlight, he could see fresh footprints—two pairs. They led him to a jumble of underbrush, tree branches. And an abandoned anchor stone. A boat of some kind had been scraped across the sand.

What boat? How had she—

It did not matter now. She was out there, in trouble.

She might already be dead.

He kicked off his boots, looking out at the distant, fog-enshrouded rocks. It was too far. Too far to swim in the icy water. Especially at night. If fatigue did not finish him, the cold would. If he did not become confused in the darkness and drown first.

He threw his belt and weapons to the sand, ran for the water, and dove in.

With all his strength, he stroked through the waves, heading straight out from the place where the boat had been launched. Ignoring the cold that seeped into his bones, ignoring the powerful pull of the tide, he aimed himself at the rocks like an arrow.

Halfway to the wreath of fog, several hundred yards from shore, he began encountering wreckage. Chunks of shattered oak planking. A broken oar. The curving top of the prow.

“Avril!” he shouted, talons of fear sinking into him. “Avril! Where are you?”

There was no answer from the darkness. No way to know where the ship had foundered.

Or if she had survived.

He forced that possibility to the back of his mind. Kept swimming. Slashing through the cold depths. Faster. Farther out, where the wind picked up, the surf became brutal. Waves pushed him back until he was exhausted from fighting them and cold air stole every breath he gasped. By the time he reached the fog, his lungs burned and his strength was nearly spent.

“Avril!”

He did not hear—or feel—any response. Could not see her anywhere. Could not see at all as he kept going, swimming deeper into the fog that choked all light from the moon and stars. The savage winds here gave him as much trouble as the treacherous current.

And when he paused to call her name again, a black wave surged over him from out of the darkness. Plucked him up like a leaf. And carried him backward, slamming him into a rock. Sharp pain exploded through his side.

He slid below the surface, awash in agony. But even as the sea closed over his head, he furiously clung to life, reaching out to the very rock that had injured him, using it to drag himself back to the surface.

Lifting his head above water, he gasped for air. Every breath was torture. Broken ribs. He had felt the pain before. But identifying the source of the agony did not ease it. He tried forcing it to a distant corner of his mind but could not even breathe deeply enough to call out again.

Frustration and fear surged through him, colder and sharper than the wind and waves.

Avril! He did not know if it would work, how it could work, but he tried reaching out to her with his thoughts, with the riot of feelings inside him. In the name of whatever god you hold dear, where are—

Hauk...

Her voice this time was a scant, feeble whisper through his mind, like a tendril of mist. But he struck out in the direction it came from, swimming as well as he could across the water, his muscles and broken ribs objecting to every stroke and kick.

Finally he saw her—a small, dark form clinging to one of the rocks, barely visible above the waves.

Relief flooded through him. Relief and another emotion he did not have time to think about.

She was barely conscious, her dress ripped, her skin bloodied and bruised. She had found an outcropping to hold onto, clinging to it in a death grip, her other arm wrapped around a piece of the ship’s thick mast. When he touched her, tried to ease her into his arms, she moaned in pain, would not release her grasp on the rock.

“Let go, Avril,” he choked out. “I am with you. Let go.”

A terrified, helpless sob wracked her—but the wind and the fog swallowed even that sharp, broken sound. She let him pull her toward him.

Treading water, Hauk grabbed the piece of mast, grateful for any help he could get. Avril was shuddering with cold, as was he. Swimming out this far had been difficult enough. He did not know how they could survive the journey back.

Did not know if he had enough strength left to battle the waves for both of them.

Avril choked on a mouthful of water, gasped and coughed and thought she felt sand beneath her cheek.

Finally she opened her eyes. It was indeed sand. Grainy. Rough. She was on dry land. Dry, solid, blessed land! For a soaring, dizzying moment, all she knew was that she was alive.

And freezing.

It was still dark out. She tried to push herself up, but pain lanced through her body. Her every muscle hurt, her limbs stabbed by agony that wrenched a groan from her lips. She was shaking with bone-deep cold, her gown and hair soaked and dripping.

And somehow she had gotten all tangled up in rigging attached to a large section of the ship’s planking. How had she...

She did not remember finding the makeshift raft. Or tying herself to it.

Slowly, dizzy with the pain, she managed to sit up and untangle herself from the knotted lines. Turning her head to look behind her, at the moonlit waves lapping the shore, she realized all at once that her escape had failed.

But before she could feel more than a single, piercing jolt of defeat and sorrow, she saw Hauk—sprawled in the sand a few yards up the beach.

He lay on his back, one arm flung out to the side.

God’s breath. Had he saved her? Stumbling to her feet, she staggered over to him. Had he swum all that distance in the icy water? Risked his life to save hers?

“Hauk?”

He did not stir, did not respond. Dropping to her knees in the sand beside him, she touched his face.

And realized he did not seem to be breathing. “Sweet holy Mary.” She gasped, shifting her hand to his throat. “Hauk? Hauk!”

She could not find a pulse. Her own heart racing, she pressed her ear to his chest. Struggled to listen over the pounding of the surf. She thought she heard a single, faint beat.

But then she could hear naught more.

He was dead.

Shouting a wordless sound of horror, she straightened with a jerk, grasped his shoulders. “Hauk, wake up!” His skin was cold. She tried shaking him. “Damn you, Norseman, wake up! Wake up!” She slapped him. Could not rouse him.

He remained limp.

He had not risked his life saving her—he had lost his life saving her.

“Dear God!” she cried, lurching to her feet, shaking her head wildly. “Help! Someone—”

It was no use.

It was too late.

A sob rose from deep in her chest, full of a pain sharper than the physical hurt that wrenched her body. Dazed, mad with confusion and denial and disbelief, she looked up and saw his horse on the cliff. Heart pumping, she ran toward the footpath, stumbling, her vision blurred by inexplicable tears. She had to get help. This could not be happening! He could not be dead. If she could get help—

“Avril!”

She staggered to a halt, stunned by the sound of that familiar voice behind her. Icy fingers skidded up her spine, lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

Unable to speak, unable to breathe, she slowly turned around.

And saw Hauk sitting up. Slowly, struggling, he got to his feet.

Her mouth opened, but no sound would come out. She felt naught in that moment but the tears running down her face—tears she had shed for him.

Because he had died.

His features etched with pain, he walked toward her. “Avril? Are you all right?” He moved slowly, kept one hand pressed to his side—but he was very much alive.

“I-I...” She felt dizzy. She felt faint. “I-I am dreaming!” When she started to back away from him, he took her arm.

His grip was as strong as ever. His skin warm against hers. His eyes the same sky blue. His voice deep and steady. “You are not dreaming. You have been through a confusing ordeal—”

“But y-you were—”

“Avril—”

“Nay!” Terrified by what she had seen and heard and felt, she tried to pull away from him. “You were not breathing! I could not hear your heartbeat. You were—”

“Calm yourself—”

“You were dead!” Too many impossible facts crashed together all at once and sent the world spinning around her.

Suddenly she was no longer aware of the pain in her limbs or the weakness in her muscles or aught but a sensation of falling into darkness.

And Hauk catching her in his strong arms.

Chapter 14

Hauk kicked the door shut behind him and carried Avril across his darkened vaningshus, pain stabbing his side in sharp bursts that made spots dance before his eyes. Every breath he gulped burned his lungs like fire, and a savage headache pounded between his temples with the force of Odin throwing angry thunderbolts. But he managed to reach the bed, lay her down gently before he sank onto the mattress beside her, gripping one of the bedposts to keep himself from lying down.

Grimacing, he gingerly probed his ribs, could not understand why or how he had awakened from the langvarig sovn trance before his injuries were fully healed.

But there was no time to question it. His heart pounding, he rose unsteadily to start a fire on the hearth. He had to care for Avril’s wounds before seeing to his own. He would recover.

She might not.

When the flames glowed bright enough for him to see in the night-blackened chamber, he returned to her side.

He could not tell how badly she was hurt, did not know if she had fainted from her injuries—or from shock. Quickly he worked the soaked, bloodied gown downward from her shoulders, tugging at the sodden laces. In truth, he felt grateful that she was unconscious at the moment. Not only because she would object to his disrobing her.

But because he did not look forward to persuading her that she had not witnessed what she had witnessed.

Anger crowded in on the pain that ravaged his senses. Anger at her—and at himself. He had had no choice, out in that freezing water, had not possessed strength enough to save her and himself. But the shock of seeing his miraculous recovery had been too much for her.

It was too soon to entrust her with the truth about Asgard and its people. She had been here only a few days. Had not yet had time to adjust. She was still determined to escape the island. To escape him.

So determined that she had taken an insane risk and almost gotten herself killed.

For that, he could only blame himself, he thought blackly, pulling her ruined garment down her body and tossing it to the floor. He never should have allowed her to leave his side. Not for a moment.

Seeing her flawless, pale skin in the firelight—now bruised and cut and bloodied—brought a sharp pain to his chest, far worse than the throbbing in his side and his head. It hit him like a battering ram, this brutal reminder of how fragile, how tenuous her life was.

How inevitable it was that he would lose her.

He turned away, his throat burning. Not only from the seawater he had swallowed, but from unwelcome emotions that choked him. Feelings he did not want to name.

Damn her for putting her life in danger.

He moved to a nearby trunk, dug out a thick linen towel, then sat beside her once more. Careful not to wake her, he gently brushed the soft fabric over her skin, trying to dry and warm her while he checked for broken bones.

To his relief, he found none. Some of the scrapes and cuts were deep, and he found several large, angry bruises, but her injuries did not appear life-threatening. She had been fortunate. This time.

Cold fear slid through him at the thought of what could have happened when the ship went down.

Forcing aside the gut-churning image, he pulled the bedcovers over her to keep her warm and then stood up—too fast.

Stabs of agony stole his breath. He grabbed the nearest bedpost, swaying on his feet. He pressed one hand to his rib cage and crossed to the far side of the chamber, to a chest near the corner where he kept his foodstuffs. Shoving aside the wedding gifts piled on top, he hunted inside until he found a bag of dried herbs and an earthen jar of salve.

As he made his way back through the darkness, he heard her stir, heard her moan in pain.

The sound went through him like a blade. His own injuries forgotten, he returned to the bed quickly.

“Lie still,” he ordered as he sat next to her, his voice rough. “You are hurt. Lie still and let me help you.”

Still asleep, she kept moving her head restlessly, her wet hair almost black against the pillow. Then her lashes fluttered open.

When she looked up and saw him, her pupils constricted to black pinpricks in the firelight. She started to sit up, only to gasp in pain—then she abruptly seemed to realize she was naked beneath the blankets.

He resisted the urge to hold her still, knowing his touch might upset her further. “Avril, calm yourself. You are all right—”

“W-what happened?” She lay back down, staring at him. “You were—”

“What?” he asked innocently. “Will you please cease looking at me as if I were a ghost?”

“I-I thought you were dead.”

Hauk uttered a scoffing sound, and at the same time he felt relief. Her voice was clear and steady, which helped reassure him that her injuries were not serious—and she seemed more worried for him than afraid of him.

“Obviously I was not,” he said dryly, setting the bandages and herbs on the bedside table and opening the jar of salve, “or I would not be sitting here beside you, would I?”

Her brow furrowed.

For once, he felt grateful that Avril was a woman of keen intelligence. She could not argue with simple logic.

He only wished he knew what she was thinking—and he wondered what in the name of Loki had happened to the connection he had felt between them earlier. When her life had been in danger, he had experienced her thoughts, her emotions.

Now he could not tell what she was feeling.

“I could not find your pulse,” she said a bit uncertainly. “I listened for your heartbeat—”

“And you were distraught from your ordeal. And in pain. Mayhap you had seawater in your ears.” He shrugged as if it were all nonsense, took her hand, and gently started applying the salve to her cuts and scrapes. “With the surf so loud, I am surprised you could hear at all. Avril, you need to sleep now.”

He met her gaze, silently willing her to stop asking questions and get the rest she urgently needed.

Blinking up at him with those keen emerald eyes, she was the picture of abject confusion.

And stubbornness. She kept trying to sort out the conflicting evidence. “I tried shaking you,” she said slowly. “I even slapped you.”

He glanced away. So that was why he had roused too soon. “We both blacked out. You awoke first.” He took her other hand, applying the salve lightly, gently to her palm, her arm, her shoulder. “And your manhandling succeeded in waking me.”

Setting the salve down, he wove his fingers through hers, entwining their hands. “Could a dead man touch you like this?” he asked in a deep, soft voice.

Spots of bright pink colored her pale cheeks, and a more familiar wariness replaced the bewilderment in her eyes.

She pulled her hand from his, turning her face away, toward the closed shutters.

“I am... grateful that you are all right,” she said haltingly. “Thank you for saving my life, Hauk.” She gathered the covers to her chin. “How did you find me? How did you know where I was, out there in the fog?”

“I heard you calling for help.” His heart thudded at the memory, and he quickly changed the subject before either of them could further examine that strange facet of their ordeal. “It is not important now. I need you to tell me if this hurts.” He lifted the blanket, lightly touched a particularly angry bruise on her stomach.

She flinched away and squeezed her eyes shut.

Her pain at the gentle brush of his fingertips made his gut wrench tight. “You will be all right, Avril, I promise. All you need is to sleep and let yourself heal.” He picked up the jar of salve. “I will take care of you.”

Her lashes fluttered open, but she kept her face turned away. Her lower lip quivered. “I do not want you to take care of me. I can—”

“Take care of yourself?” he asked tightly. “So you have said. But I believe your ill-advised adventure tonight proves you wrong.” His anger simmered again. “What were you thinking, woman? What made you believe you could sail through that maze of rocks and fog by yourself? You could have—”

“Escaped,” she whispered, her voice wavering.

He swallowed the rest of his rebuke, equally maddened and impressed by her courage. Her determination.

Her unwavering devotion to her plan to leave him.

“You cannot do everything alone,” he said gruffly. Looking down at his headstrong bride, snuggled safely in his bed, he felt a wave of protectiveness. She needed someone to take care of her, this tempestuous, vulnerable, reckless lady.

She needed him.

Whether she wanted to admit it or not.

Gently, being careful of her modesty, he pulled the blankets aside a bit further, so he could continue applying the healing salve. She flinched, then remained absolutely still. And silent.

He touched her without speaking, not even allowing himself to think as he treated her cuts and scrapes. Working briskly, he finished in a matter of moments.

And felt as if every beautiful inch of her had been branded onto his hands.

After drawing the covers back over her, he set the jar down on the table—a bit too sharply—and stood up, fighting another wave of dizziness. Biting back a pained curse, he stepped toward the hearth and reached for a small copper cookpot.

He filled it with fresh rainwater from the barrel and then suspended it from a hook over the fire.

“Tell me, Avril,” he said when he trusted himself to speak evenly, “how did you come to be in possession of a boat?”

For a moment, he did not think she would answer.

“I found it,” she said evasively.

Hauk picked up the bag of herbs and took a cup from its place on the shelf. “And how did you happen to find a boat?”

She remained silent.

“Avril, I saw two sets of footprints. Who helped you?” He glanced over his shoulder at her.

She regarded him with a familiar, mutinous spark in her eyes. “I am not going to tell you. I do not think the person who helped me deserves to be punished for it.”

“I beg to differ,” he said with a growl. “Whoever was trying to help the vokter’s bride leave Asgard needs to have a few of our laws explained to him. By the vokter.”

Her gaze shifted to the weapons displayed behind him on the wall. “Now I am definitely not going to tell you.”

He muttered an oath but decided not to press her further until she was well. Turning back to the hearth, he used an iron poker to tip the steaming cookpot and pour hot water into the cup. Then he scooped a spoonful of herbs into it and sat on the edge of the bed.

He slid a hand beneath Avril’s pillow to support her head, holding the cup to her lips. “Drink this.”

Sniffing at it, she made a face and hesitated.

“I hardly intend to poison you,” he said dryly, “after spending half this night in freezing water trying to save your life and earning a few broken ribs for my trouble. Drink.”

Eyes narrowing at his scolding, she took a sip. She wrinkled her nose at the taste but drained the cup without protest.

He let her head down gently, then moved back to the hearth, where he made a second cup of the brew for himself, sighing. “Avril, you are my wife—”

“Your captive,” she corrected quietly.

“On second thought, poisoning you does possess a certain appeal.” He gulped a mouthful of the tea, felt it burn down his throat. “You are the most stubborn, most troublesome female I have ever—”

“If you find me disagreeable,” she suggested lightly, “you could let me go.”

“Nay. That I can never do.” He scowled at her. “Do you understand what that word means? Never.” He set the cup on the table with a crack that echoed through the dark chamber.

Stalking away from her, into a far corner, he peeled off his still-damp leggings, toweled dry, and changed into a fresh pair.

Then he returned to the bed.

And lay down on the other side.

It was mayhap a measure of how tired she was or how much pain she was in that she did not object.

Even if she had, he thought in annoyance, he was not going to spend the night on the floor. Not when he had broken ribs. He remained atop the covers. And it was a large bed. There was ample distance between them.

“I have been too lenient with you,” he said, half to himself. “It is time to cease this foolishness about escape, once and for all. You are my wife, you will not be leaving, and you must accept that.”

“I will never stop trying to get home,” she whispered fiercely. “I cannot stay here. And I do not want to be your wife.”

“Indeed, milady?” he asked mockingly, turning his head to stare at her across the pillows. “Were those not tears I saw in your eyes, tonight on the beach, when you thought I was dead?”

She looked away, toward the hearth. “Nei.”

He grimaced up at the rafters. “I should have known that would be the first word of Norse you learned to use.”

“If you thought you saw tears,” she said stiffly, “it must have been seawater. Mayhap it affected my eyes as well as my hearing.”

Hauk responded only with an irritated grumble, too tired to argue with her any more. Too tired even to feel any stirrings at sharing a bed with his wife for the first time, lying so close to her lush, naked body. Separated from her only by the covers.

Which was a sign of just how badly he needed sleep, he thought blackly. He closed his eyes and lay still, drifting downward into soothing darkness.

Until he heard quiet, snuffling sounds from her side of the bed.

He opened his eyes, glanced toward her. Her whole body was trembling.

“Avril?” Alarm shot through him. “What is wrong?”

She kept her face turned away, lifted a hand to cover her eyes.

And he realized she was not suffering a spasm of pain.

She was crying. Struggling to hold back tears.

“Y-you are... right,” she said hoarsely, a tortured breath escaping with each word. “I may never... be able to leave here. I may never see my home or... my daughter again.”

A single, deep sob slipped out.

Hauk could not move, felt as if his limbs were held fast by iron bonds. It was the first time he had heard her admit even the possibility of defeat.

But he did not feel relief that she was facing the facts at last. The sight of her in despair, lying there alone and hurt and fighting so hard to keep it all inside, tore at him. Made him hate himself—almost as much as she must hate him for taking her away from her little girl.

And suddenly the tears overwhelmed her, wrenching sobs that she could not hold back, though she buried her face in both hands.

Hauk did not know what to do, did not know how he could comfort her.

But he could not lie there in silence while she suffered alone. He reached out, touched her shoulder.

And instead of flinching away or cursing him as he had expected, she allowed him to pull her close, just as she had in the water earlier tonight.

He gathered her to him with the blankets, offering her his strength and his silence, stunned that she would accept solace from the very man responsible for her pain.

She cried her tears against his chest, her body shaking with the force of her sorrow, and he shut his eyes, burned by each salty droplet.

He could not allow her to continue suffering this way. Damn him to Hel, he had taken vows to protect and care for her and see to her happiness—and he had failed at every one. In trying to spare himself misery and torment, he had inflicted both on her.

For her sake, and her safety, he had to persuade her to accept what could not be changed. Had to do what all the other grooms on Asgard had been doing the past several days.

Begin wooing his wife. With care and gentleness and affection.

Not only because of the vows he had taken—but because he had been lying to himself, mayhap from the very beginning. From that moment on the streetcorner in Antwerp when she had knocked him off balance and left him breathless.

She had been making him feel that same way every moment since.

And it was useless to keep trying to convince himself that he could keep his distance from her, that he had no feelings for her. That he could somehow have this fierce, enchanting lady in his home and in his life and even in his bed and yet... keep her out of his heart.

Because she was already there.

Odin help him, she was already there.

The pain was gone. That was the first thing Avril became aware of as she slowly awakened. Her last memory was of feeling shattered and hurt, but now she felt rested, whole.

Safe.

Mayhap because she was still lying in Hauk’s arms.

That made her open her eyes with a start. The first glimmer of dawn had crept in through cracks in the shutters, forcing its way into the dark vaningshus and lightening the room’s shadows. She did not move, realizing he was still asleep. He lay with one arm beneath her pillow, the other a slack, heavy weight over her waist. She could feel his chest rising and falling evenly beneath her cheek, his breath soft in her hair.

His heavily muscled body felt solid and warm against hers, even with the blankets wrapped around her.

For a moment, she let herself remain there. Just for a moment. Let herself feel enveloped by his strength and warmth. It had been such a long time since she had allowed herself to be held like this. Allowed a man to soothe and protect her.

And care for her.

She blinked hard as the faint morning light blurred in her vision, remembering how he had nearly lost his life saving her last night. Her heartbeat unsteady, she lifted her head, looking at his bronzed, chiseled features, so peaceful in sleep.

A tingling ache filled her as she remembered all that had happened, how the terror of almost drowning had left her so disoriented, she had mistakenly thought he was dead. How she had felt such sorrow in that moment, she had cried for him.

Then later turned to him for comfort when she felt so full of despair.

And he had offered the solace she sought. Gently, silently. Was he even aware of how tender he could be?

Closing her eyes, she rested her cheek against his chest, reluctant to leave his arms, to resume their endless battle of wills.

Saints’ breath, if only he were a barbarian, a brutal Viking raider with no honor and a heart of ice. It would have been so easy to hate him.

Instead he was a man of courage and intelligence, devoted to protecting his homeland and his people. So honorable and maddening and... tender.

And hatred did not number among the feelings she had for him.

She opened her eyes, her heart beating too fast. God in Heaven, what was wrong with her? She was acting like a woman who had lost her wits, like a woman...

She stiffened, remembering Josette’s comment about the early days of her marriage to Gerard, how she had fallen in love with him slowly, almost without noticing.

Trembling, she pulled away from Hauk, trying to quickly unwrap herself from his hold and the twisted blankets. He made a sound in his sleep and his arm flexed around her, pulling her closer again. She uttered a whimper of distress and he opened his eyes.

She held her breath, mortifyingly aware that her efforts to get free had only bared her to the waist. Her breasts were flattened against his chest, softness against steely muscle, pale ivory against bronzed darkness.

He blinked, waking rapidly, his eyes uncommonly blue in the scant, gray illumination of morning.

“Are you all right?” His voice was soft, low. Husky with sleep.

“Aye. The pain is gone.”

She almost clarified that she meant her physical pain but did not want to remind him of the other, deeper pain that had made her sob in his arms last night.

Instead, she tried to sound calm. Unaffected by his embrace. “You can let me go now.”

He did not speak, that azure gaze tracing over her face, her hair, her mouth.

Her pulse started thrumming. She had seen that look before. “Hauk—”

“Nay,” he said slowly. “I cannot.” His lips brushed over her temple, his voice deep and quiet. “I do not want to let you go.”

Something in his tone stole her breath away. “Hauk... please...” Instead of sounding calm and cool, as she intended, the words came out wavering. Hot.

“Nay, sweet wife.” His hand moved up her back in a slow caress. “Not until I have shown you how a proper Asgard husband bids his bride good morning.”

“But you are not—”

His lips stole her protest, covering hers in a gentle kiss that quickly deepened. His fingers threaded into her hair, urging her head back until her lips parted beneath his, allowing for slow thrusts of his tongue that sent her senses spinning. She breathed him in, tasted him—spicy and potent and male. Even as she flattened her hands against his chest, she knew that the trembling in her body had naught to do with protest.

And he seemed to know it too. A sound of passionate approval rumbled beneath her palms. And when he finally lifted his head, she could feel his body rigid with strain against hers.

“You—” She could not utter more than that one word before he kissed her again, a light, teasing kiss this time. “—are not—” A rain of teasing kisses left her dizzy. “—my h-h—”

“Husband.”

Avril could not voice a denial—because what she saw in his eyes robbed her of her ability to speak. Or breathe.

She saw yearning that matched her own, saw the same caring and need she felt for him. And such tenderness.

And passion that darkened his pale-blue eyes to a color like the sky lit by the sun’s hottest rays.

It was the look she had seen in her dreams.

She could not utter a sound.

“Avril...” Still lying on his side, holding her close with one arm, he moved his other hand to caress her cheek. “There is no shame in needing what you need... what I need. There is no point in being alone when we could be...” He slowly drew her mouth toward his.

Still he did not kiss her, pausing, his lips so close to hers that she felt his breath as he completed the sentence.

“Together.”

He awaited her reply. She shuddered and closed her eyes, hearing a far different note in his voice than she had ever heard before. Request. Entreaty. As if he were not demanding that she accept him, but asking.

“Together,” she whispered, all the longing in her heart spilling into that one word.

She heard a low moan that might have been hers or his or both. He kissed her, his broad hands cupping her face, holding her still while he sampled and explored her mouth in the most leisurely, arousing way, as if he meant to spend the entire morning learning her taste.

She shivered at the feel of his stubbled, unshaven jaw abrading her skin. The heat of his bare chest against her breasts. God’s mercy, she should feel afraid of what was happening between them—of what was about to happen. Instead she felt herself melting against him, afire with sensations that each movement of his lips sent coursing through her. With emotions that made her heart race.

The covers had bunched around her hips. The blankets and the leggings he wore created only the most fragile barrier between them. But she knew no fear, no hesitation. She molded her body to his, welcomed the velvety, languid probing of his tongue, did not pull away when his hand moved slowly down the naked curve of her back. She knew it was wrong of her. Wrong for so many reasons.

But she felt alive, fully alive in a way she had not felt in years. This maddening, gruff, tender Norseman stirred her soul. He breathed life into her, made her feel...

She uttered a soft sound against his mouth, not daring to name this feeling in her heart, knowing only that she did not want it to end.

Threading her fingers through the golden strands of hair at the nape of his neck, she held him closer, losing herself in the ravishing heat of his kiss. She glided her tongue against his, tentatively at first, then more boldly, seeking and claiming just as he did to her. He made a low sound of surprise and approval and his touch became stronger. His hands shaped her body with slow, erotic purpose. The first tendrils of fire darted through her, gathering low in her belly.

She brushed her fingertips over the whiskers that darkened his strong jaw, slid her hands downward to explore the rapid pulse at his throat, the expanse of his chest, the hard shape of his arms, the muscled ridges of his abdomen.

God in Heaven, how she wanted this. Wanted to touch and be touched. But it was so much more than that. She wanted him. Hauk, strong and passionate, gentle and protective. She needed him, in ways that had naught to do with reason and everything to do with the unsteady beat of her heart.

The air around them seemed to shimmer with warmth, with that uncommon heat that always burned between them when they were close to one another. The feeling was almost familiar now, dazzling as it unfurled within her.

Her hands continued moving down his body, coming to rest just above the waist of his leggings. He flinched, lifted his mouth from hers. Their eyes met and held, their harsh breathing the only sound in the fragile light of dawn. His hand rested on her hip.

She did not move when he slid the covers down past her legs, one inch at a time, baring her completely. The touch of the cool morning air against her nakedness made her breath catch. She could feel his flat belly rising and falling rapidly beneath her palms, his muscles taut.

If she wanted to stop this, she knew, now was the time. Now.

But she did not want to stop.

Whispering his name, she kissed him. He groaned, tugging his leggings off, tossing them aside—and then he drew her close again and there were no more barriers between them. No more distance. Naught but bare skin and sultry kisses and the sound of their voices blending in groans and sighs.

She could feel the rigid length of his arousal, hard as steel against her thigh, and gasped at the size of him.

When she reached to touch him there, he caught her wrist.

“Slowly, my bold lady,” he choked out, pressing his cheek against hers. “There is something I want first.”

He released her wrist, allowing her to explore and caress wherever else she might wish. She ran her fingertips over his dark nipples, testing how sensitive they might be, and earned a whispered oath from him—then another when she nibbled at his earlobe.

With a growl, he lifted her knee, bending her leg so that it rested along his hip, opening her to him. Her pulse racing, she pressed her face against his muscled neck, inhaling deeply of his masculine scent. She felt intimately aware of every inch of her naked skin while his hand stroked from her knee to her hip, so slowly. He followed the curve inward. Traced a tantalizing path to the dark triangle that concealed her most feminine secrets.

And then he paused, his strong, blunt fingers resting just... there.

He remained still, not moving a muscle, until Avril felt herself strung tight with anticipation, trembling. “Hauk.”

He slid his fingers into her damp folds.

Her lips parted on an aching sound of pleasure, echoed by his deep voice. Her head tilted up and their gazes met and held while he explored her intimately, his fingertips parting her. A muscle flexed in his jaw and he muttered something under his breath in Norse, mayhap shocked at the obvious evidence of how aroused she was. She ducked her head, shutting her eyes, her cheeks aflame.

“Nay, look at me.” He underscored the husky command with a stroke of his thumb across the sensitive bud concealed within her dark curls.

Startled by the bolt of pleasure that shot through her, she raised her chin, lifted her lashes.

“Sweet wife.” A slow, sensual smile revealed the dimples in his stubbled cheeks. “I am pleased that I make you so... very... wet.” His eyes had darkened to midnight blue. “And I want to watch you burn.”

She did not look away again, returning his searing gaze as he touched her—pleasuring her with the gentlest pressure, light flicks, slow circles that made her shudder and bite her lip to hold back a wanton cry.

“Nay,” he whispered, pressing his mouth to her ear. “Let me hear you as well.” His thumb settled on that small bud, urging it to fullness. “Tell me how it feels when I touch you.”

The tendrils of fire in her belly whirled together, tightening and unraveling at every brush of his thumb, sending showers of sparks from her toes to her fingertips. And he wanted her to speak?

“So... so...” She could manage naught more than that one word.

“So very good?” he murmured. “When I do this?” He repeated the lightest, feathering touch, over and over, until a long, low sound issued from her throat.

He stopped.

“Again,” she pleaded.

He complied at once, stroking her so lightly, again... and again. Until she was lost in the sensations, moaning in abandon, the most shameless sounds tumbling from her lips.

Then he suddenly took the swollen bud more roughly between his thumb and finger, rubbing with the most perfect pressure.

A wordless cry tore from her, the entire room spinning as the flames whirled tight inside her. She grasped his biceps, her nails marking his skin.

He nuzzled her ear again, chuckling wickedly. “You like that even more.”

Her head tossed helplessly on the pillow. She could not even nod.

“Tell me,” he whispered.

She moved her hips against his hand, seeking... needing... “More.” She hardly recognized her own voice, so filled with husky, sensual demand.

He repeated that delicious touch, exactly as before, and it was... God in Heaven, it was so...

She had no words for it, could only give herself over to the feelings, to him, moving her hips to match the demanding rhythm of his fingers. The intensity built so quickly, almost too quickly. She felt the first stirrings of release beginning, her inner muscles drawing tight.

Then he lifted his fingers, making her groan in protest.

Until he touched her mouth, brushing her glistening wetness over her lips, sharing the musky taste of her desire in a deep kiss.

She kissed him back, fiercely, every inch of her on fire. She had never felt so flooded with pure need. All of her fevered and wild—her body, her heart, her soul. All that she was trembled and ached with it. She opened to his kiss, licked at his fingers when he slipped them into her mouth. Was rewarded with a tremor that went through his whole body.

He suddenly withdrew his hand, skimmed a quick, damp path down her curves.

And slipped two fingers inside her, a slow penetration that matched the movement of his tongue in her mouth.

She moaned, arching into him. White-hot flames seared her as he repeated the erotic motions—gentle and slow, then sudden and deep. Her inner muscles tightened, a tremor beginning at her very center.

In the next instant, his thumb and finger reclaimed that sensitive nubbin with the ungentle touch that was so unspeakably... perfect.

The flames inside her all knotted together—and snapped.

She shattered in his arms, crying out as wave after wave of heat cascaded through her, a flood of pleasure that claimed her breath, her body. The stunning force of it left her shaking.

The dizzying rush had scarcely begun to ebb when Hauk rolled onto his back, pulling her atop him, her long hair falling around them in a glossy curtain.

Avril inhaled sharply, aware of the naked steel of his arousal against her belly. Moaning, she shifted her hips—but he stopped her.

“Not yet,” he ordered huskily, though his muscled body beneath her felt fevered with his own need. He found the silky wetness that flowed from her, dampened his fingers again—then reached up and stroked them across her nipples.

His hands lifted her, urging her upward, and she complied shamelessly, arching her back, raising herself above him so that he could suckle her.

He licked the dampness away with a groan. Circled her nipple with his tongue. Then he drew her soft fullness deeply into his mouth. She cried out, the exquisite sensation like having that sensitive, feminine part of her held captive in hot silk.

She had to brace her hands against the mattress, panting as he laved the hard pearl with his tongue, nibbling, pressing it against his teeth. The flames within her ignited again, leaping higher this time, racing through her blood until she was burning.

He shuddered with strain beneath her, his breathing ragged. But still he sought no pleasure for himself, only for her, teasing her nipples with kisses, with his fingers, brushing his stubbled cheek against them, dragging sharp sounds of wanting from her.

When she tried again to move, he wrapped one arm around her waist to hold her fast, lavishing attention on her breasts until the taut, wet crowns felt as aroused, as sensitive as the throbbing flesh between her thighs.

Then he caught one peak in his mouth and drew it in hard and fast, the suction intense and startling. Her hands gripped the sheets as fierce, stabbing pleasure went through her.

He released it slowly, using his tongue to drag her nipple against his teeth.

Her eyes widened in astonishment as the whirls of fire knotted within her, so tight.

“Hold your breath,” he ordered hoarsely.

She obeyed his command, gulping air as he continued the sweet, intense torment, until she could not bear it any more. Then he slid his hand between their bodies to stroke her again, quickly this time—once, twice. Fire consumed her at every touch of his fingers, every touch of his tongue. She held her breath and felt her whole body rising. Reaching. Felt the tremors begin inside her, at the very depths of her being.

He caught her nipple between the edges of his teeth and bit her gently.

A blinding burst of ecstasy exploded within her, shattered the whole world and sent shards of it blazing through her, inside her. With a shouted exclamation, she lost herself in the waves of heat that broke over her, again and again, until she was beyond thought, burned to cinders. Falling.

When she finally returned to awareness, she was draped over him like a blanket, limp. Spent. Still trembling from tiny sparks of sensation that rippled from her tender, aching breasts, from all her most secret, feminine places. Never had she experienced such a forceful release, not one after another, not so... intense.

Dear God, never.

Hauk nuzzled her ear. “Good morning,” he murmured wickedly.

She could only utter a wordless groan in reply, felt as if her very bones had melted.

He chuckled, a low sound of male satisfaction. “Now...” He circled her with one arm and rolled her beneath him. “Now, sweet wife—”

A sharp knock at the door interrupted him.

He cursed. Vividly.

Avril pulled away from him as he sat up. She clutched the blankets to her throat, feeling scarlet warmth in her cheeks as the world suddenly collided with the dreamy, erotic haze of passion he had woven around them.

“It might be Marta,” she whispered, “here to visit Floyel.”

The knock sounded again, louder.

Hauk took a deep breath. “Not unless she has grown larger and stronger since yesterday.”

Muttering a string of curses, he grabbed his leggings from where they had fallen beside the bed, yanked them on and stalked toward the door. He looked ready to pound senseless whoever had dared intrude on them at this hour.

Avril could not think of who it might be, too overwhelmed, too mortified to think at all.

What had she done? Only yesterday she had looked with dismay at the women who had allowed themselves to become enchanted by their captors. And now she had done exactly the same. Thrown all sense and all reason to the winds. Acted as wanton, as hopelessly in love as they had.

God’s breath, she did not even know herself anymore.

She heard a male voice at the entrance, babbling in Norse—then she barely had time to gather the covers around her as Keldan rushed in, lowering the hood of his cloak, Hauk right at his heels. Looking disheveled and wild-eyed, Keldan took one quick glance around the room and his expression became even more alarmed.

Avril got up from the bed, clutching the blankets around her. “What is it? What has happened?”

Hauk managed to silence Keldan long enough to translate for her, his eyes full of concern as they met hers. “Josette is missing.”

Chapter 15

“Stille! Quiet!” Hauk held up both hands, unable to think with both Keldan and Avril filling the air with frantic questions in two different languages. “Tell me what happened,” he ordered Keldan in Norse. “Calmly.”

“I woke up and she was gone!” The younger man raked his fingers through his hair, his dark eyes wide, his words tumbling out. “She was not in the town. I thought she might be here. I thought—”

“Kel, I told you to keep watch over her. I told you Thorolf might come seeking vengeance for his punishment by the eldrer—”

“Ja, and I did keep watch over her! I never left her alone for a moment yesterday. I made certain she was safe.”

“When did you see her last?” Hauk dared to hope that Thorolf did not have her.

“When we left the celebration last night, not long after you did. She looked distraught after you talked to her, and I was exhausted from the wrestling matches, so I took her home. And I...” He paced away and back like a caged animal. “By Tyr’s blade, I should not have taken on so many opponents. But you have no idea what it was like, being with her all day without being with her—”

“Ja, Kel, no idea at all.” Hauk glanced at Avril, his body still afire from their interrupted lovemaking.

She was clothed only in the blankets, her cheeks flushed, her lips swollen from his kisses, her hair falling about her bare shoulders in waves that clung to her perspiration-sheened skin.

Never, in all the years of his life, had he seen any sight so beautiful. Or experienced anything to match what they had just shared. She was pure fire and sweet boldness, and just looking at her brought an ache to his chest.

She kept glancing from one of them to the other, her green eyes dark with worry. “What is he saying?” she demanded in French.

Hauk held up a hand to delay her question—just as Keldan’s gaze skipped from Avril in the blankets to the mussed bed, to her gown discarded on the floor.

“By great Thor’s bearded goats,” he choked out, giving Hauk a curious, disbelieving look. “Have I—”

“Interrupted a most pleasant morning, ja. But never mind that now. What happened after you and Josette returned to your vaningshus?”

“I fell asleep,” he confessed. “I was so accursedly tired, I fell asleep—”

“What is he saying?” Avril repeated.

“Mayhap she left me.” Keldan sank into a chair, holding his head in both hands. “I may have frightened her in the meadow yesterday. It may have been too soon for her. Mayhap she is hiding from me. If only I—”

“What has happened to Josette?” Avril all but shouted.

Hauk turned toward her and translated what Keldan had told him.

Her expression troubled, she shook her head. “She has not left him. Not of her own will.”

“How can you be so certain?”

“Because she... we had... I had...” She stopped herself, then whispered an oath and said the rest all at once, her gaze on the floor. “We had an escape plan. I was going to take your ship and lead the other captives in an escape, except that all the other captives decided they did not wish to escape—”

“My ship?” Hauk stared at her, stunned and angry. “And who told you where to find my ship? The same person who helped you try to escape last night?”

“It is not important now! What I am trying to tell you is that Josette did not want to leave. No matter how I tried to reason with her, she would not come with me. She...” Avril glanced at Keldan. “She refused to leave him. I think she is in love with him.”

Hauk took a deep breath before he turned to translate that quietly for Keldan—who came out of his chair with a start, looking even more agitated and fearful. “If that is true, then Thorolf must have taken her.”

“But you said she was safely in your vaningshus last night when you fell asleep. Why would she have left?”

“I do not know. It makes no sense. Unless... she looked worried after you spoke with her at the celebration. After you asked her where Avril had gone.”

“Ja, and she told me that Avril had probably come back here.” He turned to Avril, shifting to French. “Was Josette to help with your escape last night?”

“Nay, she did not know that I meant to escape last night.” Eyes widening, Avril sank down on the edge of the mattress. “But she had pledged to help me,” she said unsteadily. “And she felt so guilty for not coming with me, she may have come looking for me—”

“And run into Thorolf instead.”

Avril looked stricken. “It is my fault! God’s blood, would he hurt her? Would he—”

“I do not know.” Hauk kept his back to Keldan, did not want to translate what they were saying.

“Hauk, we have to find her!” Avril rose from the bed, her fingers white on the blankets clutched around her shoulders. “Where would he—” She gasped. “His boat. Hauk, it was Thorolf’s boat I took last night!”

“What?” Hauk exclaimed in disbelief. “What would Thorolf be doing with—”

“What is it?” Keldan demanded,

Avril rushed on. “The boat was his, loaded with supplies. I threw them over the side and took it.” She pressed a shaking hand to her forehead. “God’s breath, if only I had told you everything last night—”

“That does not matter now.” Hauk clenched his jaw, glancing worriedly at Keldan and trying to think of what in the name of Loki’s black heart Thorolf was planning. “If Thorolf intends to take Josette and leave Asgard—”

“And his ship is in pieces washing up on shore,” Avril said hollowly. “Where would he get another?”

“Mine. He would take mine.” Hauk was already moving, hunting for his weapons and traveling pack. “It is the only ship left on Asgard, unless he has another I do not know about.”

“Hauk, we have to stop him! We cannot let him—”

“You are not going anywhere, milady.” Dismissing that dangerous idea with a stern look, he quickly, reluctantly translated their conversation for Keldan.

Who immediately headed for the display of weapons on the wall and grabbed a sword.

“Kel, wait—”

“I will kill him if he has touched her!” Keldan jerked his arm away when Hauk tried to reclaim the sword.

“Nei, you are not going to kill anyone.”

Avril cleared her throat. “I wonder if the two of you might grant me a moment’s privacy so I could don a few clothes?”

Hauk glanced at her, surprised that she did not argue about the order he had given her. “Of course,” he said gratefully, nodding. He grasped a handful of Keldan’s cloak, hauling his friend toward the door.

Outside, the bright sunlight dazzled his eyes, and the sound of the surf and seabirds made it seem deceptively like any other idyllic, tranquil Asgard morning.

Keldan shrugged off his restraining hand. “Take the blade if you will, Hauk. I will tear him apart with my bare hands—”

“And break the most sacred of our laws.”

“I do not care!” Keldan was already striding toward his horse.

Hauk caught his shoulder. “Kel, you are a carpenter, not a warrior. I will go after Thorolf. You return to town, alert everyone, and have them ride out to search the rest of the island. There is a chance he might have taken her somewhere else—”

“But it is most likely he is heading for the cove where you keep your knorr. He might already be there. He might already have...” He shut his eyes, lost the rest of the sentence in an agonized oath.

Hauk felt his gut clench. “He would not harm her, Kel. Not on Asgard soil. His fear of the eldrer is too great. And he would not have gone through the forest at night, when the wolves hunt. Thorolf may be a black-hearted knave, but he is not witless. He would have waited until this morn to enter the woods.”

“Which means he has been in the woods for more than an hour.” Keldan glanced up at the sun. “And it will take us at least an hour to get there.”

“Ja, but I take a shorter route through the forest than the path everyone else knows. I can reach the cove before he even—”

“We can. If we leave now.” Keldan stalked toward his horse, leaped nimbly onto the animal’s bare back. “I am going with you.”

Before Hauk could try to dissuade him, a sound behind them made him turn to see Avril striding out his front door—dressed in a billowy white linen tunic, tucked into a pair of his leggings cinched at the waist with one of his belts. Leather boots and gloves completed the outrageous outfit. A sheathed knife hung from her belt, and she carried a crossbow in one hand.

Speech eluded him for a full minute. “What in the name of Loki do you think you are you doing, woman?”

“Just as I said—I donned a few clothes.” She set the crossbow in the grass and reached up to tie a leather thong around her loosely plaited hair. “The boots and gloves were a wedding gift, and with a few of your garments, I am ready to set out—”

“You will not be setting out. You will be turning around. Go back inside, put the weapons away, and await my return.”

“Hauk, please.” She tossed her braid back over her shoulder, her eyes earnest as they held his. “I cannot remain here and simply wait while everyone around me rides off into danger. Not when my closest friend’s life is at stake. Especially when I may be responsible for getting her into this situation in the first place—”

Keldan interrupted. “Are we going?”

Hauk turned on him. “I am going. I am the vokter. The responsibility is mine—”

“And the responsibility for Josette is mine,” Keldan retorted. “I am the one who took a vow to protect her. If I had been more careful—”

“You could not have known she would walk out in the middle of the night.”

“While we all stand here arguing”—Avril came between them—”Josette is in danger.”

Hauk cursed. There was no time for this. He made a decision. “Keldan, ride to town and tell everyone to start searching the island—”

“Nei—”

“—And while you are there, gather up four or five of the men who went with us to Antwerp, the ones I taught to use weapons. They should still have the blades they carried with them on the voyage. Send one of them back here to watch over Avril, and take the rest with you and follow the common path through the woods. That is the way Thorolf would have gone. If you encounter him...”

Looking up at his friend, who was more at home carving furniture than wielding a weapon, he did not know what advice to give.

“Be careful. Keep your heads about you. Capture him and leave his fate for the council to decide, if you can... but do what you must to save your lady. I will leave at once and secure the boat before he can reach it. Rendezvous at the cove at midday.”

Jaw clenched, Keldan dug his heels into his stallion’s sides and set off at a gallop.

“Where is he going?” Avril asked. “What—”

“He is going for help. I am going through the forest by a shorter way than the path Thorolf would have taken.” Hauk took Avril’s elbow. “As for you, milady—”

“Alone?” She wrested her arm from his grip, her eyes, her voice full of concern for him. “You are going alone?”

“Aye.” Instead of trying to recapture her, he headed for Ildfast’s stall. “The people of Asgard are not accustomed to facing animals more dangerous than the chickens in their cookpots or the reindeer they milk in the mornings. And most have never used a weapon. If I were to take anyone along, they would only slow me down—and most likely shoot themselves in the foot with their own crossbow or end up as food for the wolves.”

“I will go with you,” she insisted, following at his heels.

He grabbed a bridle from its iron hook. “Avril, are you not listening? Anyone with a speck of intelligence avoids the western forest—”

“But I can help you.” She rested the crossbow over her shoulder. “I know how to use this, Hauk. I hunted with my father from the time I was eight years old. I have taken down wild boar and stags. You do not have to worry about me.”

His fingers clenched around the leather of the bridle as he slid the bit between Ildfast’s teeth. As much as he might admire Avril’s courage and loyalty to her friend, he also knew the vulnerable lady hidden beneath that bravery.

And he was worried about her. Her life had become important to him, in a way that had little to do with vows or duty.

She had become important to him.

“Avril, I am grateful for the offer,” he said, unlatching the stall door and leading his destrier out. “But I do not need your help. I do not need—”

“Anyone?” She planted one gloved hand on her hip. “As someone said to me last night, you cannot do everything alone.”

He scowled, sweeping a glance over her masculine garb and her weapons and her intrepid stance.

But instead of being impressed by her strength and fortitude, as she no doubt intended, he only found himself painfully aware of how very soft and feminine she was, the garments accenting her slender waist and lush curves... her breasts unbound beneath the tunic, the taut crowns chafed by the fabric, still sensitive from the attentions of his hands and mouth but a few wild, sweet moments ago.

Heat rivered through him. “I had intended to spend the day making love to you,” he said with regret.

She blushed furiously and looked down at her boots. “I... what we shared this morn was...” Closing her eyes, she left the sentence unfinished. “Hauk, we have to go.”

Wrenched by conflicting needs, he reached out to tilt her head up. He did not want to take her into the path of danger. And until Thorolf had been captured and brought before the council to answer for breaking the laws, Hauk needed to keep his mind on his duty.

Impulsively he drew her against him and gave her a quick, hard kiss. “You will be safer here. Keldan is sending someone to stay with you.” Turning, he tossed the reins over Ildfast’s head and leaped up onto the destrier’s broad back.

She grabbed a handful of the stallion’s mane. “Hauk, if you leave me behind, I will only go into the woods by myself and try to help her!”

“I could tie you up,” he threatened, exasperated. “Carry you inside and tie you to the bed—”

“And I would fight you and we would waste more valuable time.”

He swore. “Stubborn, reckless, willful—”

“True. All true,” she conceded, reaching up to him with one hand. “So you had best keep a close watch on me personally, ja?”

He glowered down at her, provoked and astounded at her audacity. He did not know which he wanted more: to turn her over his knee or pull her into his arms and kiss her senseless.

With an oath, he grabbed her arm and helped her up behind him. “Someday soon, milady—”

“You will come to your senses and realize I am entirely too much trouble and set me free.” She gingerly wrapped her arms around his ribcage. “But for now we need to reach the cove as quickly as possible.”

Midmorning sunlight spiraled down to the forest floor, spattering the fallen leaves and grass and gnarled roots with cascades of brightness that whirled past in a blur. Avril kept her arms locked around Hauk as he guided Ildfast at a swift pace through towering oaks and dark evergreens that looked ancient, their massive trunks four and five feet wide, their bark almost black.

They had left the fields behind more than an hour ago, riding into the shadowy depths of the forest, where the thatch of branches high overhead made the air feel cool and damp. They followed no path that Avril could make out, but Hauk clearly knew exactly where he was going, his attention on the trees as if he followed some secret marks that served as guideposts only he could see.

She became only distantly aware of the direction they took, the pungent scent of pine in the air, the rhythmic drumming of the stallion’s strides. Her heart beating hard, she kept watch for any wolfish shapes that might appear out of the shadows.

Especially after she heard the first howl—an eerie, hollow cry rising and then falling, distant but unmistakable, answered by another wolf somewhere unseen.

A large fox darted past and gave her a scare at one point, but after riding half the morning, they had encountered naught more threatening than a few partridges, some curious rabbits, and a herd of small red deer.

Still, she remained tense, ready to grab the crossbow slung over her shoulder by its leather strap. “I do not understand,” she said nervously. “If the wolves here are such a threat, why do you not kill them?”

Her mouth was so close to his ear, she did not even have to shout to be heard over the wind that tugged at her plaited hair.

“Because if we killed the wolves, then the smaller animals would increase until they ran riot,” Hauk explained without looking back at her. “Then the plants would be destroyed. And there is no way to know what might happen next. We are careful not to tip the scales of nature in one direction or another.”

“Because you might destroy the island’s healing qualities.”

“Aye. We care for the island and the island cares for us.”

She considered that for a time, as they cantered through the maze of trees. “And why is it that your people do not carry weapons? Does no one ever go hunting?”

For a moment he did not answer.

“Peace is important among us,” he said simply, “and it is impossible to have peace if every man is armed, so weapons and violence are outlawed.”

“But I had always thought that the Vikings were by nature a... a...”

“A race of savage marauders, bent on pillaging and destruction?”

“That is certainly the reputation you had earned over the centuries,” she said defensively.

“That is the reputation our raiding ancestors earned for us,” he corrected. “But most of our people lived as peaceful farmers or craftsmen. And for all the Norsemen who went abroad in search of plunder, others went in search of trade and new sea routes and new lands.”

“Like this one.” Avril fell silent for a moment. She heard a note of wistfulness in his voice. It reminded her that the people of Asgard were the last of their kind.

Reminded her once more of how important it was to them that they remain hidden here, safe from the world.

“I believe you would find Asgard a pleasant place, if you would give it a chance.” Hauk glanced back at her over his shoulder, a quick, heated locking of their gazes. “A most pleasant place.”

She looked away, reminded vividly what had happened between them this morn—and acutely aware of Hauk’s body against hers now, so hard and powerful, her arms barely able to circle his ribs, his muscles flexing as he guided Ildfast.

Her breasts, pressed against his back, still felt sensitive from his urgent kisses, and the horse’s canter caused a rhythmic friction between them that sent tingles of heat to her middle. Her face scarlet, she ducked her head, thankful he could not see her reaction to him.

The destrier’s hoofbeats made the only sound for a long time, the sunlight splintering through the branches overhead, Avril’s mind splintering into a dozen troubling thoughts.

She offered another desperate prayer for Josette’s life and safety. If Thorolf had hurt her...

But nay, she could not let herself lose hope.

Any more than she could let herself lose hope of escape, of returning home.

That was the only way to explain what had happened in Hauk’s bed at dawn, she thought, her eyes misting. For a flicker of time, hope had abandoned her, and she had abandoned herself to him, given in to the yearning and tenderness and other, stronger emotions she dared not feel for him. Allowed herself to want and need in ways she had almost forgotten.

A new fear twisted through her: a fear of herself. Now that she had set those feelings free this morn, what if she could not conceal them from him, return them to that place deep within her heart where she must keep them hidden?

That same secret place, she thought, raising her head, that felt strangely at home in the forest around her, even with all its dangers. Mayhap because of all its dangers. Part of her found a fierce excitement in this place of ancient beauty, saturated with darkness and cool, rich colors of emerald and sky blue and a hint of gold. It was made all of shadows and mystery, risk and refuge, and she found it stirring, moving, somewhere deep in her heart. In her soul.

Much like Hauk himself.

She pulled away from him a bit as they rode on, trying to gain whatever distance from him she could. Last night, she had realized something that had filled her with despair: she knew now that it would be impossible for her to leave Asgard by herself.

So she must try to gain his trust, hope that he would grant her a bit more freedom. And try to find someone to help her reach home.

That would be a difficult enough task if she only had to struggle against the gentle warrior who had made her his captive bride.

But now she had to fight her own heart, as well. For Giselle’s sake, she would.

She must.

The sun had passed higher into its arc when they came to a clearing and Hauk reined Ildfast in at the crest of a hill, the horse prancing and blowing out noisy breaths.

“We are halfway there.” Hauk pointed off into the distance.

Through the trees, on the horizon, Avril could just make out the silvery-blue sparkle of the ocean. “Thank God! How much longer until we reach the cove?”

“Two hours, mayhap less.” Hauk swung his leg over the destrier’s neck and leaped to the ground.

“Then why are we stopping?” Avril asked when he reached up to help her down.

“To grant Ildfast a needed rest and a drink.”

As she landed beside him, Hauk held onto her a second longer than was necessary. His expression as he looked down at her sent a tingle of warmth through her. One of his hands lingered at the small of her back, the gesture both steadying and possessive.

After a moment, he released her and tugged on the reins. “This is where I normally stop to rest him. And I have never ridden him through these woods at such a pace before.” He led the horse toward a stream that wound through the clearing—a quiet brook that flowed over the crest of the hill in a bubbling waterfall.

Avril followed, keeping one hand on the strap of her crossbow and a wary eye out for wolves. “Must we stop for long? I will not be able to rest until Josette is safe.”

“We will be but a few minutes.” At the edge of the stream, Hauk dropped the reins to the ground. “And we should reach the ship well ahead of Thorolf. Ildfast is earning his name today.” He patted the animal’s lathered flank as Ildfast stretched out his neck and guzzled greedily. “Faster than fire.”

Avril tried to resist a smile as she watched Hauk scratch the huge animal’s forelock with obvious affection. She moved away from him few paces, knelt on the grassy riverbank upstream, and took off her gloves. Cupping her hands in the cool water, she drank several handfuls to soothe her parched throat, then splashed her face, washing away dust and grit.

“We will have to go more slowly from here,” Hauk said. “The hills and valleys in this part of the woods are steep, and we cannot risk him breaking a leg.”

Avril nodded, picking up her gloves and tucking them into her belt. She stood and paced restlessly, tired from the long ride but too tense to sit down.

“Are you hungry, milady?”

She turned as Hauk tossed her an apple from his pack, which was lashed to Ildfast’s saddle. She caught it easily. “Thank you.”

Her stomach was in knots, but she took a bite anyway as she walked back to the hillside, watching the waterfall cascade over the steep slope.

“You ride well,” Hauk said around a mouthful of apple, coming over to join her, “for a woman.”

Avril almost laughed, despite all her anxiety. “I rather enjoyed the hint of surprise on your face, every time you glanced over your shoulder and saw that I had not fallen off.”

“I was not certain you could endure the rough pace.”

She arched her brows. “Have I caused you any trouble thus far?”

“The day is still young.”

She took another bite of her apple. “And I believe I will continue to surprise you.”

He sighed. “You usually do.”

From the way he said it, she was not sure if that was a complaint or a compliment.

He tossed the core of his apple toward Ildfast, who nickered in pleasure and nibbled it up. “Riding, sailing, hunting. Have you never learned any proper female pursuits, woman?” He cast a dour look over her masculine garb. “Sewing? Gardening?”

“Nay.”

It seemed strange, to be having an ordinary conversation with him in the midst of this awful, desperate day. She realized he was being thoughtful again, trying to distract her from her worry about Josette.

Which only made her uneasy for an entirely different reason.

“Not even weaving on a loom,” he continued, “playing music on the harp or—”

“A sick cat produces more melodious music than I,” she said honestly.

“Dancing?”

“A sick cat is also a better dancer than I.” Unable to eat more than a few bites, she tossed her apple to Ildfast as he had done. The easy closeness growing between her and Hauk made her nervous. She knew she should not allow it to continue.

Did not want him to suspect how much her feelings for him had changed.

She moved away along the crest of the hill. “I have always found such pursuits deadly dull. And since I have no skill at them, I prefer to spend my time elsewhere, at some genuinely useful task.” She turned to face him, crossing her arms. “So now you know the terrible truth about me, Hauk Valbrand. You chose poorly in Antwerp. I cannot sew, I am better at making messes than tidying up—and I am the most hopeless cook you would ever care to meet.”

“Ah, well.” He shrugged, a slow smile flashing in the late morning sun. “I suppose it is unreasonable for a man to expect his wife to be well skilled in all of her wifely duties.”

That wicked smile made her heart miss a beat. “For the last time,” she said unsteadily. “I am not your—”

“Must we still argue that, after this morn?”

She turned her back. “What we shared this morn does not make me your wife.”

“Nay, the althing ceremony made you my wife.” He moved closer. “What we shared in my bed made you my lover.”

She spun to face him. “I do not love you! I do not—”

He reached out to caress her cheek. “Do you hate me, then, Avril? Is that what made you cry out so sweetly when you found release in my arms?”

The huskiness of his words and the heat in his blue eyes sent sparks glittering through her.

She forced herself to rebuff him, pushed his hand away. “I will never share your bed again.”

“Do not make threats you do not mean to keep, milady,” he said in that deep, confident voice. “Do you not see—”

An animal screech made them both whirl toward the stream.

It was Ildfast—rearing and whinnying in terror as a dark shape appeared from out of nowhere, slinking through the clearing. Wolf! Avril was so startled, it took her a moment to remember the crossbow still slung across her back by its strap.

The horse danced sideways, ears flattened, eyes white—then turned blindly and ran.

Straight toward them.

Hauk pushed her out of the charging destrier’s path, shouting at the animal in Norse. He grabbed for the reins as the panicked stallion raced past. Caught them and yanked hard—only to be pulled off his feet when Ildfast plunged onward.

Straight over the edge of the steep hillside.

Avril screamed as Hauk lost his footing and went down. Not sure which way to turn, she somehow found the crossbow in her hands and spun to fend off the wolf—but it had turned tail and run. She could see it loping away into the trees.

The weapon still clutched in her hands, she ran to the edge of the hill. “Hauk!”

He lay at the bottom of the valley, cursing viciously. Ildfast, still moving at lightning speed, loose reins flying behind, galloped up the opposite slope and vanished into the trees.

With a frightened oath, Avril scrambled down the hill, slipping on layers of fallen leaves, grabbing saplings to slow her headlong progress. “Hauk, are you all right?”

“Nay, I am not all right!” He pushed himself up to a seated position, jaw clenched. “We have just lost our horse.”

“But are you hurt?” she cried as she slid to a halt next to him.

“I am fine. We have to catch him.” He started to get to his feet.

Then hissed an oath and remained on the ground.

“What is it?” She bent to help him.

“I do not need help,” he insisted. He stood, carefully, favoring his left leg.

“What is wrong? It is not... Saints’ breath, your leg is not—”

“Not broken, nay,” he said through gritted teeth, taking one cautious step. “I twisted my ankle when I landed.” He took another step. Cursed again. “Mayhap you had better help me,” he grumbled.

With a cautious look at the top of the hill, she slung the crossbow over her back, then slipped an arm around him, supporting his weight as he leaned on her, one arm across her shoulders.

But they managed to take only a few hobbling steps before he had to sit down again.

She dropped to her knees beside him. “Hauk, we will not get very far at this pace.”

“I know that,” he bit out in a frustrated voice.

She looked at the broken branches and churned leaves Ildfast had left in his terrified wake. “He will come back, will he not?”

“Mayhap. Eventually. If he can find his way back. If he does not find something interesting to eat. Or break a leg on a hill. Or forget us entirely.” Hauk looked up at her, his expression pained. “I value Ildfast for his speed, Avril, not for his intelligence.”

She swallowed hard. “But we have to get to the ship. Will your ankle not heal by itself?” she asked hopefully.

“Aye. In a few hours.”

Her heart thudded. “But we do not have that much—”

A howl rose through the trees, closer than the ones they had heard earlier.

It skipped up her spine like an icy finger, lifting the fine hairs on the back of her neck.

And Avril suddenly realized they had a more pressing worry than reaching the ship. “Mercy of God, the wolves...”

She looked down at Hauk. Their gazes met and held for a long moment.

“Avril, you will have to go on without me.”

“What?”

“Do not argue with me—”

“Nay, I cannot leave you here.” She could not leave him to die.

A movement at the top of the hill made her glance up. It was the wolf they had seen before—a huge, black, shaggy animal. She slid the crossbow from her shoulder, slowly, never taking her eyes from the predator. It might merely be curious.

With a teeth-baring snarl, it sprang down the hill, so fast it was only a black blur.

She heard Hauk shout at her to run. But she was already on one knee, bringing up the crossbow in a smooth arc. She fired.

The steel-tipped bolt struck the wolf in the chest. It yelped in pain, tripped and tumbled, howling, sliding through the leaves.

And fell dead at her feet.

She was shaking, staring down at it, barely even aware of what had happened.

“Avril!” Hauk said sharply, bringing her attention around to him. “I want you to get out of here. Now,” he ordered. “They travel in packs. He will have companions.”

“I will not leave you.”

He muttered what sounded like a string of curses in Norse. “All this time you have wanted naught but to escape me, and now that I want you to leave, you will not go. Contrary, stubborn—”

“I believe we have already established that.” Still shaking, she snapped another bolt into place on her crossbow, lifting her eyes to his. “Now what do you suggest we do?”

Chapter 16

“Of all the trees in the forest, you had to choose a pine,” Hauk grumbled, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his ankle, wincing at dozens of tiny stings as he plucked evergreen needles from his bare chest and arms.

“This was your idea.”

“You could have taken the time to select a more comfortable refuge,” he called down to her.

“Aye, and left you alone at the bottom of the hill even longer.”

The branches swayed as Avril pulled herself up the last few inches, breathing hard. She claimed a perch on a thick tree limb just above and to the right of the one he occupied.

Brushing needles from her tunic, she looked at him with an annoyed expression. “This was the tallest tree I could find that had branches low enough to climb and strong enough to hold us. And at the time, I was concerned with avoiding fangs—not with providing us luxurious accommodations.” Grabbing a bough to steady herself, she glanced at the ground more than twenty feet below them. “If you are unhappy here, mayhap you would prefer to go and play with our new friends down there.”

Hauk subdued any further complaint, wiping sweat from his brow, the tree bark rubbing his back raw. It was almost impossible to find a comfortable position on the branch, though it was as wide as the span of two hands. He settled for straddling it as if he were on horseback, resting one foot on another nearby bough.

They were likely to be here awhile, he thought with a grimace, following Avril’s gaze to the dark shapes milling around the trunk. He counted nine, their shaggy coats dappled by the sunlight.

Drawn by the dying howls of the first wolf, the rest of the pack had quickly found its way to the clearing—and followed his and Avril’s scent straight to their chosen place of refuge: at the top of the next hill in one of the rugged, ancient black pines common on Asgard.

They would be safe here, if not comfortable. The trunk had to be at least four feet wide, the limbs more than sturdy enough to support them. All they had to do was avoid the annoying clusters of sharp-pointed needles.

“Go away,” Avril called down to the wolves. “Begone. We are not good to eat.”

“I do not think reasoning with them is going to help,” Hauk said dryly.

One of the wolves leaped up the trunk, claws scrabbling at the bark, jaws closing on air with a powerful snap.

Avril flinched and had to grab her bough with both hands to keep from tumbling. “They... they do not look very pleased with us.”

“You,” he corrected lightly. “They do not look very pleased with you. I did not kill the wolf.”

“Pardon me for saving your life.” She frowned at him. “And by the way, you are welcome.”

Hauk could not hide the grin that played around his lips. Not only was he enjoying Avril’s company, he was actually teasing her.

He, Hauk Valbrand, the vokter, renowned for his reserved and solitary ways, was teasing his wife.

While she worriedly observed the predators below, he studied her in the glimmering sunlight that managed to pierce the evergreen. She had indeed saved his life, placed herself between him and that onrushing wolf, and left him stunned.

She had been pale with terror—still looked pale with terror—but instead of running as most women would have done, as he had told her to do, she had stood her ground. Kept her wits about her. And brought down a charging, snarling wolf with one well-aimed shot.

And instead of feeling angry with her for disobeying him, he found himself fighting the strange, unbidden grin that curled one corner of his mouth. Avril was like no other woman he had known: fiercely independent, as bold as any warrior, indifferent to what anyone else wanted her to do or be. And while those qualities exasperated him, they also fascinated him in some inexplicable way.

He had to disagree with what she said earlier: Though it had happened entirely by accident, or by some mischievous trick of the gods, he had chosen well in Antwerp.

“Mayhap if you shot two or three more, little Valkyrie, our new friends would leave us in peace.”

Avril glanced at him with a raised eyebrow. “Little what?”

“Valkyrie. The fierce warrior-women of our religion, who swoop down from the sky to rescue fallen warriors and escort them to Valhalla—what you would call heaven.”

“I suppose that is better than ‘wife.’” Her expression tense, she slid the crossbow from her shoulder and counted the small, steel-tipped arrows lashed to its stock. “But I do not have many bolts left, and I am not sure it is wise to waste what I have.” She whispered an oath.

Hauk sighed in frustration, as anxious as she was to reach the cove and help Josette and Keldan. “Then we shall have to wait until the wolves give up and leave. My ankle will heal in a few hours, and we can walk the rest of the way.” He let himself rest back against the tree trunk. Turning his head, he looked west, toward the sea. “Mayhap we will even find Ildfast somewhere along the—” He sat up straighter. “Avril, I can see it from here.”

“Your witless horse?”

“Nay—”

“The cove?”

“The ship. My ship. We are so high in this tree, I can see the top of the mast.”

“Thanks be to God,” Avril exclaimed, her voice full of relief and hope. “If it is still there, that means—sweet Mary, mayhap Josette is already safe. Mayhap Keldan and the others captured Thorolf and prevented him from reaching it.”

“Aye.” Hauk tried to sound confident.

For a moment, they both fell silent, the yapping and growling of the wolves filling the warm air, the wind making the upper branches sway and clatter.

“Or,” Avril said more quietly, “Thorolf simply has not reached it yet. Or he has taken Josette elsewhere, they are not even in these woods, and we have been going in the wrong direction all day.”

Hauk settled back against the tree trunk, forcing himself to meet her gaze. “There is no way to know. But even if he has taken her elsewhere, he will be found, Avril. Everyone on Asgard is searching, and they will not rest until Josette is safe.”

She shut her eyes as if in pain, her hands clenching around the crossbow. “But what if he... if he has already...”

“Thorolf knows we will be hunting him,” Hauk said gently. “And I do not believe he would harm her, not until he was safely beyond the reach of Asgard.”

He still wondered what Thorolf could possibly be planning. Leaving the island even for a short time meant risking the ire of the elders, and he doubted Thorolf would do that on a whim or a quest for trade goods.

Avril blinked hard, then met his gaze, looking grateful for his reassurance. “I hope you are right—”

A bird flew out of the branches behind her, startling her. She whirled, lost her hold on the crossbow, and instinctively lunged for the weapon as it fell.

The sudden movement sent her tumbling from her perch.

For one horrified second, Hauk saw her falling, heard her scream, heard the wolves snarling below. Her hands grasped wildly, her fingers closing on empty air.

He lunged down and grabbed her, caught her forearm, fastened his hand around it. The crossbow clattered through the branches and hit the ground, the pack yelping and snarling as they attacked it.

A panicked cry escaped her. She clung to him with both hands, dangling, kicking with her feet.

“Avril!” Holding onto the branch with one hand, Hauk started to haul her up—but felt her slipping from his grasp, the sleeve of her linen tunic so smooth it slid through his fingers. Clenching his jaw, he locked his hand around her wrist.

The wolves became frenzied, howling and leaping up the trunk.

“Mercy of God!” she cried, eyes white with fear. “God, nay, please.”

Her panic tore at his heart. With brute strength and sheer will, Hauk pulled her up, one agonizing inch at a time, until she could reach for the branch, for him. He caught her close and she fell forward into his embrace, clinging to him, trembling.

His back flattened against the rough bark, he locked both arms around her, shaking almost as hard as she was. “You are all right,” he choked out between rapid, unsteady breaths. “I have you.”

The wolves continued growling and jumping at the tree, as if frustrated that he had snatched their prize from their jaws.

He shut his eyes and held on to her, his heart beating hard and fast. He could have lost her. Quickly, suddenly. Forever.

“Avril, do you think you could stay out of danger for mayhap five minutes at a time?” he demanded gruffly.

“It was not my fault!” She lifted her head. “The bird—”

A gust of wind made the branches sway and she buried her face against his neck, her fingers digging into his biceps.

Hauk did not chastise her further. He simply held her tight. They would have to get her back to her own branch safely, but at the moment, she did not seem willing to go anywhere, shivering as if the combined dangers she had faced today had all become too much for her. Breathing rapidly, she remained pressed against him.

And he could feel each breath, warm against his neck.

Could feel her breasts pillowed against his chest through her soft linen tunic. The belt she wore dug into his waist. And the way she was sitting, with her legs across his lap, her soft thigh rested against a most sensitive part of his anatomy. The fact that she was wearing masculine leggings only made it feel more provocative.

“Avril?” His own breathing deepened, his heart thudding as she wriggled against him. “What are you doing?”

She did it again, a shifting motion of her hips before she glanced over her shoulder with a small sound of distress. “I think when I slid from that branch, I must have—I have either splinters or pine needles in my... “

He looked down the curve of her back to see a dozen pine needles piercing her shapely derriere. She could not reach them without letting go of him and twisting around.

“Hold still,” he ordered.

“Ouch!” She flinched in his arms. “That—ouch—”

He plucked out the offending needles for her, one by one, quickly.

“—stings!”

“My apologies.” He rubbed his hand over the injured spot, gently.

She went still, her head still turned away from him. Which meant that she was watching what he was doing.

“Would you please stop that?” Her voice sounded strained.

“I am trying to make you feel better.”

“That is not making me feel better.” She turned an accusing gaze on him.

“Indeed?” he asked innocently. “How does it make you feel?”

“Like pushing you out of this tree!”

He lifted his hand from her bottom.

“Men!” Whispering an oath, she tried to peel herself away from him, but could not get far without risking another fall. Their bodies still touched. Intimately. She planted one hand in the middle of his chest as if to hold him at bay. “How can you even think of that at a time like this?”

“A brush with death tends to have a stimulating effect.” He kept his arms looped around her waist. Purely for safety. “And it has been almost a hundred years since I—”

“What?” She blinked at him.

“It feels like it has been almost a hundred years,” he amended smoothly, “since I have shared—” My time, my life, anything with an utlending woman “—a bed with a woman of your considerable charms.”

Her face reddened and she glanced away. “This is not a bed, it is a branch.”

“It has been even longer since I shared a branch with a woman.” He arched one brow. “In fact, I do not think I have ever shared a branch with a woman.”

“Well, you mere mortals simply never know where we Valkyries might take you.”

His heart thudded a single, hard stroke.

When he did not speak, she looked at him again. “Since we go swooping about,” she clarified, “rescuing stray, wounded warriors and the like. One is bound to get stuck in a tree on his way to heaven, eventually.”

“Aye,” he managed to choke out. She was only teasing him, had no idea that her words held any other meaning, that what she had just said was incorrect. “Avril, stop moving like that.”

Her efforts to wriggle her lower body away from his were having the opposite effect from what she intended.

And they both felt the result at the same moment.

She went still, shut her eyes with an embarrassed oath. “Now look what you have done.”

“On the contrary, little Valkyrie. It is what you do to me.”

She shifted her weight uncomfortably.

“Misery and torment.” He groaned under his breath. “Avril, if you insist on wriggling like that, we will be sharing more than a branch. At the moment, my desire to stay alive is matched by my desire to be inside you.”

She froze. “Would you please stop saying things like that?”

They stared at each other, listening to the wolves growling and circling the tree below.

“I think I had better return to my own branch,” she said uneasily.

“Mayhap that would be safer.”

He released his arms from around her waist, then helped steady her as she stretched both arms toward a bough above them.

“Careful,” he said.

She grabbed onto the tree limb, and he lifted her as she pulled herself up, managing a somewhat graceful jump back to the perch she had occupied earlier.

“Thank you.” She settled securely against the trunk, holding onto the branch with both hands. She glanced up at the sun, now directly overhead. “I suppose we will have to spend the afternoon up here.”

“Unfortunately, I do not think the wolves intend to offer us a choice. Just be certain that you stay on guard for stray birds this time,” he said sternly.

“I had planned on it.” She sighed. “Wherever would I be without a man to tell me what to do?”

“In endless trouble and danger, evidently.” He slanted her a glance. “You may not wish to believe it, milady, but you are a woman who needs a firm hand, someone to protect you. Watch over you.”

“Ha!” she scoffed. “I have managed quite well on my own for three years.”

“I am amazed you have managed to reach the age of three and twenty in one piece.”

“God’s breath, you sound almost like”—her words started out as an annoyed complaint, but ended on a note of soft surprise—”Gerard.”

Hauk looked away. He did not have to ask who Gerard was.

He remembered the name quite clearly, from his conversation with Josette, the night of the althing ceremony. When she had revealed that Avril was not a wife but a widow, that she had lost her husband three years ago.

“He did not approve of your habit of getting into trouble?”

Hauk had asked the question almost before he completed the thought.

To his surprise, she answered him—slowly, quietly, after a long pause filled only with the sound of the wind.

“He found it... difficult to accept my independent ways. At first. I was accustomed to doing as I pleased, and he was...” She hesitated, her voice almost a whisper. “He was a knight, accustomed to issuing orders and having them followed.”

Hauk still did not look at her, oddly found himself sympathizing with the man. He sounded like an entirely reasonable sort.

Hauk wondered how she had come to find this Gerard worthy of her love and devotion.

But he did not ask that. “I do not understand how you came to be accustomed to doing as you please—wielding a crossbow and sailing a ship and the rest. Your parents must have indulged you shamelessly.”

“I was an only child.”

So was he. That did not explain it. He glanced toward her curiously. “And your father wished you to be the son he did not have?”

“Nay.” A hint of a smile curved her mouth. “My parents wished me to be proper and ladylike, but I was always conscious that I needed to be both daughter and son to them. I was born late in their marriage, long after they thought they could not have children, and I always knew that one day the responsibility for our lands and people would fall to me.”

“Or rather, to your husband,” he corrected gently.

“Aye.” Her smile faded. “But I was so close to my parents, I was reluctant to marry and leave them and our home on the seashore in Brittany. Only when my mother became ill did my father decide he must give thought to my future, when I was eighteen. He was well along in years, and wanted to see me...” Her voice became a whisper again. “Settled. Happy.”

Hauk did not speak, his own throat burning at the sorrow and love and wistfulness in her voice, in her expression. Avril had lost much for one so young.

Too much.

“And for some reason,” she continued after a moment, with a trace of a frown, “my father also felt that I needed ‘a firm hand.’” She glanced up through the tree branches, at the bright sun. “So he chose for my husband a knight recently returned from the Crusades, the son of one of his closest friends.” She swallowed, blinking hard. “Sir Gerard de Varennes, of the Artois.”

The hurt in her voice struck such a chord inside Hauk, he almost reached out to her. They were close enough that if they both stretched out their hands—

Then he noticed the band of gold she still wore, the wedding ring gleaming dully in the shifting light.

And he remained still. Did not ask how she had lost her beloved knight, her first husband, the father of her child. This man who possessed her heart so completely, she still wore the ring he had given her.

“And what of your father?” he asked instead, fearing he already knew the answer. “Does he still live in your home on the seashore in Brittany?”

“Nay.” She dropped her gaze to her fingers, so pale clutched against the dark wood of the tree. “My father died earlier this year. I was planning to return home to Brittany after my visit to Antwerp.”

Home. The word and the sadness in her expression tore at him.

She had lost them both, he thought, unable to tear his gaze from her face. Both of the men in her life. Strong men who protected her, cared for her... and then left her alone.

Little wonder she was loathe to surrender her independence, to let herself depend on a man again. To allow a man to hold her close and keep her safe.

She was afraid. His bold, daring little Valkyrie was afraid.

Hauk turned his head, not liking the thick, hot feeling that filled his throat. By all the gods, he had not wanted this. Had not wanted to set foot on this same, dangerous ground he had covered in the past. With Karolina. With Maeve.

He had been willing to give and receive pleasure, even to enjoy Avril’s company. That was simply a matter of two solitary people satisfying a need. A need for companionship and physical contact. Like hunger. Or thirst.

But he did not want to feel more. Because no matter what they shared between them, it would last but a brief wink of time. And it would not ease his pain. Nei, it would only bring him more when it ended.

But even as he reminded himself of that, he could not stop himself from trying to ease her pain.

He reached out with his right hand, his gaze still lowered.

And a moment later, he felt the touch of her fingertips against his.

Closing his eyes, he intertwined their fingers, felt the cool metal of her wedding band.

But for once, she did not pull away.

“Hauk?”

He heard an unexpected softness in her voice as she said his name.

“What?”

“Do you think Josette is safe yet?”

He turned his head to look toward the cove. “I can still see the ship.”

“I hope that means she is all right.”

“Aye,” he agreed. “And Keldan as well.”

The sky blazed with sunlight. Dazzling, blinding sunlight.

Josette blinked up into the brightness of midday, frightened and confused, her heart hammering. What had happened? It seemed like only an instant ago, she had been outside of Avril and Hauk’s vaningshus, in moonlit darkness.

But now she was lying on a beach, and there were treetops nearby. A monstrous headache pounded between her temples. And a strange, tingling sensation coursed through her limbs. The gag Thorolf had tied around her mouth still muffled any sound she might try to make. Her hands were still tied behind her back, her arms sore and cramped as if she had been lying there a long while.

Yet it seemed to her mind that no more than a second had passed—when obviously at least half a day had passed. It felt as if... as if she had somehow lost several hours of time.

The jarring sensation made her feel dizzy, sick. Her pulse racing, she tried to lift her head. She could not see Thorolf anywhere.

But she saw a boat. A large sailing vessel, with a curving prow and stern, moored a short distance out in a... an elongated bay or channel of some kind. She could see land on the far side, thick with evergreen trees. And on this side, cliffs sloping up from the sand toward the sky, a waterfall splashing down to meet the sea.

She was in a deserted cove, at the edge of a forest. Suddenly she remembered what Avril had told her: that Hauk had a boat hidden beyond the western woods.

But why had Thorolf brought her here only to leave her alone?

Josette let her head sink back onto the sand, felt tears threaten, tried to remember what had happened. She had gone to find Avril, only to have Thorolf seize her in the darkness. Her mind had gone blank with terror when he yanked back the hood of her cloak and snarled something at her with a furious, surprised expression.

Then he had forced a liquid of some kind down her throat. The strong-smelling, thick drink had almost choked her, it was so bitter and sweet and tangy. It seemed to be made of dozens of different tastes. And it had the most frightening effect on her.

She had thought he was poisoning her. Or trying to render her unconscious. But the drink had made her feel strangely hot—not as she would with a fever, but as if her very blood burned her veins. Then all at once every muscle in her body had cramped into knots. Her very bones seemed to hurt. The pain had made her cry.

All the while, Thorolf had watched her with cool detachment, a slow grin spreading across his blunt features. Then he had fastened a hand around her throat, squeezing off her breath until she lost consciousness...

Only to awaken here. Several hours later. Hours that felt to her like an instant.

It was all so strange. Confusing. Terrifying. She tried to sit up, pushing her numb, aching arms into the sand.

And then she saw Thorolf—in the water, striding toward her through the shallows, coming from the boat.

He stopped when he saw her. Froze in place, the waves lapping about his knees. Stared at her as she sat up.

Then he abruptly broke into laughter. Loud, overjoyed laughter. He looked up to the sky, raised both arms in the air, shook his fists as if he were laughing at the heavens, at God Himself.

Josette whimpered in fear, certain that Thorolf must be mad. He hurried through the water toward her.

She struggled against her bonds, kicked sand at him when he came to tower over her. He snarled something in Norse, raising his fist. Flinching, Josette cowered at his feet, the gag muffling her small sob of terror.

But he did not strike her. Instead he leaned down and grabbed her chin with one hand, squeezing her face between his fingers with bruising force. He turned her head left and right, studying her, and murmured something in a low voice.

Then he released her and stepped back, looking down at her with a strange, malevolent grin that sent a chill through her.

“Thorolf!”

The shout came from the forest. Even as Thorolf spun, Josette felt her hope and her heart soar at the sound of that deep, strong voice.

Keldan!

A half-dozen men came riding out of the woods, charging across the shore, Keldan in the lead.

Thorolf growled what sounded like a curse and hauled her to her feet, jerking her in front of him. Josette struggled and kicked, tried to twist from his hold. But he was too strong.

He shouted at the men, his tone sharp, and moved backward toward the surf. Toward the boat. Water splashed her gown as he reached the water’s edge.

Nay! She kept fighting him, her gaze on Keldan’s dark, worried eyes—until the cold edge of a knife against her throat made her go still.

Thorolf backed farther into the water, away from the men, snarling at them in Norse.

Keldan and the others dismounted and removed their traveling cloaks—revealing that they all carried weapons. One even had a crossbow. But Thorolf kept her in front of him as a shield, moving toward the ship, carrying her deeper into the waves.

She could not fight him. Could not strike him with her hands tied. Could barely even breathe with the gag in her mouth and the knife at her throat.

So she did the only thing she could think of.

Pretending to faint, she went limp in his hold.

Her sudden lassitude startled him. Enough that the blade came away from her neck, just for an instant—and Josette lunged down with her bound hands and used another trick. One Avril had taught her when they were younger, in case a boy ever became overly friendly. She reached between his legs, grabbed, and twisted.

Thorolf howled in pain and Josette dove sideways, into the knee-deep water.

She went under, felt a moment of panic as the icy surface closed over her head. Then a pair of hands caught her, strong arms lifted her. She saw Keldan and the rest descending upon Thorolf, while one of the men carried her to safety.

Shouts and curses filled the air, Thorolf bellowing in fury. The man who had plucked her from the waves set her down in the sand, took the gag from her mouth, worked at the ropes around her wrists.

But Josette no longer cared about her bonds, her eyes on Keldan, her heart in her throat.

It was a brutal struggle. They were trying to subdue Thorolf, not to kill him. But he knew no such restraint, slashing and stabbing at them with the long knife, trying to break free.

Then it all became a tangle of arms and bronzed backs and splashing water. She heard a sharp cry, saw the battle end at last, and they were dragging Thorolf back to shore. One of the men ran to fetch ropes from his saddle.

Her hands freed, she rose and ran down the beach to throw herself into Keldan’s arms.

She melted into his strong embrace, sobbing. “Keldan! God’s mercy, I was so afraid! I was so afraid!”

“Josette...” He held her tight, breathing hard, his voice strained.

Then he began to sink to his knees.

“Keldan?” she cried, pulling back, falling with him as he went down. “What—” Only then did she notice the blood.

The deep wound in his back. Just above his waist. Thorolf had stabbed him.

Her heart seemed to stop. “Nay! Oh, sweet, holy Mary, nay!”

His eyes were bright with pain. Still holding her, he met her gaze for a long, silent moment, then looked toward the others.

And started giving what sounded like orders.

Thorolf was still bellowing in rage as they tied him securely and lifted him onto one of the horses. Keldan lay down on the sand, groaning in agony.

The sound struck at Josette, made her heart clench tight. She looked back at the men, stunned that they were getting on their horses. “What are you doing? Someone help him! He may be dying!”

“Josette...” Keldan muttered a few breathless words in Norse. He seemed frustrated that he could not make her understand. “Will be... right. Stay.” He looked fiercely into her eyes and squeezed her hand, hard.

She shook her head in disbelief. “They cannot simply leave you. They cannot—”

Even as she said it, one of the men called out to Keldan, but he waved them away. Keeping Thorolf in their midst, lashed securely across one saddle, they delayed only long enough to drop Keldan’s cloak and traveling pack nearby. Then they all turned and galloped up the shoreline, disappearing into the forest.

“Nay!” Josette cried. “How can they ride off and abandon you?”

She started to rise, to chase after them, but Keldan’s grasp on her hand tightened. “Safe... here. Stay.”

“Nay, I have to help you! I have to—”

“Nei, Josette,” he said sharply—the first time he had ever used such a tone with her. “Ulv. Wolf. Stay here. Hauk... come.”

Tears filled her eyes. She felt like shouting at him. How could he be so calm? How could he be concerned about her safety when his life was ebbing from him? “But he may be too late! Even if Hauk comes, it may be too late!”

He shook his head, his eyes becoming glassy. “Sleep... now.”

“Nay, do not go to sleep.” She smoothed his dark hair back from his forehead, panic rising. “Keldan, I am afraid if you go to sleep you may never awaken.”

“Stay.” It was unmistakably an order, his hand gripping hers, his dark eyes worried. “Jeg elsker deg.”

Her vision blurred. He had first said those words to her in the meadow, only yesterday. But she had been unable to bring herself to repeat them, unsure she could truly mean them.

“Jeg elsker deg, Keldan. I love you.”

Her declaration did not seem to ease the anguish in his expression. A spasm of pain wracked him.

Then his lashes drifted closed. He went still.

“Nay!” The denial rose from the depths of her heart. “Keldan, do not leave me!”

Chapter 17

Ildfast, curse him, did not turn up until Hauk and Avril had almost reached the edge of the forest on foot. Finding his stallion happily munching clover in a clearing, Hauk was sorely tempted to feed the bird-witted beast to the wolves, which had finally vanished into the woods in search of easier prey.

As the fading light of sunset sifted down through the forest canopy, he tried to take some comfort from the fact that they now had a horse—a well-rested horse—to carry them the rest of the way to the cove. But after spending all afternoon in the tree, he felt as snappish and restless as a wolf himself, impatient to reach their destination, concerned about whether Keldan and the others had intercepted Thorolf.

And whether the young men had managed to keep the confrontation from turning violent.

Avril also seemed unusually tense and quiet, mayhap because of her worry for Josette.

Or because she did not know what to say about what had happened between the two of them in the tree this afternoon, any more than he did. That long, silent linking of their hands had felt as intimate, somehow, as the lovemaking they had shared in his bed this morn.

Except that it had left him feeling more awkward and out of sorts than lovemaking ever did.

He tried to tell himself he had simply been fulfilling his vows, wooing his wife. Getting to know her better. ’Twas necessary, if he was to see to her needs and her happiness.

But none of those very practical explanations accounted for this tenderness that stole through him at her every glance, her gentlest touch. This feeling that he was dangerously close to naming. Out loud. To her.

Clenching his jaw, Hauk pushed that unsettling thought to the back of his mind. Once Josette and Keldan were out of danger and Thorolf hauled before the council, he meant to carry his little Valkyrie straight back to his vaningshus, where he would keep her safe and protected... and get to know her a great deal better. And see to her happiness in ways that would leave them both so utterly spent, they would not be able to think, let alone speak.

Ildfast’s smooth gait carried them swiftly toward the cove. But when they broke through the trees at last, the sight that greeted them told Hauk his day was not about to get better, but worse.

Much worse.

“Avril!” Josette cried, jumping to her feet and running toward them across the sand. She had been huddled beside Keldan—who lay stretched out near the water, unmoving.

Hauk bit back a curse.

“Josette, thank God!” Avril leaped down from Ildfast’s back and rushed to meet her friend. “Are you all right?”

Josette almost collapsed in her arms. “Oh, Avril, he is dead!” She sobbed. “Thorolf killed him. I barely had the chance to tell him I love him and now he is dead.”

“Nay,” Avril cried, “Josette, I am so sorry. If only we had gotten here sooner!”

“He is gone.” Her friend wailed. “He is gone.”

Holding his tongue, Hauk dismounted, tying Ildfast’s reins to a tree branch before stalking toward them across the shore, choked by the emotions pulsing through him: anger at Thorolf for breaking the most sacred of Asgard’s laws.

And frustration that he had not been here when Keldan and the others had been forced to fight. They were too young. Too inexperienced with weapons. He should have been here when they needed him.

“Keldan and some other men came to rescue me,” Josette was babbling, “and there was a terrible struggle and they captured Thorolf but he stabbed Keldan first and—”

“Shh, Josette.” Avril pressed Josette’s head against her shoulder, trying to comfort the hysterical girl.

“When?” Hauk asked as he drew near. “When did it happen?”

Avril looked at him strangely, but Josette seemed too upset to wonder at the question.

“Hours ago, at midday. And the other five men rode off and left him.” She sobbed. “The heartless wretches, they tied Thorolf up and took him away, but left Keldan to die!”

Hauk scowled at that news, annoyance crowding in on his anger and frustration.

Annoyance at Keldan, who apparently lacked any sense at all.

He strode over to where his young friend lay. Keeping his back to the women—who continued talking and sobbing and making all manner of loud, mournful noise—Hauk crouched down next to him.

“Kel,” he whispered.

The younger man did not stir.

Hauk tapped his face lightly with one hand. “Kel, wake up.”

Another, stronger slap roused him. Gasping a deep breath, Keldan opened his eyes.

“Welcome back,” Hauk said under his breath in Norse. “And welcome to the trouble you have created. Josette tells me Thorolf is in custody. Why did you not send her away with the others?”

Keldan shut his eyes against the sun. “Tyr’s blade, what a headache.” He groaned quietly. “Thorolf, that whoreson, he stabbed me. By all the gods, did it hurt—”

“Try drowning some time,” Hauk muttered dryly. “You have my thanks for capturing Thorolf—but you should have sent Josette away with the others.”

“I did not want her near Thorolf.” Smiling, Keldan sighed dreamily. “Hauk, she told me she loves me.”

“Wonderful. I am overjoyed for you. Now how do you intend to explain to her that you were not, in fact, dead all afternoon?”

The younger man’s eyes snapped open wide, his smile vanishing. “All afternoon?”

“It is evening, Kel. Your poor, hysterical bride has been sitting here grieving for you half the day.”

Keldan blinked up into the red-and-orange-streaked sky, abruptly realizing that it was sunset. “But I thought you would arrive within a few moments! We agreed to rendezvous at midday. I thought you would explain—”

“Unfortunately, I met some wolves with other plans. And it is too soon to tell them, Kel! It is customary to wait a few weeks—”

“Josette is ready to know the truth.”

“Avril is not.”

“Avril is with you?” Keldan sat up. “I thought you meant to leave her in your vaningshus.”

Hauk suddenly realized that the women, who had been chattering and sobbing, had fallen into silence. An astounded, breathless silence.

He muttered a curse. Slowly, reluctantly, he and Keldan turned and looked up the beach—to see their two brides clinging to each other, staring at Keldan with expressions of shock and disbelief. And terror.

“A-are you going to tell me I am merely confused this time?” Avril exclaimed. “Or that Josette could not hear his heartbeat because she had seawater in her ears?”

“Hauk?” Keldan stood, placing one hand on Hauk’s shoulder to steady himself. “You are going to have to explain this to them.” He lifted a hand in gentle entreaty toward his wife. “Josette—”

“Nay!” She flinched back, clutching at Avril.

With an anguished oath, Keldan looked down. “Hauk, you have to tell her. I do not know enough of her words to make her understand. You must explain it to them. Now. There is no other choice.”

“Ja, so it seems,” Hauk grated. “By all the gods, Kel, I am not ready for this.”

He had come here prepared to do battle with Thorolf. Would almost prefer to face an armed foe than this discussion. He had done this twice before, knew it was never easy for a bride to accept. And how could he make them understand Asgard’s secret when they had been here only days, when it was so far beyond the realm of their experience?

“Hauk,” Keldan pleaded, “I cannot bear the way she is looking at me.”

“Then brace yourself, Kel, because it may not improve once she hears what we are about to tell her.” He gestured for the women to join them, shifting to French. “Avril, Josette, my young friend here has decided it is time you knew the truth.” He sighed, trying to think of the best way to begin. “And you may wish to sit down. It is rather a long story.”

“I do not want to sit down! I do not want to listen!” Josette exclaimed, hanging back. “This is impossible! It is madness. He was dead—”

“I am not so certain of that, Josette.” Avril’s heart was beating too fast, her senses spinning. She could not believe her voice sounded so calm.

But she could not deny evidence she had just seen with her own eyes. For the second time. “I... I think mayhap we should listen to what they have to say.”

“What are you talking about?” Josette looked at her as if she thought Avril, too, had lost her mind.

“Josette, we have known from the beginning that there was something strange about this island. At least I have known. If you want to stay here, do you not want to know what it is?”

“I do not want to stay here! I have changed my mind! I have—”

“Josette,” Keldan called to her, his expression desolate. “Vaer snill. Please.”

Josette ceased babbling and looked at him, then stopped trying to bolt and run. She studied his face for a long moment. “H-he did rescue me.” She took a deep breath, then another. “I... I thought he gave his life for me.”

Avril remained silent, her gaze on Hauk. She knew exactly how Josette was feeling. Confused and frightened and moved and wary of these unpredictable, perplexing men.

“V-very well,” Josette said, still clinging to Avril. “I will listen.”

Together they walked down the beach toward the men, close enough to converse—but not too close.

“So, Norsemen,” Avril said, trying to keep her voice steady, “what is this truth you wish to tell us?”

“Keldan was not dead,” Hauk said quietly, tugging his friend down to sit beside him. “He cannot die. We cannot die—”

“We?” Avril thought she had better sit down. Her knees had begun trembling so hard, her legs would no longer hold her.

“The native-born of Asgard. The innfodt.” He met her gaze as she sat opposite him, a few paces away. “We cannot die, not on Asgard soil. Not from a blade or injury or drowning or... most of the usual ways.”

Josette sank down—or rather, collapsed—next to Avril. “But he was dead. He—”

“Nay, milady, he was not. Had you listened very carefully, over a long time, you would have heard his heart beat lightly, once every few minutes. His skin was cool to the touch because the flow of his blood had slowed. And his pulse and breathing were too faint for most people to detect. We call it langvarig sovn.” He glanced from Josette to Avril. “The deepest sleep. It can last a short time or many hours, depending on how long the body requires to heal whatever injury has occurred.”

“That was what happened in the bay,” Avril said breathlessly, “when you swam out and saved me—”

“I did not have strength enough to save us both,” he told her simply. “But I knew that as long as the surf carried me ashore, I would recover, eventually. I would have remained in langvarig sovn some time longer, had you not awakened me.” His hard mouth curved in a grimace. “I am sorry that I lied to you about it, Avril, but we normally do not tell new brides about this until they have been here long enough to adjust to Asgard, to accept their new lives—”

Keldan interrupted, speaking to Hauk in a tone that sounded urgent.

“Ja, ja.” Hauk gestured at him to be quiet. “Josette, Keldan did not mean to frighten you. He never intended to leave you here alone with him all afternoon. I had told him we would meet here at midday, so he believed I would be along momentarily to explain what was happening and reassure you.”

Keldan nodded, saying something to Josette in Norse, his dark eyes never leaving her. From the misery etched on his features, he was clearly begging for her forgiveness, as if he would—

Nay, not die without it, Avril corrected herself, clutching her hands in her lap to keep them from shaking. “But if you cannot die, then you... you are—”

“We are not immortal.” Hauk shook his head. “There are some dangers even an innfodt cannot survive. Such as the wolves. Or falling from one of the cliffs. But as long as we avoid those and stay here on Asgard, we remain healthy.” He paused. “And live a rather long time.”

“H-how long?” Josette squeaked.

Hauk glanced at her. “Keldan here”—he nodded at his friend—”is a mere lad among us. He only celebrated his fiftieth year a few months ago.”

Josette looked surprised, and a little relieved.

Avril could hardly believe it. Keldan did not look a day over thirty. “A-and what about you?” she asked Hauk, her heart thudding.

He met her gaze. “How old would you guess I am?” he asked quietly.

Avril studied Hauk’s angular features and sun-colored hair. He appeared as youthful as his friend, barely touched by time. His face showed not one line or wrinkle, his smooth, tanned skin marked only by the stubble of burnished gold that skimmed his cheeks. With his strong jaw and those pale-blue eyes that matched the sky, he was more handsome than any—

She drew herself up short. She had been about to think than any mere mortal had a right to be.

But he was not a mere mortal.

“I... I cannot tell. You look no older than Keldan.”

A fleeting smile brought out a dimple in his stubbled cheek. “Aye.” He hesitated, and his expression became somber as he kept his gaze fixed on hers. “But I was born three hundred years ago.”

Avril heard Josette inhale sharply. She herself could not make a sound. The evening sky seemed to whirl dizzily as Hauk’s words echoed over and over in her mind, like the waves splashing onto the shore.

Three hundred. Three hundred.

Three.

Hundred.

All the air vanished from her lungs. She gasped, choked. An uncontrolled laugh bubbled up in her throat. “This is a jest. You cannot possibly be—this must all be some kind of jest! No one can live to be three hundred—”

“I am only in my middle years, compared to some among our people.”

She shook her head in denial, but he was not teasing her. Clearly he was not. There was no amusement in his deep voice. And no happiness. He remained solemn, stating it all calmly.

As if he were relating simple, indisputable facts.

Trembling, she had to put out a hand to steady herself. Felt surprised to find solid earth beneath her. “You mean to tell me that all of those... those merchants and farmers and craftsmen in town are—”

“Older than they look. Some are much older than they look. We innfodt mature to the age of thirty, and then it is as if time...” He shrugged one bronzed shoulder. “Stops. In truth, we are not certain what the upper limit of our years may be. If there is one.”

Josette looked at Keldan in astonishment and distress. “Do you mean you may live forever?”

“We do not know,” Hauk told her. “For centuries, men have searched the world for the legendary key to eternal youth—what some have called the waters of life—and what they seek is here. On Asgard. Accidentally discovered more than six hundred years ago, by a small band of Norse explorers who were seeking a new sea route to the west.” His mouth became a grim, bitter line. “And yet it remains a secret. A mystery—”

“You do not know how it is that the island affects you this way?” Avril guessed. “As you do not know how it heals.”

“Aye.” He nodded, his voice becoming harsh. “But whatever it is about Asgard that sustains us, it comes with a price. We cannot live without it. We have become connected to the island in some way—we are part of it and it is part of us. As long as we remain here, we may live forever.” His eyes held hers again. “But in the outside world, in your world, we live no more than six days.”

Avril felt her heart beat a strange, hard stroke that stole her breath. “You can never leave?” she asked softly. “You are”—she searched for a word, felt surprised when she found it—”captives here?”

He shook his head. “Most do not see it that way. Asgard is a pleasant place, after all. A paradise.” He gestured at the sun-warmed beach, the lush forest, the waterfall that cascaded down the nearby cliffs. “The elders long ago made it a law that no one may venture out even for a short time, to protect Asgard and its secret. But it is almost unnecessary. Most innfodt are happy to stay.”

“But not everyone,” she said.

Not you. She could tell by his voice, had noticed it before—that trace of bitterness. Of yearning.

It occurred to her abruptly—jarringly—that she and Hauk had much more in common than she had ever suspected. She knew all too well how it felt for someone of independent, adventurous spirit to have that freedom curtailed.

How would it feel to live like that for three hundred years?

Something inside her knotted with pain as she remembered the books she had found in his vaningshus. Written in his youth, he had said. He must have longed to travel those distant lands. It must be torture for him, leaving now and then for a few days, enjoying a glimpse of the wider world, of freedom, only to be forced to return. She was amazed he left at all.

Then she remembered that he had told her he had to leave now and then, as part of his duty as vokter.

“Not everyone is happy to stay,” he agreed quietly, glancing toward his boat moored in the cove. “We are Norsemen, after all. Exploration and wandering are in our blood.” A muscle flexed in his lean jaw. “But those who have given in to temptation, who have tried to test the limit of six days, have paid with their lives.”

The gruffness of his voice made her guess that included someone who had meant a great deal to him.

Her throat closed. She had once assumed that Hauk lived alone in his clifftop vaningshus because he preferred it that way, because he was reserved and solitary by nature.

But that was not true. He had shown her this afternoon—and many times before—that that was not true.

And mayhap he had not always been so solitary. So alone.

Josette’s hesitant voice filled the momentary silence. “And what about us?” she whispered. “H-how long will we live?”

A shadow of discomfort passed over Hauk’s features, as if he had dared hope that question would not arise. “Not long enough,” he said, almost too faintly to be heard.

Avril could not speak. Dampness filled her eyes.

Hauk turned to face Josette and answered her quickly, stoically. “On Asgard, your lives will be longer than normal. You will reach mayhap seventy-five years, and you will retain your youth and health for much of that time.”

“And after that?” Avril whispered.

He did not look at her, kept his gaze on Josette. “Only those born on Asgard are innfodt, native-born. Anyone brought here later in life remains utlending. Foreign.” After a moment, he added, “Mortal.”

Josette looked at Keldan, who sat waiting, tense, regarding her with hope and desperation in his eyes—and another emotion that Avril recognized, though she was not certain Josette could discern it.

Love.

“But why bring us here, if you will only outlive us?” Josette demanded of him accusingly. “Why not marry one of your innfodt women?”

“It is an ancient tradition,” Hauk explained. “When that first band of explorers—twenty men—discovered the island’s healing qualities, they did not wish to spread word of this place, which would invite the entire world to their doorstep. And since they were a long way from home, they decided to follow the Norse custom of the time and—”

“Go and steal themselves some brides,” Avril said dryly. “From somewhere closer at hand.”

He nodded. “Unfortunately, Asgard’s founders enjoyed only a normal, slightly longer life span. It was the children of those couples, the first generation born here, who were the first innfodt. They were the first who did not die, and when they reached thirty, they stopped aging.” He paused, glancing out over the sea. “But that generation found that unions between two innfodt produce no children.”

Avril felt her heart pounding, began to understand.

“Most Asgard men are content to remain here and marry here,” Hauk continued, his voice becoming rough, “because to this day, if a man wants a family, he must risk venturing into the outside world and stealing himself an utlending bride. Few are willing to take the risk anymore, because the outside world becomes a more crowded, more violent, more dangerous place every year.”

Josette reached up to touch her mouth with her fingertips. “That is why you brought me here?” she asked Keldan with soft wonderment. “Because you want a family?”

“Aye, that is why he brought you here,” Hauk replied, his expression gentle as he looked at her. “Utlending brides are considered special, Josette, and Keldan wanted to marry the most special one he could find. A woman who would touch his heart. A woman with ‘sparks and liveliness,’ he said. The moment he set eyes on you, he knew you were the one. All he wants is to live in that vaningshus he built in the meadow and make you happy all the days of your life. And raise a little carpenter or two.”

Josette pressed her hand over her mouth, tears suddenly sliding down her cheeks. She left Avril’s side without another word and walked over to Keldan, kneeling before him in the sand.

She touched his face, spoke to him in Norse.

Keldan uttered a shout of relief and joy, wrapping his arms around her in a fierce hug. He said something to Hauk, his tone one of gratitude, before burying his face in Josette’s dark hair.

“Ja, ja,” Hauk replied hollowly, before he stood and walked toward Avril.

“I do not understand.” She looked up at him in puzzlement as he drew near. “What did she say?”

“She told him she loves him.” He glanced over his shoulder.

Keldan and Josette were now lost in a kiss, lost in each other, oblivious to the world... and sinking onto the sand.

Hauk cleared his throat and reached down to help Avril up. “And I believe we should allow them some time alone.”

Chapter 18

“Avril,” Hauk said after they had been walking along the shore for several minutes, “I find it difficult to believe that you have naught to say.”

Avril could not bring herself to look at him, or summon a response. She poked at a piece of seaweed with a long stick she had picked up as they wandered down the beach.

Leaving Ildfast where he was, they had set off on foot, following the curving edge of the cove toward the waterfall. The inlet was shaped like a broad, elongated U, open to the sea at one end, surrounded by the forest. Even the cliffs just ahead were laden with greenery, the waterfall splintered by trees and brambles into smaller cascades that glittered in the setting sun as they spilled into the cove.

She looked down at the icy waves lapping around her bare toes. She had removed her boots, carrying them in her hand, and unbraided her hair after the salt-scented wind blowing in from the ocean made a tangle of it.

“You must forgive me if I do not know what to say,” she finally managed to reply. “I have never before conversed with a man who is three hundred years old.”

“It is not difficult. I am not hard of hearing,” he said lightly, “despite my age.”

She turned to face him in the fading golden light. “Am I supposed to find that amusing?”

“I do not know.” He crossed his arms over his broad chest. “You will have to tell me, which will require speaking to me. And you have conversed with a man who is three hundred years old—every day since we met in Antwerp.”

Avril could only stare at him, mute, unable to sort out the jumbled thoughts splashing through her mind like the waves on the shoals. She brushed a windblown strand of hair out of her eyes, knew that what he said was true: This was Hauk, the same man who had abducted her, provoked her, fought with her... and saved her life, comforted her, teased her.

Made love to her. Cradled her tenderly in his strong arms.

And awakened emotions and longings in her heart she had thought she would never feel again.

Yet he was three hundred years old. Had been on this earth centuries before she was born.

And would be here long after she died.

“Avril...” He moved closer. “There is no need to look at me as if I had just sprouted antlers. I am no different today than I was yesterday—”

“Aye, and apparently you will be the same tomorrow, and the day after that and the day after that—”

“How reassuring to see that your wit is still intact,” he said dryly.

She dropped her boots and stabbed her walking stick into the sand. “You must pardon me if I am having a somewhat more difficult time adjusting to all of this than Josette. She is happily married to a man of fifty. I am...” She shook her head, looked down at her bare toes. “I do not know what I am anymore. Mayhap I am losing my mind.”

“Do you doubt what I have told you? What you have seen with your own eyes? Do you think I have concocted an elaborate lie for some reason?”

“Nay.” She swallowed hard and reluctantly met his gaze. “That is what frightens me the most. I believe you. I have seen enough of this strange place to believe you are telling the truth.”

His expression softened. “I knew this would be difficult for you to accept.” Reaching out, he caught a strand of her long hair in his fingertips. “That is why I did not wish to tell you so soon.”

“And when were you going to tell me?” A spark of anger flared inside her. “After you had bedded me a few times?” Another, awful thought struck her. “After I was carrying your child? Did you think that would—”

“After you had begun to have feelings for me.”

The quiet way he said it startled her into silence.

His blue eyes searched her face. “Which, after this afternoon, I thought might not be far in the future.”

Her heart missed a beat. She looked away, afraid he would see in her eyes what she had barely begun to admit to herself.

What she dared not admit to him.

“You were mistaken.” She did her best to sound cool and remote. Grabbing her walking stick and boots, she quickly changed to a safer subject. “Should we not go back and collect our friends, and return to town? I am still concerned about Josette. While she was babbling, she mentioned something about Thorolf—”

“Avril—”

“—But she was so upset about losing Keldan, I could not make sense of half of what she was saying. I want to make certain she is all right.”

She started back the way they had come, noticing with a twinge in her heart how far apart the two sets of footprints were in the sand.

“Avril, she appeared perfectly well when we left her. You can check on her later. On the morrow.” Hauk did not follow.

Avril stopped and turned. “We are not going?”

One corner of his mouth curved. “I do not think we should intrude upon them yet.”

Avril felt warmth rise in her cheeks, realizing he was probably right. Josette and Keldan had barely noticed when she and Hauk left them. The young couple had been too busy celebrating their reunion.

Which might take the rest of the night.

And Avril did not wish to steal one moment of their happiness. Even if it meant being stranded out here with Hauk until morning.

The last glimmer of sunlight seemed to choose that very moment to vanish from the horizon, leaving the two of them cloaked in shadows and the first, tentative radiance of the moon.

“There is a sheltered place near the waterfall,” Hauk said. “We can spend the night there.”

His tone was reassuring but his words brought an unsettling flutter to Avril’s stomach. She remembered too well what had happened the last time she and Hauk spent a moonlit night on the beach.

Struggling to banish the memory, to keep her tone cool and unruffled, she walked back toward him. “Are you certain you do not have to return to town at once and see to Thorolf’s punishment?”

He shook his head. “It will be safer to delay our return journey through the woods until dawn, since our ill-tempered acquaintances with the sharp fangs prefer to hunt in the darkness.” He fell in step beside her as they continued walking along the shore. “The men who rode with Keldan will take Thorolf to the council. Josette and Keldan will have to appear before them on the morrow to tell what happened, and the elders will decide his punishment.”

She looked at him curiously. “How do you punish those who break your laws?”

“Fortunately, it is rarely necessary.” He shrugged. “A person may be fined, or banished to a distant part of the island for a time, or even confined to solitary imprisonment. Thorolf’s misdeeds over the years have earned him all of those penalties.” Hauk’s expression hardened. “But when he attacked Keldan, he broke the most sacred of our laws, and he will pay dearly for it.”

“In France, he would be drawn and quartered,” Avril said, still angry at the terrifying ordeal poor Josette had endured.

“Mayhap, milady. But violence of any kind, for any reason, is strictly forbidden among us. The sort of killing and mayhem that occur every day in your world are unknown on Asgard.”

Avril blinked at him in disbelief. “In all this time, no innfodt has ever killed”—she caught her error—”well, not killed, but—”

“Nay, no innfodt has purposely harmed another. Not within my memory.”

“All three hundred years of it?”

That comment earned her a frown.

“My apologies,” she amended lightly. “I suppose I should not tease you about being so old.”

“Nay, feel free.” His slow smile flashed in the moonlight. “I will be happy to prove to you that I possess all the prowess and stamina of a man of thirty. Mayhap I should demonstrate—”

“Mayhap not.” She increased the distance between them, waggling her stick in warning. His gaze roved over the masculine garb she still wore, in a way that made her heartbeat quicken.

“I still do not understand,” she persisted, trying to keep his mind—and her own—on the subject at hand. “Even if weapons and violence are forbidden, there must still be disputes and quarrels and fights.”

“Aye.” He moved closer as they walked. “But the first generation of innfodt decided that peace and co-operation would be essential among our people, when they realized none could leave Asgard and all would be living here together a very long time.” He reached out and took her boots from her hand, gallantly carrying them for her. “Disagreements are brought before the elders, they discuss the matter, and decide how to settle it.” He reached out and took her walking stick. “Fortunately, troublemakers like Thorolf are rare.”

Avril belatedly realized she had just been disarmed. “I am surprised there are not more like him,” she said, turning around and walking backward, the better to keep an eye on Hauk’s quick hands. “No matter where people live in the world, men are still men. Unless you have somehow managed to do away with rivalry and aggression and envy and greed—”

“There is little cause for any of that on Asgard. There is ample land and prosperity for all to enjoy, ample time to enjoy it, and all share in it equally. There are no lords here, no princes, no serfs. And as for the aggressive, physical side of man’s nature, we channel that into sport...” His slow, wicked smile returned. “And other enjoyable pursuits.”

She turned away, not liking the effect that smile had on her pulse. “You make Asgard sound like it truly is a paradise.” His world sounded utterly different from her own. France knew little else but war, as lords and kings battled for land and riches, power and revenge.

“Aye.” His voice became serious. “Though in truth, I fear we have become almost too peaceful.”

They had reached a curve in the shoreline, a point where the sloping cliff stretched all the way across the beach in front of them, blocking their path. The waterfall tumbled noisily from the sky a short distance beyond. Hauk moved ahead of her, pulling aside a tangle of greenery to reveal some rough-hewn steps cut into the rock. “The sheltered place is just on the other side.” He started to climb up, then reached back to help her.

Avril hesitated only a moment before she took his hand. His skin felt warm against hers, the stone steps cool and damp beneath her bare feet. The rocky slope of the cliff was only a few yards high at this point, and when they reached the top, she could see that the beach continued on the other side, the shore of the cove stretching away into the darkness.

“Careful.” Hauk took a protective hold on her arm, steadying her as she climbed down.

When her feet touched the sand again, she realized that they were at the base of a crevasse that extended deep into the cliff. Most of the rushing waterfall flowed directly into the cove, but a few streams spilled down on this side, falling in sheer curtains that glistened in the moonlight, gathering in a pool at the bottom that reflected the night sky.

High above them, along the top of the crevasse, the tall pines had grown together across the opening, branches intertwined to form an arching canopy. It almost reminded Avril of the roof of a cathedral. But instead of stained glass and gold, this sanctuary was decorated with naught but the starlight that sprinkled down through the green boughs, and the sparkle of the waterfall. In the morning, she thought, the whole place would have an emerald glow.

It was not merely a sheltered place; it was a secluded haven, filled with the scent of pine and the peaceful sounds of the waterfall and the waves. “A paradise,” she whispered.

“I rest here when I return from my voyages away from Asgard,” Hauk said quietly. Setting down her boots and walking stick, he stepped toward an ancient-looking rain barrel wedged against the rock. “And I keep a few necessities on hand.” He motioned for her to join him.

Twisting the lid of the barrel, he lifted it and set it aside, then dug through the contents. He handed her a folded woolen blanket and a leather flask.

She uncorked the flask and drank, expecting water and coughing when she tasted potent wine instead. “Necessities?”

He grinned, taking out some pieces of dry firewood and kindling before replacing the lid. “When I return to Asgard after visiting the outside world, what I want most is a long sleep and a strong drink.” He carried the wood over to a small circle of stones near the pool—a fire pit, judging by the charred remnants of logs within.

She followed and dropped the blanket and flask next to him before moving toward the waterfall, enchanted by the glistening rush of silvery droplets. Leaning across the shallow pool, she cupped one hand in the cascade, surprised to discover that it was warm. She lifted her hand to her mouth.

“Avril, you might not want to—”

She could not spit the water out fast enough, making a face. “That tastes like... I do not know what that tastes like.” She wiped the sleeve of her tunic across her mouth.

Hauk chuckled. “It is fed by a warm spring that is rich with minerals. There are many of them across Asgard.” He pointed to a second rain barrel a few feet away, this one open to the sky. “That is for drinking water.”

A pair of empty flasks hung next to the barrel, dangling from an iron peg hammered into the rock. Relieved, Avril walked over and filled one before returning to the fire pit, where Hauk had knelt down and set to work with a flint and steel.

She spread the woolen blanket across the sand. The material was worn from years of use, felt soft as she sat down, tucking her bare feet beneath her. “Hauk, what did you mean when you said, ‘we have become almost too peaceful’?” She looked up at the gentle waterfall. “How could it be possible for Asgard to become too peaceful?”

“Because you utlending keep extending the boundaries of your world and coming closer to ours.” His voice became somber. “For six hundred years we have been safe here. Few ships ever venture into these northern waters—but with each passing century, your people build bigger and stronger ships, and explore farther into the unknown reaches of the world.” The fire sparked and flared to life. “Someday the outsiders will find us.”

Avril felt a shiver go through her at the hollow certainty in his voice.

“And we have become so accustomed to peace rather than war,” he continued, the glow of the flames accenting the hard set of his jaw, “that we may not be able to defend ourselves when that day finally comes.”

Avril thought of the kind, amiable people in town, of little Marta and her family, of Josette and Keldan, and her heart clenched. She knew that the violent men of her world—the lords and princes and kings—would not hesitate to wage war to lay claim to this place.

“You have to do whatever you can to protect yourselves,” she blurted. “You have to... to raise an army—”

“Build a fleet of warships? Give everyone weapons and teach them to kill? That would destroy the very way of life we are trying to protect.” He gazed out at the waters of the cove, glassy and black in the darkness. The mast of his knorr was just visible in the distance, outlined by the moonlight. “The time may come when I am forced to recommend that, but for now I have argued that we should change some of our traditions, such as the Claiming voyage. Because every time we venture out—”

“You risk having someone follow you home.”

He nodded, glancing toward her. “And in these times, with so many people crowding your world, we must be more cautious than ever about remaining hidden here. We must take greater care to protect Asgard’s secret.” A look of regret came into in his eyes. “At all costs.”

Avril held his gaze, understanding as she never had before why it was so vitally important to him that none of the captive brides leave Asgard.

Including her.

He had not kept her from returning to Giselle because he was unkind or uncaring; he cared a great deal.

But he also cared deeply for his people.

“So that is why you are the only one who leaves anymore,” she said quietly.

He came over to sit next to her on the blanket, declined the water flask she offered and picked up the wine. “It is my duty to keep watch on the utlending, so that if necessary, we can take up arms.” He took a long drink. “I observe their ports and their ships. Gather what news I can. Listen for word of explorers who might travel in this direction.”

A chill chased down her spine. “But you said that you cannot survive away from Asgard—”

“Not for more than six days. My voyages are, by necessity, short. And I go only two or three times a year. But it is a risk I must take.”

Her heart thudded at the danger he was placing himself in. “And if something were to happen to you while you were on one of these expeditions—”

“Away from the island, we do not have its healing protection. In Antwerp, two of our party were killed.”

The pain in his voice brought a sharp ache to the center of her chest. “Hauk, I am sorry. It must be difficult to lose friends you have known so long.”

He did not reply for a moment, the rush of the waterfall and the crackling of the fire filling the silence.

“They were young,” he said gruffly. “Too young to listen when I told them what the dangers would be. Too eager. We only undertake the Claiming voyage every thirty years, when a new generation has come of age.”

“Like Keldan.”

“Aye, like Keldan.” A rueful grin tugged at his mouth. “He wanted to go on the last voyage, but the elders refused because he was only twenty, barely more than a boy.” Hauk’s smile faded. “He has waited a long time for his bride.”

Avril saw concern in his expression and it troubled her. “Do you not think Keldan and Josette will be happy together?”

He set the flask aside and stood, walking toward the edge of the cove, the ocean breezes ruffling his hair. “They will be fine. She will be very happy. As will their children.”

“And Keldan?”

“Keldan is still...” He hesitated. “Too young to understand.” He did not look back at her, his words almost lost on the wind. “What it will be like, when she is gone.”

Avril heard the sorrow that laced his voice—and felt as if the moon had just fallen from the sky and knocked her to the ground. “You have been married before,” she said, her voice shaking, “to a woman like me, to an utlending.”

For a moment, she was not sure he would answer her.

“Twice.”

She gasped, too shocked to speak. But of course. Of course he would have been married before. God’s mercy, she could not believe she had not guessed sooner.

“You wanted children,” she whispered. “A family.”

He did not reply, standing there as still as one of the distant rocks that protected Asgard, battered by the cold sea. Only the unsteady rise and fall of his shoulders as he struggled for breath betrayed any emotion.

Avril shut her eyes, anguish opening some deep place in her heart. He had said that the only reason an innfodt married a mortal was to have a family. But he did not have a family.

And he had called it a foolish, senseless tradition.

Now she saw those words in a different, more painful light. Aching, she stood and went to him. “Hauk,” she asked softly, “what happened?”

He flinched when she touched his back but did not turn around. And did not speak for a moment.

Then the words started to come, haltingly.

“My first wife, Karolina”—his voice was strained, as if he had not said the name aloud in many years—”died in childbirth and our son with her, after we had been together a year. My second wife, Maeve...” He tilted his head back, looking up at the night sky. “Died after we had been together more than fifty years. But in all that time, she never conceived.”

Closing her eyes, Avril rested her forehead against his back. “Hauk, I am so sorry,” she whispered.

She felt him shrug. “It happens to some couples. Large families are rare here. Most have only two or three children, which is mayhap for the best.”

“That is not what I meant. I am sorry that you lost them.” She lifted her head. “I am surprised that you would marry again, after you lost your first wife.”

He turned to look down at her.

And a moment of understanding passed between them, too deep for words.

“We are not gods, Avril,” he said softly. “Only men. Men who live and work and laugh... and want.” His voice roughened. “And need.”

She blinked hard against the tears that blurred her vision. And dream. Hauk had dreamed, like any ordinary man. Dreams that had never come true. He had longed for a family—and instead had been left alone, to carry inside him all the sorrow and loss of many lifetimes.

She did not know how he could bear it.

“I had not planned to take another bride.” He touched her cheek, grazing his thumb along her jaw. “Ever.”

For one moment, a single heartbeat, she tried to resist the tenderness in his eyes, to keep denying this feeling she had been fighting against so hard.

Then she leaned into him, sliding her arms around him, unable to stay within the safe boundary she had drawn around her heart. Not when everything within her wanted to hold him and comfort him.

Slowly, his arms circled her and drew her in close.

She pressed her cheek against his chest, listening to his strong heartbeat. “No wonder everyone has been besieging us with gifts,” she whispered with a pained smile. “They did not expect you to marry again.”

He stroked her back, his hands warm through the linen of her tunic. “I have been resisting my uncle’s prodding on the matter for most of the past century.”

“Your uncle? The man from the council of elders, the one who looks like you?” she guessed. “I thought he was your brother.”

“Nay, he is my uncle, Erik. My grandfather, Hakon Valbrand, was the leader of the group of explorers who discovered Asgard. Before he died, he had two sons—the eldest, my father, who was vokter before me, and Erik. They were part of the first generation of innfodt. The fourteen men who survived from that generation make up our council of elders.”

“And the others,” she asked hesitantly, “the ones who did not survive—”

“Were the ones who could not accept being made captive here. Could not accept what they were. What Asgard had made them. They persisted in trying to find some way to be free.” He paused. “None were successful.”

Her heart beat painfully hard in her chest. “And your father was one of them?” she asked gently.

He nodded.

She shut her eyes. “How old were you?”

“Eight.” His chest rose and fell shallowly beneath her cheek.

She did not ask any more, simply holding him as he had held her before, sensing that he had already told her far more than he had told anyone in a long time.

But after a moment, he continued, unbidden.

“He loved my mother so deeply that he could not bear to lose her. He thought if he could discover Asgard’s secret, find a way to give her the gift of being innfodt...” He exhaled sharply. “He thought he had succeeded. I do not know how. I was too young to understand. I only knew that the experiment killed her. And my father felt such remorse, he sailed away from the island, taking her body with him... and stayed away longer than six days, apurpose.”

“Oh, Hauk.” Avril felt his grief knife through her, could only imagine how hurt and confused and angry a young boy of eight would have been, left behind. Left alone.

“My uncle Erik was so furious, he burned my father’s notes, his books, destroyed everything he had used in those accursed experiments.” Hauk unwrapped himself from her embrace and turned away, toward the cove. “For years I hated my father for what he had done. It was not until much later...” He hung his head, looking down at the dark waves that washed across the shore. “That I understood him.”

“After you lost Karolina,” Avril said softly.

“Aye.” His tone became harsh. “My uncle was determined that I not make my father’s mistake. He raised me to accept my place here and devote myself to training to be vokter. And I did—until I lost my wife and son. Then I neglected my duty, indulged in drink and danger and whatever willing women I could find and whatever reason I could find to open my eyes in the morn. That was when I...”

He turned toward her again, a look of unspeakable pain shadowing his features.

“When I understood why my father did what he did.” His voice choked out for a moment. “Because everything and everyone around us, even those we bring here and care for and protect, dies. While no matter what we do, we go on.” He shook his head. “Unchanged.”

Alone, Avril thought. Even after he had taken the risk of loving again, married a second time, he had been left alone. But no pleasure, no drink, no risk could fill that part of his soul that ached for what he had lost. For what had lasted so briefly and been so sweet.

For love.

She walked over to him, silently, and took his hand in hers.

He drew her close, with a low sound of pain. “I did not want another wife, Avril. Do you not understand—”

“I understand,” she said brokenly, even as she tilted her face up to his.

“I had accepted that I would always be alone.” His hands tangled in her hair. “That I was meant to be alone.” His blue eyes burned with intensity. “Forever.”

As he said the last word, he shut his eyes—but not before she caught the glimmer of dampness there.

It made the last of her defenses against him, this strong, impossible Norseman with a warrior’s courage and a gentle soul, crumble and vanish.

Lifting her hands to his face, she cupped his stubbled cheeks in her palms. “Hauk...” She could not find words to express the feelings that overwhelmed her.

Instead, she drew him down to her and kissed him. Told him without speaking that he was not alone. That she was here with him, that she wanted to be with him.

Because she cared for him, deeply.

His mouth was warm against hers, the kiss slow and soft and infinite. But she could feel his muscles going taut, as if he were fighting an inner battle—some deep place in him determined to remain alone and apart, unwilling to accept the caring she offered.

But she was unwilling to retreat, and only offered more.

Threading her fingers into his hair, she drew him closer. Allowed all the tenderness she felt to show in her touch, her kiss. Offered him all of herself, body and heart and soul.

She could not think anymore, not about the impossible differences between his world and hers, or the past or the future or any time but now. Any place but here. Here, where they were together in this secluded haven, cloaked by the night and surrounded by the sounds of the waves and the water falling from the cliffs.

The heat that had flared between them from the moment they met shimmered and caught fire.

And something within him seemed to give way, like a defensive palisade that had finally burned to ashes.

A groan escaped him, a sound filled with torment and longing, and he responded to her, fiercely. One of his hands fisted in her hair, his mouth slanting over hers, his tongue thrusting deep. His other arm fastened around her, hard as iron. Avril moaned at the raw power of his hunger for her. Desire, lightning-hot, scattered her senses and struck sparks through her body. The world spun dizzily. She clutched at his hard-muscled arms.

Their kiss became an urgent mating of lips and tongues, breath and longing. Scorching. Impatient. She melded her body to his, could not get close enough. His rigid length pressed against her and she arched into him with a low sound of need, her voice echoed by his. Heat curled in her belly. His hold on her shifted.

In the next instant, she was on her back in the sand.

They did not even attempt to reach the blanket near the fire and she did not care. His hands yanked at the belt she wore, tore at her clothing, sliding beneath fabric to seek naked skin. The flat muscles of his abdomen flinched against her palms as she pushed his leggings down past his hips. He pulled off her loose-fitting garments, threw them aside. Bared her to his gaze, to his touch.

She could feel the sand, rough and warm against the naked curve of her back and her bottom—then her lips parted on a gasp as his mouth covered her breast.

He suckled her, velvet heat against the aching crown, his teeth grazing her nipple. His other hand reached to claim the softness between her thighs, slipping into her wetness, and her head tilted back on a wordless cry. His thumb and fingers captured the sensitive nub hidden within her curls, stroking her with that delicious, unspeakably perfect touch. Shards of pleasure glittered through her, bright and hot. Her hands tangled in his golden hair, pressing him closer. She wanted more, needed all of him. Needed to yield herself to him, to know what it was to be utterly his.

“Now,” she cried. “Hauk, now.”

He ignored her husky command and pulled free of her touch to nip a quick, hungry path down her ribs, her belly, turning her words into a low moan. He matched the sound an instant later when his fingers parted her damp folds and he inhaled her scent. His tongue flicked over that swollen bud and she writhed beneath him.

Then he held her down against the sand and took her with his mouth.

A shock of excitement raced through her, sensations beyond any she had known. He tasted her, ravished her. Sampled her depths with quick strokes of his tongue. Tugged at that delicate bud with his lips.

Then he drew the hard nub of sensitive flesh into his mouth and suckled her.

She cried out, her fingers digging deep furrows in the sand, her body lashed by pleasure. It cut through her in sharp waves as he continued the sweet torture. Liquid heat flowed from her core and he groaned his approval.

The crest of each wave swept her higher, higher still, until she could bear no more. She was poised at the very edge of release when he suddenly moved, covering her body with his.

Their gazes met, burning. He fitted the broad head of his shaft against her wetness.

Then he pushed forward and entered her—and all the waves broke at once, shattering in a rain of fire and light. She moaned his name over and over as ecstasy cascaded through her. Soaring, she felt silky pressure and hot fullness as he claimed her as his own. Filled her in a single stroke until they were utterly joined, one. Together.

She could feel her inner muscles clenching tight around him, the last of her climax washing over her. A string of Norse words tore from his throat. He balanced his weight on his forearms, pressing his cheek against hers, his breathing ragged. She scarcely had time to adjust to the impossibly sweet sensation of having him inside her before he began to move, withdrawing nearly all the way before thrusting deep.

He reached for her hands, wove his fingers through hers, pressed them into the sand on either side of her head. He kissed the hollow of her throat, her jaw, speaking feverish words she could not understand. Then he covered her mouth in a potent kiss, his tongue hot velvet against hers. He joined the two of them in every way possible, and took her hard and fast.

Groaning, she lifted her hips. Aye, like this. She wanted him exactly like this. Fierce and powerful and undeniable. She matched his rhythm, aware of every detail—the masculine strength of his body as he moved, the gritty texture of the sand beneath her, the ocean wind against her heated skin, the satiny steel of him embedded in her depths. He made her feel alive and complete. Lost. Found.

Each sensation burned into the next, each moment into the next, until she lost all sense of time, until there was no more yesterday, no tomorrow. Only the two of them, moving together in that ancient dance in the darkness, beneath the moon and stars. Two made one, racing toward the highest crest, together.

He sent her soaring again into bliss, and this time joined her there, his hands clasping hers, his muscled body shuddering as he spilled himself deep inside her with a hoarse shout.

The force of it left them both breathless, shaking. His body went slack, his weight pressing her down into the earth, his heart pounding against hers. She stroked his sweat-sheened back, held him close, brushed kisses over his stubbled cheek.

And suddenly she had to shut her eyes to hold back tears.

Not tears of regret. Nay, no regrets. She had wanted this, every moment of it. One night for them and them alone. One reckless, glorious memory to hold in her heart forever.

The tears brimming behind her lashes came from a searing sense of loss.

Because she knew she could not stay with him.

She had to leave Asgard. Had to return home as soon as possible. Had to leave him here... alone.

And it did not matter that she loved him.

Chapter 19

If they did not get out of the water soon, Hauk thought with a drowsy smile, they would get no sleep at all this night.

The fire had burned low and needed tending. And they should put their clothes on. If they could find their clothes. Which might be difficult in the darkness.

Mayhap, he decided, that could wait until dawn.

At the moment, neither of them seemed eager to leave their comfortable position—sitting together in the shallow pool, Hauk’s back against the smooth, stone edge, Avril curled in his lap, the warm water rippling around his ribcage.

She rested her cheek against his chest, her head tucked beneath his chin, while he lazily ran his fingers through her wet hair. He felt... content. Calmed. And to his surprise, not even mildly alarmed by the fact that making love to her had utterly unraveled him.

He was accustomed to being in command of himself. Always. But tonight, with her... gods above, he had never felt anything so raw and overpowering: his control gone, his logic stripped away by the urgency to become part of her, words tumbling from his lips—unguarded words about how much he needed her, all that he felt for her. He was not even certain whether he had been speaking his language or hers.

Even afterward, when they lay tangled together, spent, it had taken several long minutes for any shred of his reason to return—for him to realize that being pinned beneath him on the ground was not the most comfortable position for her.

When he had imagined what their first time would be like—and he had imagined it often—this was not the way he had intended it to happen.

Levering his weight off of her, he had murmured an apology and dusted a kiss over her nose. Then he had scooped her into his arms and carried her to the waterfall, intending to wash away the sand that had found its way into her hair... not to mention other, more sensitive places.

But his gallant intentions had not lasted long. The sight of her standing with him in the waterfall—all wet, sleek curves in the moonlight, her lips swollen from his kisses, her emerald eyes gazing up at him with the same passion and tenderness he felt for her—had unraveled him all over again. Gentle touches had led to hungry kisses.

And their second time had been as sudden and quick as their first. He had lifted her above him, she had wrapped her slender legs around his hips... and he had lowered her until she sheathed his hard length in her silky heat. With his arms fastened around her, her hands grasping his shoulders, she had shifted her hips, rocking against him. So tight, so perfect, her wetness an erotic contrast to the cascade flowing over them.

She burned with sensual fire, mesmerized him with the way she reveled in this side of herself—daring and bold, yet infinitely delicate and feminine at the same time. Every moment with her, every sensation only sharpened his need for more. The satin feel of her skin. The taste of her tongue against his. The soft curves of her body. The husky sounds she made when he was deep inside her. She took all of him, gave all of herself, so strong... and so loving.

When she had arched above him and cried out her release, blazing in the moonlight like a goddess, she had sent him over the edge into a fiery rush of pleasure. And the only thought in his mind was her name, his voice rough with emotion as he said it.

Trembling, she had slipped down into his embrace, kissing him, stumbling backward with him. Two steps and a noisy splash, and they had landed where they now sat: still in the pool, still wrapped in each other’s arms.

And still not saying a word about what had just happened between them... twice.

Nestled in his lap, Avril simply rested her head against his chest while he—finally—washed the last grains of sand out of her hair.

Her eyes were languid, her lashes drifting low. Her fingertips traced over his skin, following rivulets of water that trickled down from his hair and beard.

But her expression was pensive, almost melancholy.

It brought a thick, hot feeling to Hauk’s throat. He did not need words to understand what she was thinking.

This night would not change things between them. He knew that. Knew her well enough by now to realize that she could never give up her plans to escape Asgard... to leave him.

No matter what they felt for each other.

At the moment, however, he was no more eager than she was to raise the difficult subject of their future. There was no need to talk about it tonight.

Not tonight.

He combed out a tangle in her long hair with his fingers. “We left some most interesting marks on the beach over there.”

He succeeded in bringing a smile to her lips.

When she spoke, her voice sounded drowsy and unrepentant. “We will have to tidy up before we leave in the morn.”

“Aye.” He chuckled. “And it is a long journey back to town. We should sleep. Mayhap on dry land. After finding our clothes.”

“Mmmm.” Still smiling, she shook her head in denial. “Not yet. This water may taste terrible but it feels so...” Sighing, she closed her eyes. “Soothing.”

She snuggled closer to him, her lashes drifting down to her cheeks, her hand coming to rest over his heart. Hauk felt a knot of emotions burning beneath her palm.

He had been married before. He had had lovers before. But he had never felt anything like this before. This vexing tangle of caring and protectiveness and desire... and wonder.

Despite all his long years on earth, the feeling was utterly new to him.

He swallowed hard, looking down at his wife resting so peacefully in his arms. His little Valkyrie, surrounding him with her tender strength and soft wings, sweeping him up out of the darkness where he had lived so long alone. How could the gods have believed him worthy of a gift so sweet?

Until that day in Antwerp when they had dropped her into his path, he had been convinced that his future would be filled with naught but duty and solitude. Now he had a home filled to the brim with wedding gifts. And a small reindeer ensconced in his destrier’s stable. And a small child visiting his home every day to take care of the small reindeer.

And a daring, enchanting, stolen bride... who had somehow taken inside her all his pain and grief and loneliness and melted them with her fire and gentleness.

And he was in love with her.

He clenched his jaw, his heart beating too hard. By all the gods, he had not wanted this. Sharing this night with her made him ache with it—and another emotion, dangerously close to hope.

Hope for a future different than the one he had imagined.

But love and hope could not change the fact that he would lose her. She was utlending. He was innfodt. One day she would be gone, and he would go on. Alone.

And already he did not want to imagine his life without her in it.

He brushed his thumb along the delicate curve of her cheek. Her lashes fluttered open.

For a moment, they simply gazed at one another in the fading light of the fire.

Then suddenly her eyes glistened with tears. “I thought I would never do this again,” she whispered.

“Have your hair washed by a Viking?” he asked lightly.

She shook her head. “Never love another man this much.”

His throat tightened. “Avril.” He stroked the backs of his fingers over her cheek.

“Why could you not be as cruel and arrogant and heartless as I always thought Vikings were?” A tear slipped past her lashes.

“My apologies,” he whispered, resting his forehead against hers.

“Why do you have to be caring and honorable and kind—”

“I shall try to be more demanding and tyrannical.”

“Stop that. You are not allowed to have a sense of humor as well.”

He chuckled, afraid to give in to any of the other emotions spilling through him. “Avril, it is late,” he said quietly, threading his fingers through her hair. “You need to sleep. We must leave at dawn—”

“But that is hours from now,” she protested. “And I...” She kissed him. “... do not...” Another kiss, lingering and warm. “Want to think about tomorrow.”

He groaned, unable to stop himself from nibbling at her lower lip, her jaw, her throat. “If you are hungry, we could find something to eat. Forage for berries in the underbrush—”

“But I...” She moved over him, as liquid as the water all around them. “... do not...” Her hands glided down his ribs, lower. “Want food.”

“Then what—” His voice became a growl when her palms traced a path of fire below his abdomen. “What do you want?”

She answered with a caress, cupped him, stroked him.

He shut his eyes with a vivid oath.

“You,” she whispered, shifting her hips, settling her body against his, taking him captive in her snug heat. “You. With me, part of me. So hard and strong.” She nuzzled his cheek, sighing. “Hauk, there are hours left until morning.”

“Hours,” he agreed, his mouth claiming hers in a kiss that was lush and deep.

This time, he vowed, he would make it last. Gentle and slow.

As if the two of them had all the time in the world.

Clouds had moved in, obscuring the moon, turning the night almost as dark as Hauk’s mood. He lay stretched out on the woolen blanket by the fire, Avril nestled against his side, asleep at last.

The two of them had finally donned their clothes, her tunic and leggings rumpled and torn—partly the result of their adventure in the woods today, partly the fault of his impatient hands tonight. Only their belts and boots still lay discarded on the shore.

He guessed the hour to be near midnight. But no matter how many times he shut his eyes, he could not sleep. Could find no peace in this familiar, tranquil place—the gentle sound of the waterfall, the endless ebb and flow of the surf lapping against the shore. The contentment and hope he had felt earlier had vanished, replaced by a feeling he had never experienced on Asgard.

An unsettling sense that time was moving too quickly.

The declaration Avril had made kept circling through his mind: I thought I would never love another man this much.

He tried to blink away the burning in his eyes. If only she had not said those words, it might be easier for him to endure the idea that had taken shape in his mind.

An idea that could bring him more trouble than he had experienced in his entire life.

A rueful smile curved his lips. He should have known his little Valkyrie would only make this more challenging for him.

He turned his head toward her, trying to commit every sweet detail to his memory. The shape of her lips. The silkiness of her skin. The way her hair looked, damp and tangled against the blanket. The soft touch of her breath against his bare chest. The way her body felt beside his, warm and languid from their lovemaking.

He tried to convince himself that it would hurt less to lose her now, rather than after spending a lifetime—her lifetime—together.

The wind blowing in across the cove made her shiver. She stirred, blinking sleepily. “Hauk?”

“It is not yet dawn,” he whispered, reaching across her to pull an edge of the blanket over her, tucking it close. “Go back to sleep.”

She settled against him once more, but could not seem to take her gaze from the night sky—from a scattering of stars that winked through the clouds.

The sight made her breath catch. “Oh...” She sat up, as if to see them more clearly before they vanished, but they were already gone, swallowed up by the gloom.

She remained still for a moment, staring up into the darkness.

“I wonder if Giselle watched those same stars tonight,” she said softly. “We like to... or rather, we used to...”

The sorrow in her voice went through him like a blade. Hauk sat up, reaching for her, easing her into his arms. He had planned to wait until morning to tell her of his decision, but delaying would not make it less painful.

“Avril...” He rubbed one hand over her back, tried to think of how to say what he did not want to say. “One day I will lose you,” he began, his voice hollow. “One day you will leave this world and I will—”

“I do not want to leave you.”

Her quiet words scattered his thoughts.

He drew back, holding her by the shoulders. “You wish to stay here with me?”

Her eyes shone with emotion. “Tonight and tomorrow, and for as many tomorrows as God would grant us. But I cannot stay here with you.” She lowered her lashes, her expression anguished. “I cannot abandon Giselle. Hauk, you know better than anyone how she is feeling. How alone and confused and frightened she must feel.”

He shut his eyes, rested his cheek against hers. “I know.”

She was right.

And that was the very thought that had kept him awake.

For a long moment, they held each other, silent.

“B-but... mayhap if you could... if you could take me to the coast on your ship, and return to Asgard,” she said, as if thinking through the idea even as she voiced it, “I could bring Giselle to the coast and you could come back for us.”

He lifted his head. For a moment, disbelief stole his voice. “You would bring your daughter here to live all the rest of her life? Knowing she would never again be allowed to set foot in the outside world?”

Avril looked as if her heart were being torn in two. “Hauk—”

“And how would you explain to your family where you have been?” he asked roughly. “How would you persuade them simply to let you ride away with your daughter, with no explanation as to where you were going? How would you ensure that no one followed you when you left?”

She shook her head. “I... I do not... “

“And your family—this powerful duc who lives in the Artois, who holds favor with the French king—would they merely accept that you and your daughter had gone? Or would they use all the influence at their command to have you followed and found?”

She shivered as if suddenly realizing how it could all go terribly wrong, how she might unwittingly lead French men-at-arms to Hauk, to Asgard.

Tears slid down her cheeks. “My beau-frère, Gaston, the duc... if Giselle and I disappeared, he would never relent in trying to find us,” she admitted.

Hauk brushed her tears away with his fingertips. “Avril,” he said more gently, “you told me once that you did not want your daughter made a captive here with you.” He tilted her head up. “Has that changed? Would you willingly, happily give up your freedom—and hers?”

Her answer seemed to be wrenched from her, scarcely a whisper. “Nay.”

He gathered her close, buried his face in her hair. Her plan—her impulsive, reckless, impossible plan—would never work.

But his would.

And ironically, it was the strength of her feelings for him, and for Josette and the people of Asgard, that assured him it would be safe to let her go.

Let her leave. Take her back to Antwerp. Set her free.

He knew he could trust her to keep their secret. She would protect everyone on Asgard with the same fierce devotion she showed all her loved ones.

He did not know what the eldrer would do to him for daring to break the very laws he was sworn to uphold.

But he would willingly pay that price, for Avril—and for her little girl.

“What is she like, your Giselle?” he asked softly. “Strong-willed and clever and determined like her mother?”

Wiping at her tears, Avril smiled. “All of that and much more,” she informed him, her voice warm with love and pride. “She asks at least a hundred ‘why?’ questions every day. And she skips wherever she goes, as if she is so full of happiness that merely walking will not do. And this Christmas past, the only gift she wished for was a baby sister—not a brother, she said, because boys are loud and bothersome.”

Hauk chuckled, picturing her in his mind, a daughter any man would be fortunate and proud to call his own.

“I never wanted her to grow up alone, as I did,” Avril continued, her voice wavering. “I wanted to have many children.”

Hauk shut his eyes, the longing behind her words making his heart thud against his ribs. If the two of them continued as they had tonight, there was every chance she would be carrying his child soon—mayhap very soon. And if their child were born here, on Asgard, their son or daughter would be innfodt. Native-born. Unable to leave the island.

And Avril’s heart would be torn apart for the rest of her life, divided between one child on Asgard and one in France.

He could not do that to her.

He loved her too much to do that to her.

“God’s breath.” She pulled away from him, blinking rapidly. “I have not admitted that aloud to anyone, not since I lost Gerard. I have tried so hard not to...”

“Not to want,” he murmured. “Not to dream.”

Nodding, she reached up to brush her fingertips over his stubbled jaw. “I did not believe God could ever bring another man so special into my life.” Her voice was edged with wonder and sorrow. “I thought no one could ever take Gerard’s place.”

“No one ever will take his place,” he assured her quietly. “You are only afraid—”

“I am not afraid.” A familiar, mutinous spark came into her eyes. “I am not—”

He pressed a finger to her lips. “You are not afraid of wolves, or sailing dangerous waters alone, or even rather large Norsemen who carry you off across the sea.” He reached down to take her hand. Her left hand. “But you are afraid to let him go.”

Her gaze settled on the gold band she wore. “That is not... I am not...” Her voice wavered as if the possibility had never occurred to her. “It is only that... I lost him so suddenly.” She fell silent for a long moment. “I never even... had a chance to say farewell to him,” she explained haltingly. “When he rode off that morn, I did not know it would be the last time I ever saw him.”

Hauk kept his touch and his voice gentle as he asked the question. “How did it happen?”

She looked up at the night sky. “He and his father were going to a tournament.” She said the word as if she hated it. “Only a tournament. I had not even told him yet that I thought I might be with child. It was too soon to be certain...” A low sound of hurt escaped her. “So he never knew about the baby. He died without ever knowing that he was to become a father.”

Hauk clenched his jaw, pained more than ever that he had taken the little girl’s mother away from her. He threaded his fingers through Avril’s, holding on to her.

Knowing he would soon have to let her go.

“On the day he left,” Avril continued, her voice hollow, “that morn, he had been hunting in the woods, and he came in covered in mud, and I chastised him for tracking dirt everywhere. Then much later, after his squire came to tell me...” She swallowed hard. “To tell me that he was dead, that both he and his father had been killed by an enemy’s treachery, I ran to our bedchamber. I was on the floor, crying, and I looked up and saw a handprint, a muddy handprint on the wall beside the door. His handprint.” A single tear slid down her cheek. “For weeks I would not let the servants clean it away, because it was... as if he were still there with me.”

Hauk shut his eyes, thinking of the sketch of Maeve he had made in one of his journals. He had once believed that he could hold on to her by holding onto some part of her, some symbol.

“You do not need a handprint to remember him, Avril. Or a ring. You need not fear that you will forget him. You will never forget him.”

She met his gaze, her eyes shimmering with emotion.

He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. “And you need not fear that letting another man into your heart means you must banish him. That you could never do. But you should not be alone, little Valkyrie. You were not meant to be alone.” His voice became hoarse. “You need someone to share your life, and keep you safe, and tease you until you smile. And hold your hand.”

But he would not be that man.

“You are wrong, Hauk Valbrand,” she whispered, reaching up with her other hand to caress his cheek. “I do not need someone, I need—”

A movement in the cove made Hauk glance out over the water—and freeze in shock. Avril gasped as she saw what he did.

His ship, gliding straight past them toward the open end of the cove.

Hauk leaped to his feet, swearing as he ran to the water’s edge, Avril just behind him. From here, in the scant moonlight, he could just make out a lone figure at the oars. A dark-haired man. “By Thor’s chariot, what does Keldan think he is—”

“Why would he take your boat?” Avril cried.

The man aboard the ship stood up, reaching for a line that bound the tiller in place, and the size and shape of the silhouette made Hauk curse. “That is not Keldan,” he growled, icy fury pouring through him. “It is Thorolf.”

Chapter 20

“Thorolf?” Avril gaped at the ship, her heart pounding. The single-masted vessel had to be more than twenty paces long, but with Thorolf at the oars, it cut swiftly through the waves. “But I thought the others were taking him to—”

“He must have broken free somehow and escaped.” Hauk swore.

Avril glanced toward the opposite end of the cove, near the forest, drenched by fear. “Sweet Mary, what if he hurt Josette and Keldan?”

“Go and check on them, Avril.” Hauk was already grabbing his belt from the sand, unsheathing his knife.

“But what are you—”

“I have to stop him.”

“Nay! Hauk, where could he possibly be going? If he can only survive for six days—”

“He is either insane, terrified of facing the elders, or angry enough to reveal our secret to the outside world. Mayhap all three. Whatever he is planning, I cannot let him leave.”

Avril shook her head, alarmed at the idea of him going off to face Thorolf alone. “Hauk, you cannot—”

“It is my duty, Avril. He could endanger everyone on Asgard. If I run, I can cut him off before he reaches the mouth of the cove.” He paused just long enough to give her a quick, hard kiss. “Do not argue with me. Go and see if Keldan and Josette are all right.”

He turned and raced up the shoreline, into the darkness. Avril watched him, feeling helpless. If Thorolf was so determined to leave, he would be more dangerous than ever. And he might have weapons.

Hauk was armed only with the knife in his hand. They had left his sword and her crossbow lashed to Ildfast’s saddle.

She glanced back the way they had come. They had walked such a distance to the waterfall, it would take her twenty minutes to reach Keldan and Josette. By then Hauk could be hurt. Or worse.

There are some things even an innfodt cannot survive, he had said.

Swallowing hard, she turned to look at the ship. It was nearing the mouth of the cove. She could just make out Hauk’s silhouette as he reached the end of the shoreline and dove into the water, swimming straight for the boat. Terrifying memories of almost dying in those cold, night-black waves rushed over her.

But she could not leave Hauk alone when he needed help.

She snatched up her belt from where it lay discarded in the sand and fastened it around her waist. Gripping the hilt of her own small knife, she ran after him.

Drenched and shuddering with cold, Hauk grabbed onto the ship’s rudder, grateful for the concealing darkness and the noise of the surf. He treaded water as the light, shallow-keeled knorr bobbed up and down on the waves. He had to disable the ship. Quickly. His boat was meant to carry cargo in the space beneath its smooth deck. Empty, it would sail over the waves as fast as a seabird.

With a fair wind, Thorolf could escape in a matter of minutes.

Hauk placed his knife between his teeth. He could hear the scrape of wood against metal—the oars being pulled in through the oarlocks. Thorolf was preparing to unfurl the sail.

Gritting back a curse, Hauk reached up to grab the low railing. Then he took the knife and slashed through the leather thongs that held the rudder to the sternpost. It fell into the water, dangling uselessly by the ropes Thorolf had used to lash the tiller to the rail and keep the ship on course.

Almost at once, the boat began to drift. Gripping his knife, Hauk pulled himself up over the side, landing nimbly on the deck. “God kveld, Thorolf. Good evening,” he said coolly as he helped himself to a sword Thorolf had left in the stern.

Standing amidships, Thorolf whirled with a startled oath. “Valbrand!”

“You have just lost your rudder,” Hauk informed him. “I am afraid you will not be leaving Asgard.”

Thorolf’s gaze darted to the stern, and his face darkened with fury. “Nei, damn you!” He snarled. “You will not stop me, vokter, Not this time!”

“I already have.” Not taking his gaze from Thorolf, Hauk crouched to pick up a length of rope. “I am taking you back to face the eldrer—”

“Never! I will never again set foot on that accursed rock. I am free now! And you will not keep me here.” Thorolf yanked a line that dangled near his hand as he grabbed onto the railing.

The square sail unfurled with a sudden snap, caught the wind, and sent the ship heeling onto its side. Hauk lost his balance, tumbling to the deck, his weapons knocked from his grasp. Even as the ship righted itself, he scrambled to his feet—but could not dodge fast enough as Thorolf flung a dagger at him. Hauk dove sideways but the blade struck him in the right arm. Grunting in pain, he landed hard on the polished wooden planking.

Thorolf snatched up one of the discarded oars, lifting it over his head like a club.

But before he could strike, a knife came flying through the darkness from behind him, a silver flash in the moonlight that seemed to appear out of nowhere. It caught Thorolf in the shoulder and he stumbled, dropping the oar, roaring in surprise and pain.

Startled, Hauk looked past Thorolf—to see Avril clinging to the railing at the bow of the ship, her eyes on Hauk’s wounded arm. “Hauk—”

“Avril, nay!”

It was too late. Thorolf whirled toward her, sputtering enraged curses.

She screamed and started to drop back into the water, but Thorolf was faster. He lunged down and caught her, hauling her onto the deck. Yanking her in front of him, he turned to face Hauk. “Now, vokter,” he snarled, “let us talk about whether I am free to go.”

Hauk jumped to his feet and grabbed the sword he had dropped, the pain in his arm forgotten.

“Nei, drop the weapon!” Thorolf demanded.

“Release her first—”

“Drop the weapon,” Thorolf repeated, keeping one arm around Avril’s throat and the other around her waist as she struggled and kicked. “And tell her not to try any tricks! Her friend taught me a lesson earlier. I will not be fooled—”

Avril—clearly unable to understand what Thorolf was saying in Norse—fastened her teeth on his arm and bit him.

Cursing, Thorolf snatched his arm from around her neck. But just long enough to reach behind him and yank her knife from his shoulder, gritting his teeth. He pressed the bloody edge against Avril’s throat, and she gasped and went still.

“Tell her, Valbrand!” Thorolf’s lips curled back from his teeth. “And put the sword down. They are pitifully fragile, these utlending. A single flick of this blade and she is dead.”

Hauk met Avril’s terrified gaze, his heart slamming against his ribs. He had no doubt Thorolf would do as he threatened.

“Avril, listen to me.” He fought to keep his tone even, setting the weapon on the deck. “I want you to remain very still—”

“Hauk, I—”

“Do not try to get free,” he ordered urgently. “If you try to use any tricks, he is going to hurt you.”

She nodded and remained frozen. Hauk felt his gut clench at the way she was trembling in Thorolf’s hold.

“Very good,” Thorolf said more coolly in Norse, keeping the blade at her throat. “But I warn you, take one step toward me and she dies.”

Hauk pressed his hand over the wound in his arm, trying to staunch the flow of blood, to ignore the pain. “Let her go.” He fastened his gaze on Thorolf’s black eyes. “Release her and you can have the boat. Go wherever you want and die and be damned.”

“I do not think so. I have a much better plan in mind.” Thorolf jerked his head toward the rudder. “First you will repair the damage you caused, vokter. And then you can sail this ship safely out of Asgard waters.” He smiled. “In truth, I find this a most satisfying turn of events. You, who have always thwarted me, will now help set me free.”

“You will only be free for six days—and then you will be dead.”

“There you are wrong.” Thorolf chuckled. “Fix the rudder and I will show you what I mean.” He dug the knife into Avril’s skin. “Or you can refuse—and lose another wife.”

Hauk clenched his fists, murderous rage and helpless frustration roiling inside him. He had no choice. Keeping his gaze on Thorolf, he moved back into the stern and dragged the trailing rudder up from the water, lashing it back into place.

“Very wise of you, vokter. Now take the tiller. You know the safest way through the rocks on this part of the coast better than I.” Thorolf took up a position beside the mast, forcing Avril with him. “And I suggest you keep the ship steady. Any sudden movement and your pretty bride might be damaged.”

Hauk did as he said, his gaze on Avril. Her cheeks were pale, her eyes full of fear—and apology. He shook his head almost imperceptibly, both forgiving her and begging her not to make any move that Thorolf might find threatening.

Standing at the tiller, the deep cut in his arm throbbing painfully, Hauk guided the knorr through the moonlit darkness. He knew that he dared not give in to any of the dangerous ideas simmering in his head.

If he were alone with Thorolf, he would not hesitate to purposely slam the ship into one of the towering pillars of rock that loomed out of the fog.

But he would not endanger Avril.

He carefully navigated toward the safest passage he knew, between two of the ancient, massive stones. The knorr responded as he had known it would, gliding over the water as straight and fast as a seabird.

The night wind quickly carried them beyond Asgard’s boundary.

And into the open ocean.

“You have what you wanted,” Hauk ground out. “Now release her. If you wish to commit suicide rather than face the eldrer—”

“The eldrer no longer hold any power over me.” A grin split Thorolf’s face. “Any more than you or those lackwits who almost managed to take me back to town earlier.”

“What did you do to them?” Hauk demanded, his attention shifting back to Avril.

She was shivering as the cold wind cut through her wet garments. Hauk struggled to think of some way to get her safely out of Thorolf’s grasp.

“Those young fools are better suited to being merchants and craftsmen than warriors,” Thorolf said scornfully. “They are far too compassionate and soft-hearted. When they stopped to rest on the far side of the forest, I complained that they had made my bonds too painful. They loosened them to ease my suffering, and I rather quickly had my hands on a weapon.” He shrugged. “Three of them should be awakening from langvarig sovn about now. The other two gave chase, but I managed to elude them, eventually.”

Hauk grimaced. “And when you returned to the cove,” he asked, not certain he wanted to hear the answer, “what did you do to Keldan and his wife?”

“I left them asleep on the shore,” Thorolf bit out. “All I wanted was the boat. All I wanted was to leave. If you had not interfered, as you always do—” Anger darkened his expression for a moment, before he continued with a careless shrug. “In truth, I have done that whelp of a carpenter a favor. His wife is one of us now.” He smiled. “I made her innfodt. She cannot die.”

Hauk choked out a wordless exclamation. “You are insane.”

“Nei, I am free. I have discovered the secret. Asgard’s secret.” Thorolf’s smile widened.

Hauk stared at him in disbelief.

“Hauk,” Avril called to him, reclaiming his attention. “I could pretend to faint, and then I might be able to—”

“Avril, nay,” Hauk said in French, fixing her with a stern look. “Remain still. Do not even—”

“What are you saying to her?” Thorolf demanded, pressing the knife against her throat to silence her.

“I am only telling her not to move,” Hauk insisted, his heartbeat loud in his ears, his wounded arm stabbing with pain as his fingers gripped the tiller. He tried to think. Discarded one desperate plan after another. “What in the name of all the sons of Odin makes you believe you have discovered Asgard’s secret? It cannot be done. For six hundred years our people have tried—”

“And your father almost succeeded. That is the tragedy, is it not? He came so close, only to fail.” A satisfied expression stole across Thorolf’s blunt features. “After your uncle so heedlessly destroyed your father’s workshop, I sifted through what was left—and found enough remnants of his notes to start my own experiments. It has taken me centuries to re-create his work, to refine and distill various combinations of plants and minerals and water. To test my potions without arousing suspicion.”

Hauk swore, sickened that his father’s work had led to more suffering and death. “How many people have you killed?”

“Only a few utlending women.” Thorolf shrugged. “I am afraid that none of my wives over the years met a natural end. And a few other carefully chosen females had to be sacrificed, as well. A missing innfodt would have attracted too much attention and a great many questions, but what is one utlending more or less?” He kept the blade at Avril’s throat. “There are far too many of them in the world as it is. And they are inferior to us.” He stroked his hand down her arm. “Fragile, pitiful creatures.”

Avril cringed and Hauk ruthlessly subdued the rage that shot through him, the protective urge that made him want to cross the deck and fasten his hands around Thorolf’s throat. “And what makes you think you have succeeded?” he challenged, trying to direct the whoreson’s attention away from Avril.

“I know I have succeeded. I discovered your father’s error—the elixir must not be stored in flasks of leather or wood or any material native to Asgard, for that renders it unstable. It must be kept in glass.” Thorolf withdrew a small, crystalline flask from a pouch at his waist. “Like this.”

Hauk stared at the ruby-colored liquid in the vial. It could be wine. He could be bluffing.

Or it might be true.

“If you are so confident,” he said with a growl, “then drink it.”

“I already have, hours ago. After I tested it on Keldan’s bride. I choked her and she spent hours in langvarig sovn,” Thorolf said triumphantly, clearly savoring the memory. “And then she awakened.”

Astonishment stole Hauk’s voice.

“I had more of the elixir, much more,” Thorolf continued, his look of pleasure dissolving. “But it is lost to me now. This is all that remains.”

“Hauk,” Avril said quietly, “what are we going to—”

“Avril, it will be all right,” he assured her in French. “I will think of something. Do not—”

“Cease.” Thorolf snarled. “What are you saying to her?”

“Turn the ship into the wind,” Avril suggested quickly.

He flashed her an anguished look. If the sail came around unexpectedly, it would knock Thorolf off his feet—but she might get her throat cut. “It will not work, little Valkyrie.”

“Cease!” Thorolf demanded, his hold on Avril tightening.

“She is afraid,” Hauk told him angrily. “I am trying to reassure her.”

Thorolf chuckled. “You are a fool, Valbrand.” He pressed the point of the blade against the tender underside of her chin, forcing her head up. “Why does she matter so much to you? I have never understood why so many of our kind care for these fragile, short-lived females.”

Avril shut her eyes with a muted sound of distress, clearly terrified. Hauk did not reply to Thorolf’s jibes, pain wrenching through his chest, sharper than the burning in his arm.

Chuckling, Thorolf lifted the glass vial he held, examining the sparkling red liquid in the moonlight. “Mayhap you would like to have this for yourself, vokter?” he taunted, extending the crystalline flask toward Hauk. “Think of it. You would be free to live with her in the outside world. To go wherever you wish.” He withdrew his hand, waving the vial in front of Avril’s face. “Or, if I chose, I could make her one of us. Ah, you would like that, would you not? To keep your wife with you forever?”

Hauk bit back a curse. “Even if your potion worked to make Josette innfodt, you cannot be certain it will work on you. The utlending are different from us—”

“Indeed they are. And in truth, I was not certain.” Thorolf looked back at the island, now barely visible in the distance, then he glanced over his shoulder and smiled.

He turned just enough to show Hauk. “But it does seem to be working, does it not?”

Hauk felt his heart slam against his ribs. The deep blade-cut in Thorolf’s shoulder had already closed. And the mark where Avril had bitten his arm had vanished. Thorolf’s wounds were healing.

Hauk’s were not.

“Ja, Valbrand, it does seem to be working,” Thorolf repeated with a smug expression. “I cannot tell you how pleased I am that you decided to try and stop me one last time. Now I shall not only be free, and a wealthy man—when I sell this elixir to whichever kings or princes are willing to pay my price—but I shall also have the pleasure of watching you die.”

Hauk cursed him. “Six days is a long time,” he spat. “I will kill you before—”

“Nei, you will not. You cannot.” Thorolf returned the vial to the pouch at his waist, chuckling. Fearless. “Mayhap, after you are dead, I will make your lovely bride immortal and keep her with me forever.” He drew the knife slowly down Avril’s throat, down the front of her tunic, between her breasts. “Imagine it, vokter—your wife, in my bed. Night after night, for all eternity.”

Hauk snarled an oath.

“Ja, it is a most pleasant thought,” Thorolf mused. “Mayhap I will even take her before you die.” He caught the front of Avril’s tunic on the tip of the blade, slicing it open. “So that you may watch.”

Avril uttered a strangled sound, eyes wide with terror. A white-hot fury descended on Hauk. He was not about to let Thorolf make good on his threats.

And the knife was at last away from her throat.

“Avril, get ready to break free of him.”

“Aye.”

“What are you saying now?” Thorolf asked mockingly. “Telling her farewell already?”

“Nei.” Without warning, Hauk pushed the tiller all the way to starboard, turning the ship abruptly, sharply. Thorolf lost his balance and Avril pushed free of his grasp, diving toward the deck as the sail came around and knocked Thorolf off his feet.

Hauk launched himself forward. Thorolf was already getting up, bellowing with rage. Avril scrambled out of the way as Hauk slammed into him. He heard her frightened cry as they fell to the deck, grappling, landing brutal, pounding blows with their fists.

The knorr plunged over the waves at the mercy of the wind and current. With no one controlling the rudder, it pitched and rolled dangerously, threatening to tip onto its side.

“Avril, the tiller!” Hauk shouted.

He glimpsed her rushing toward the stern, out of harm’s way, just as Thorolf struck him in his wounded arm. Pain exploded through his shoulder. His hand, his arm, tingled and went numb.

He rolled sideways to avoid a second hit to his injured limb and lurched to his feet, barely avoiding the ship’s boom as it swung around. He looked for one of the blades they had used. Found none on the deck.

Thorolf closed in on him, black eyes glittering. Hauk managed to strike one blow with his good arm before Thorolf knocked him backward into the bulwark.

“You should have told her farewell when you could,” Thorolf said with a look of triumph, his hands closing around Hauk’s throat.

With his right arm weakened, Hauk could not break Thorolf’s stranglehold. He heard Avril scream as Thorolf bent him backward over the railing, ready to throw him over the side. He could feel the icy splash of the sea spray, the dark waters ready to swallow him.

Then all at once, something distracted Thorolf and he glanced to one side. Hauk followed his gaze. Saw that Thorolf’s legs had become tangled in a rope. Noticed what was attached to the other end at the same time Thorolf did.

The anchor stone.

In the next instant, Hauk lunged from Thorolf’s grasp. Choking on his own breath, he seized the rock and heaved it over the side.

Thorolf screamed in terror as the rope whipped over the edge of the boat. He grabbed the railing. But the weight of the anchor stone yanked him over.

Hauk dove toward him, tried to reach him in time, grabbed for his arm.

But his hand closed on empty air.

Thorolf was already gone, pulled beneath the waves.

Chapter 21

“Hauk!” Avril lashed the tiller to keep it steady and ran toward him. He sank to the deck, gripping the railing, one hand still outstretched.

She dropped to her knees and threw her arms around him, unable to stop shaking. “God’s mercy, are you all right?”

He gathered her close, breathing hard. The wind and waves made the only sound in the darkness as she held him fiercely, trembling with all the fear she had felt during the brief, violent combat. She had been so terrified for him. Felt such gratitude to God that he was safe.

Had come so close to losing another man she loved.

After a long moment, he set her back from him, his gaze searching her face. “Are you all right, Avril? He did not—”

“I am unharmed.” She could not stop shivering, did not want to think about what Thorolf had meant to do to her, what would have happened if Hauk had not stopped him. “You are the one who is hurt.” The deep gash in his arm was bleeding profusely. She untucked her tunic from her belt and tore strips off the hem, all the while trying not to look at the rip down the front, cut by Thorolf’s blade.

Hauk did not flinch as she gingerly examined his wound. He barely seemed aware of the pain, turning his head to stare out over the black surface of the moonlit ocean.

“I cannot believe I took a life,” he said, his voice stark. “I killed him.”

“Are”—she swallowed hard—”are you certain he is dead?”

“Aye,” he choked out. “There are some things even an innfodt cannot survive. I killed him.”

“Hauk, he was trying to kill you,” she reminded him, gently wrapping the cloth around his arm. “And I did not see any remorse in his face when he had you over the railing and was about to—” She left the sentence unfinished, knotted the bandages in place. “And you saved me,” she said softly. “Again.”

He nodded, still looking stunned by what he had been forced to do.

She touched his cheek, wishing she could ease his distress. Thorolf had shown no conscience, no hesitation in hurting Hauk, and Keldan and Josette, and mayhap others, but that fact could not ease Hauk’s sense of guilt.

Though he was a warrior by training and by duty, in his heart Hauk was a man of peace. Even to save her, to save himself, to protect his people, he would not have taken a life by choice.

“Hauk, why was Thorolf so determined to leave Asgard?” she asked quietly. “What was in that small flask that seemed to please him so?”

“Thorolf claimed he had discovered Asgard’s secret. Created a potion of eternal youth, based on my father’s work.” Hauk met her gaze. “He said he tested it on Josette after he kidnapped her.”

“God’s breath, he must have been mad.”

“Mayhap, but I am not certain. His wounds were healing, Avril. Out here, beyond Asgard. And Josette...” He shook his head. “Thorolf said he had made her one of us. That she is now innfodt.”

Avril stared at him in shock. “But how is that possible?”

“I do not know. If in truth he discovered the secret, it died with him,” Hauk clenched his jaw, looking over the railing. “He carried his accursed flask with him to the bottom of the sea.”

Avril could not begin to make sense of any of it. At the moment, Hauk’s injury was her most important concern. “We have to go back to Asgard,” she urged quietly. “Your arm needs to heal.”

He did not reply, drawing her close with his other arm, resting his cheek against the top of her head. She noticed that his breathing was fast and shallow, could feel tension in his body, and feared that his wound was causing him more pain than he was letting her know.

Then, slowly, he pulled back from her embrace and stood up.

He moved toward the mast to trim the sails, knotting them in place. “We are not going back.”

“W-what? What do you mean? We must go back. Unless you can experience your healing sleep here—”

“Nay, outside of Asgard, I am as mortal as you. For six days. After that, I—”

“Then we have to return to Asgard at once!” Avril looked over her shoulder. They had left the island so far behind, she could no longer even see it in the moonlit darkness.

“Avril, I am not taking you back with me,” he said in that quiet, unyielding tone. He moved to the stern, taking the tiller and turning the ship. Southeast. Away from the island. “It is two days to Antwerp from here and two days back. I will return in ample time to heal.”

Stunned, she could scarcely find breath to speak. “What are you saying?”

“I am taking you home.” He met her gaze as she moved toward him, his jaw set. “I am setting you free, Avril. I cannot keep you with me on Asgard any longer. You were meant to be free, and so is your daughter. Your little one needs you and I will not keep you from her any longer.”

Avril felt a dizzying explosion of emotions all at once. Surprise and disbelief and sorrow collided inside her. He was setting her free. Was doing what she had wanted, pleaded, prayed for from the beginning.

Then why did she feel such misery and pain?

“But why now? Hauk, you said you would never—you would be breaking the laws!”

“You matter more to me than the laws, little Valkyrie,” he said hoarsely. “One day I will lose you—if not now, then fifty years from now. You will be gone, and I will go on. The only difference will be whether I made a child an orphan. The laws be damned, I cannot do that to you, or to her. What I want does not matter. What she needs is more important.”

A sob escaped her as she went to him, wrapping her arms around him, feeling her heart torn in two.

He was acting like a father.

The most honorable, strong, loving father she could ever want for her child.

She rested her cheek against the hard muscles of his chest. “But Hauk, what... what will the elders do to you for breaking the law?”

He shrugged, as if it were of little concern. “There is no way to know.”

“But you said...” She lifted her head, trying to remember what he had told her about how the council punished those who broke Asgard’s laws. “Will they banish you to some remote part of the island? Place you in solitary imprisonment?”

He did not answer her. Did not even look at her.

“Solitary imprisonment?” she guessed from his stoic expression, all the breath leaving her lungs. “Hauk, for how long? Ten years? Fifty?” She felt a chill steal through her heart. “A hundred? I cannot let you—”

“The decision is mine,” he said firmly. “And I have made it.”

“But I cannot bear the thought of you enduring that. Not that.”

“I am accustomed to being alone,” he said hollowly, his voice almost lost in the wind. “And I have already broken another law. When I return home, I will have to inform the elders that I killed Thorolf.”

“But they cannot punish you for that! You were doing your duty. You risked your life to stop him from stealing your ship, from leaving, because of your duty. And you were fighting for your life. You had no choice—”

“I was not thinking of my duty when I attacked him, Avril. And what Thorolf did does not change what I did. When I killed him, I broke the most sacred of our laws.”

She buried her face against his chest, unable to endure thinking of what he might suffer. He drew her in close with his injured arm, keeping his other hand on the tiller.

“You are cold,” he said gently. “I have a cloak and other garments, there beneath that plank amidships. And food and drinking water, as well.”

Silent, numb, Avril went to where he indicated and found a hinged panel that opened to reveal a storage compartment beneath the deck. Hauk apparently kept his ship well stocked for his reconnaissance voyages. She took out a warm, fur-lined cloak, a flask of water, and some salve for his wounded arm.

She returned to stand next to him in the stern, caring for his wound, still shivering in the wind’s cold bite. It was hard to remember that it was autumn, here in the rest of the world, beyond the warm paradise that was Asgard Island.

She started to wrap the cloak around his broad shoulders when she finished, but he insisted she take it, tenderly enfolding her in its warmth. Trembling, she sank down beside him, sitting at his feet as he guided the ship southeast, not sure she would ever feel warm again.

The first hint of dawn slipped over the eastern edge of the world and turned the dark horizon to gray.

She should feel happy. She was going home to Giselle, at last.

Instead, she felt all shivery and brittle inside, as if she were about to splinter into pieces. She reached up and touched Hauk’s hand. “I do not want to leave you.”

“I know,” he said quietly, his fingers closing around hers. “I do not want you to go. But this is how it must be.”

They fell silent for a long moment.

“You must remember never to tell anyone where you were, Avril, never whisper a word about Asgard.”

She started to cry.

“And I would...” His voice choked out for a moment, sounded thick when he spoke again. “I would ask one more promise of you.” He drew her up to stand beside him.

She averted her gaze, trying to be brave and strong and failing utterly. “I will grant whatever you ask.”

“Then find a husband who will love you, and take care of you and Giselle, and give you more children to love.”

Tears blurred her vision as she looked up. “But you are my husband,” she whispered. “You are my husband, Hauk Valbrand.”

His jaw tightened until deep lines bracketed his mouth. She reached up to touch his face.

“It was not meant to be, little Valkyrie,” he said softly. “The gods are not so kind.”

She shook her head, unwilling to believe that. “God does not want us to live without love. It is what makes life meaningful and precious, whether it lasts a lifetime or”— she caressed his cheek—”or only a handful of days.”

His arm came around her shoulders, and he drew her against him. She clung to him, buried her face against his shoulder. Only a handful of days. It was not fair, that this would be all they would ever have—two final days, spent at sea, in the cold.

Nay, she did not want this to be her last memory of him.

Tilting her mouth up to his, she brushed a kiss across his lips.

There were no words between them. Only his mouth suddenly covering hers in a deep, infinite kiss. She could feel the tension within him, the way his muscles tightened beneath her fingertips when she slid her hands over his chest, down his ribs. A groan escaped him, filled with deep pain and deeper need. Fumbling, quickly, he secured the tiller.

And then he was falling with her down to the deck, and there was only the soft fur of the cloak beneath them, and the stars above giving way to the morning. And the yearning. The love in her heart. She wanted to lose herself to him, to be his once more, if only for a brief moment. One last, timeless moment.

His hands slipped beneath her garments, seeking and finding her softness, her body, and she could see his eyes darken with passion—the deep blue she had seen in her dreams.

A tear, unbidden, slipped from her lashes, and he caught it on his fingertip.

“Avril,” he murmured hoarsely, nuzzling her cheek.

Gathering him close, whispering his name, she kissed him, wanting to hold him and be held, to caress and feel cared for, wanting to give to him all she felt, all she was.

He slipped her tunic over her head, baring her to his gaze in light that might have come from moon or sun. Cold air, cold sea spray could not compete with hot kisses, the hot friction of skin against skin. She arched beneath him, felt his hands gliding over her. He aroused her so gently, with such tenderness, that she thought she could actually feel her heart breaking.

His fingers sought and found her feminine heat, brushing over her until need made her cry out softly. It seemed to take forever, a lifetime, before he finally became part of her, gathering her to him and possessing her fully as he already possessed her heart. The feel of him slowly becoming part of her, all heat and hardness and velvety steel, brought a moan from her lips, a soul-deep sound of longing and passion and exquisite, bittersweet pleasure.

Her hips arched to take him deeper and he began moving powerfully inside her, leaving her breathless. The rhythm of the ship and the sea became the rhythm of their bodies, flowing together, rising and falling. The sounds of the surf and the wind and their sighs filled the dawn as he filled her body.

She clung to him as she had once clung to the shattered pieces of her past, and she felt healed and whole and alive. More than alive. Loved. This gentle warrior had shown her how much love she still needed, how much love she could still feel. He had changed her life. Changed everything.

And soon she must lose him.

God, nay. Nay, please do not take him from me.

But not even heaven could keep them together. They could only cling to the present, this hour, this sweetest of moments. And try not to think of the morrow.

She surrendered herself to him, again and again, losing herself to the fierce power and passion of his lovemaking.

And when the sun filled the sky with light, she felt agonizingly aware of the cold bite of autumn and a darkness descending inside her that even the ascending sun could not pierce.

The docks of Antwerp bustled with traders and ships from every corner of the earth. All along the wharf, merchants haggled over prices in dozens of languages, inspecting goods and counting out coins, while sailors filled the air with lilting tunes in deep, salty voices as they unloaded their cargo and headed off to the taverns for the night.

There were so many people, Hauk thought. All of them foreign, utlending.

Her people.

The winds, curse them, had been favorable, carrying his knorr swiftly to Antwerp in just less than two days. He had wanted to slow down as the coast of Avril’s homeland came into view. But he knew it would not help to prolong their parting.

And, though he tried not to let her know it, he was not feeling well. His wounded arm pained him, and fatigue made him light-headed. He knew he needed to return to Asgard at once.

To whatever fate awaited him.

After he had secured his ship to one of the crowded piers, Avril threw herself into his arms. He held her close, one last time, trying to memorize the feel of her as evening fell and stars lit the sky with shades of pearl gray and amethyst.

Then he helped her onto the dock and did not try to follow.

“I still say I should accompany you until you find this beau-frère of yours,” he said.

Avril shook her head, blinking hard. “You have to return home. Do not worry about me. Gaston will have men searching for me everywhere, and since I disappeared from Antwerp, they will focus their efforts here. It will not be hard to find them.”

Hauk tried to think of something more to say, and could not.

She stood there, wrapped in her borrowed cloak, so brave. So beautiful. He had never known a lady like her. And never would again.

From somewhere deep inside him, past the sorrow and the ache in his heart, the words came out on a single breath. “I love you, little Valkyrie.”

Her eyes seemed to shimmer with emerald brightness. “I love you, husband.”

Those would be the last words he ever shared with her—those words, not farewell. His eyes burning, Hauk reluctantly took the rope from around the pier, and used one of the oars to push away from the dock, and began to row.

She did not move, watching him, as he watched her until his ship was too far away... until she was naught but a distant silhouette in the fading light.

Until he could no longer see her at all.

Chapter 22

Moonlight poured in through the tall, arched window, bathing Avril in the glistening colors of stained glass. She sat on a tasseled pillow in the window seat, humming softly to Giselle, cherishing the sweet weight of her daughter in her arms. Though her petite papillon, her little butterfly, had fallen asleep some time ago, Avril did not move, simply holding her, running her fingertips over Giselle’s raven curls, caressing her round, rosy cheeks, so peaceful in sleep.

The ride from Antwerp had taken almost three days, even at a gallop. Since returning to Gaston and Celine’s chateau this afternoon, Avril had offered a hundred prayers of thanksgiving for being reunited with her daughter... and yet her homecoming had not brought the happiness and contentment she had anticipated during her first days on Asgard.

Everything here was exactly the same. Exactly as she had left it.

Only she herself seemed different. Out of place, somehow.

Mayhap because she had left part of her heart and soul on that warm island in the center of a cold sea.

She hoped and prayed that Hauk had reached home safely. That the council of elders would be lenient with him.

She could not bear that she might never know what had become of him.

There was a knock at the door. Avril glanced up. “Come in,” she whispered, careful not to wake her daughter.

Celine entered, wearing a dressing robe, her long red hair trailing down her back. “I thought I would find you in here.” She smiled at finding Avril still cradling her little girl, came to sit beside her.

“I cannot bring myself to put her to bed,” Avril explained softly. “I do not think I will ever let her go again.”

“I don’t blame you.” Celine picked up a fabric doll Giselle had dropped, tucking it back into the little girl’s hold with a mother’s natural ease. “If I were away from Soren for a fortnight, I think I would go mad.”

“I am so grateful to you and Gaston for taking care of her, Celine. And for not telling her that I was missing.”

“We thought it best not to frighten her. Gaston was the one who decided we should simply tell her that you had been delayed in Antwerp for a few days.”

A few days, Avril thought. It seemed she had been on Asgard much longer than that. How could her whole life have changed, in so short a time?

“But if you hadn’t returned this week,” Celine continued quietly, “I’m not sure how much longer she would’ve believed us.”

Avril swallowed hard, preferring not to think of that. She could only be grateful that the separation had proved to be much harder on herself than on Giselle. “Thank you.”

“Avril,” Celine said after a moment, “Gaston is still rather upset—”

“I know. I know he is angry with me.”

“Not angry. Only concerned. We’re both so relieved to have you back alive and unhurt, but you must understand how he...” Celine turned slightly in the window seat, facing her. “It was rather surprising to have you reappear in Antwerp so suddenly, saying only that you were taken hostage by mistake in a feud between two warring families. Why can’t you tell us who these noblemen were, or where they took you? Gaston would like to—”

“I have tried to explain as best I can, Celine. There is no need for Gaston to go charging off to seek justice. They set us free once they realized they had abducted the wrong women. And we were well treated. I was not harmed.”

Celine regarded her with a puzzled look. “And Josette decided to stay with them.”

Avril sighed. It pained her to have to be so secretive with her own family. “Sometimes, ma soeur, the heart makes choices that defy reason.”

Celine reached out to touch her shoulder. “Avril,” she said gently, “I know you may have been reluctant to speak freely in front of Gaston and his men, but...” She tilted her head, her eyes searching Avril’s face. “Is there anything you want to tell me? You said that your abductors didn’t hurt you in any way, but you seem... troubled.”

Avril blinked hard, forced a smile. “I am fine, Celine. Truly.”

“You know you can tell me anything. I would keep it between the two of us.”

Avril lowered her gaze. Celine was always so perceptive, especially when it came to matters of the heart. And Avril desperately wanted to pour out all that she was feeling. All the pain and loss and love and worry.

But she must never speak a word about Hauk, to anyone. Not even to Celine.

“I am sorry, ma soeur, but I must ask you to understand.”

Celine nodded and dropped the subject. “I know that there are some secrets that simply can’t be told,” she said quietly. “But if you ever need to talk, I’m here. I’ll always be here for you.”

“Thank you. Thank you for understanding.”

“Good night, Avril.” Her belle-soeur stood, her expression soft, her skin aglow in the moonlight—that special glow of a beloved woman who had a child growing within her.

Avril felt a pang of envy so strong it made her hurt inside. “Good night, ma soeur.”

Celine headed for the door. “I think I’d better go back to my bedchamber and try to soothe Gaston’s ruffled feathers.”

Avril smiled. If anyone could accomplish that, Celine could.

Her belle-soeur paused one last time at the door, looking over her shoulder. “Welcome home.”

Home, Avril thought, the word bringing a bittersweet ache to her heart as Celine closed the door behind her. Resisting the uncomfortable feeling, Avril stood and carried Giselle to her small bed, tucking the covers around her, dusting a kiss in her dark hair. Then she straightened and went to the window.

Looking out at the chapel in the forest, she closed her eyes.

And slipped the wedding band from her finger.

She held the circle of gold in her hand for a long time, remembering all the cherished moments that it represented, and then she walked to the hearth. Reaching up, she placed it in a lacquered box on the mantel that held Giselle’s most precious belongings.

“For you, ma petite papillon,” she whispered. “He will be with us, in our hearts, forever.”

Closing the box’s lid, she felt a sense of peace steal through her... at least about her past. As she slipped out through the door that led to her own bedchamber, she did not want to think about her future.

Because she had no tears left to cry.

The sun and warmth and sea winds of Asgard had not made Hauk feel any better, though he had been home a full day now. His wounds had healed, but he still felt... numb. Empty. A bleak fog had descended on him, and only one ray of brightness managed to pierce it: the thought that Avril was home now, safe. With her little girl.

He held fast to that image, took strength from it as he prepared to face whatever punishment he was about to receive.

Josette and Keldan accompanied him as he approached the door of his Uncle Erik’s vaningshus.

“Are you certain we cannot come with you?” Keldan asked for the third time, his arm around Josette’s shoulders as they walked. “I do not understand why the eldrer insist on seeing you alone. We all told them what Thorolf did—”

“Ja, and that does not change the fact that I broke our laws. The punishments must apply to everyone equally, Kel, or they have no meaning at all. I thank you for standing by me, but I must face this alone.” He turned to Josette, shifting to French. “Still feeling all right?”

She nodded. “I wish you and Keldan would cease hovering over me. I do not know if Thorolf’s claims about that potion were true, but I feel perfectly well.”

Hauk smiled at her, hoping that Thorolf’s claims were true, that Keldan would never lose his beloved bride and they would be together forever.

But only time would tell. For whatever secret Thorolf had discovered had indeed died with him.

The three of them stopped before the door of Erik’s remote dwelling. Hauk turned to tell his friends farewell, but emotion drew his throat tight, and he could not find the words.

He did not know if this would be the last time he ever saw them.

“You have done a good thing,” Josette said before he could speak, her eyes bright and earnest. “Setting Avril free was the only choice you could have made. As was killing Thorolf. Your council must understand that.”

“I am not certain they will be as understanding as you, Josette.” He looked at Keldan, held out his hand, tried to banish the leaden feeling in his stomach. Only seeing the two of them so happy together made this bearable. “You are fortunate to have such a bride, Kel,” he told his friend in Norse. “You were right in Antwerp. You chose wisely.”

“Ja, as did you.” Keldan gripped Hauk’s outstretched arm, his voice hoarse. “I will take care of Ildfast until you return.”

Hauk held his gaze. They both knew he might not be returning. “Take care of yourself, as well,” he said gruffly. He pulled Kel into a quick, hard embrace. “Live a long and happy life, my friend.”

“And you, Hauk.”

Hauk stepped back, nodding in gratitude for his friend’s good wishes. Though he did not believe they would come true.

Turning, he entered his uncle’s vaningshus.

He stopped just inside the door, his heart thudding a single, hard stroke.

Only his uncle was there, standing before the hearth, the flames behind him casting his large shadow across the darkened chamber, his expression dire.

The other thirteen eldrer were missing.

“Have a seat, nephew.”

Hauk shut the door, held himself rigid. “I would face this standing. Where are—”

“I believe you are going to want to sit down,” his uncle told him somberly.

Hauk could not reply for a moment, cold dread spreading through him at his uncle’s tone. “Where are the rest of the eldrer?”

“We finished our discussions an hour ago, and they departed.” His uncle grimaced. “I asked to be allowed to speak with you alone.”

Hauk took a deep breath, sensing that his worst fears were about to be confirmed. “Then let us dispense with the prelude, Uncle,” he said evenly. “I have naught to say in my defense. I killed Thorolf. I wish there had been another way, but there was not.” Hauk came forward to stand in the center of the room. “I also set my wife free, and that I do not regret for a moment. Simply tell me what punishment you and the other eldrer have chosen for me.”

“There can be only one punishment, even for the vokter. When you killed Thorolf, you sealed your own fate.” A look of unmistakable sadness crossed Erik Valbrand’s usually stoic face. “Solitary imprisonment. For life.”

Hauk felt an icy tingle go straight down his back. “Forever, then,” he said, surprised at how calm he sounded upon saying it.

“I could not persuade them otherwise.”

Hauk looked away, nodding. “I understand,” he choked out, breathing unsteadily as he tried to absorb the idea, the finality of it. “I am grateful for your efforts, Uncle, but I understand the decision.”

“And so do I. But that does not mean I accept it.” Erik turned toward the hearth. “I did not tell the other eldrer the true reason I wished to meet with you alone.”

Hauk glanced at him. “You cannot break with the other eldrer,” he said flatly. “I would not ask it of you. If I were to try to remain free on Asgard, in hiding somewhere—”

“That is not what I meant.” Erik picked up an object from the mantel. “The reason I wanted to meet with you alone was so that I could give you this.”

Walking over to Hauk, he held it out: a small velvet pouch, like those Hauk and his mother used to use for collecting seashells, when he was a boy.

Hauk frowned in bewilderment. “Where did you—”

“Open it, nephew.”

Hauk took the bag, pulled on the strings, and lifted out what was inside: a faceted bottle made of clear glass, the sort made to hold perfumed ointments. It held only a scant amount of whatever precious scent it had once contained, the green liquid just enough to cover the bottom of the flagon.

“It is the elixir your father created,” Erik explained, “during his efforts to discover Asgard’s secret.”

Hauk’s head came up sharply. “Elixir?” he choked out. “Are you saying it was this he used to try to make my mother innfodt? Was it this that killed her?”

“Ja,” Erik said quietly. “But your father was not trying to make her innfodt. You do not know the truth—I have never told you the truth,” he amended, “about how your parents died.”

“How they died,” Hauk echoed, gripping the bottle in his hand. “What are you talking about? Why give this to me now? Are you offering me a chance to take my own life rather than spend eternity imprisoned?”

“Nei, that is not my purpose at all. Hauk, your father did not want to make your mother innfodt.” Erik shook his head. “He wanted to leave Asgard, to live in the outside world with her. Hakon wanted his freedom. He was trying to find a way to become mortal—utlending—not only for himself but for you. For everyone on Asgard. So that we all might be free to choose. Despite Thorolf’s boasts, I do not think he recreated your father’s elixir, but rather stumbled onto something different.”

Hauk stared at him in shock. And when he studied the bottle, he realized the green liquid it contained was different from Thorolf’s elixir, which had been a clear, ruby red.

“Your father was about to test that potion on himself,” Erik continued, gesturing to the bottle in Hauk’s hand. “But when your mother learned of it, she was terrified for his life... so she went and took some from his workshop. Secreted it in that perfume flask. And tested it on herself.”

Hauk whispered an oath, glaring down at the flagon with revulsion. “Why? Why would she—”

“Mayhap she thought it might make her innfodt, I do not know.” A muscle worked in Erik’s jaw as he glanced at the floor. “I only know that she did not want to be parted from him, wanted to stay here with him—and with you—forever. But it took her life instead. And your father in his grief chose to take his own life by leaving Asgard rather than live without her.”

Stunned, Hauk found the nearest chair and sank down into it, the bottle still gripped in his fingers. “Why did you never tell me, Uncle, in all this time?” he grated out. “I thought he had been trying to make her innfodt, that he gambled with her life and killed her. I hated him for years. If I had known the truth—”

“You would have tried to continue your father’s work,” Erik pointed out gently. “I had lost the two of them, Hauk. I did not want to lose you, as well. I had to save their son.”

Hauk returned his gaze, silent a moment, understanding his uncle as he never had before. “And that is why you destroyed his workshop—so that no one else would risk their lives by continuing his work.”

Erik nodded. “And because I was so full of rage and grief. And guilt.” He turned away. “Hakon had told me about his work. I knew it was dangerous. I should have stopped him... but I did not.” He looked down at the fire on the hearth, his voice heavy with remorse. “Mayhap because I hoped it would work, almost as much as he did. So I did not stop him, and they both lost their lives.” He turned to face Hauk once more. “I could not forgive myself. And ja, I meant to make certain no one else ever took such a risk.”

Hauk thought of Thorolf and the lives he had ruthlessly taken over the years in his quest, and knew his uncle had been right to be concerned. “And is that also the reason you were so determined,” he asked hoarsely, “that I grow up to be satisfied with my life on Asgard?”

“I thought it was what your parents would have wanted, that you learn to be happy here, to accept what could not be changed.” Erik held Hauk’s gaze, that look of sadness coming into his eyes again. “But in truth, you are too much like your father, Hauk. Always dreaming of more, always longing to wander. It is in your blood.”

Hauk swallowed past a lump in his throat and looked down at the flagon in his hand.

His father’s dream, in a small glass bottle.

“It may kill you,” Erik warned. “Or it may work as your father intended, on an innfodt. I do not know. After your mother’s death, I did not want anyone to take the chance of testing it.” Erik walked toward him. “I found it among her belongings, after she and your father were gone. Mayhap I should have destroyed it with all the rest.” He sighed wearily, raking a hand through his hair. “But I did not. I suppose I thought that one day, if I came to find life on Asgard unbearable, I might wish to take the risk and test it myself. But that day has never come.”

Hauk held the bottle up in the light. “Uncle, there is only a small amount—”

“Ja, enough for one. Or rather, I hope there is enough. If it works, you will become mortal, an utlending. Free to live in their world. But you will be vulnerable to injury and illness, as they are. You will begin to age as they do. And you will live only a short time,” he said slowly, “as they do. Mayhap only another fifty or sixty years.”

Hauk felt his heart pounding hard, not with fear this time, but with hope. He would be free. Free to leave.

Free to go to Avril.

He rose from the chair. “If I am thirty now, by their counting, I would live to be eighty or ninety. That is a full lifetime, to an utlending.”

“Hauk, if it does work,” Erik told him solemnly, “you must never return here. Everyone on Asgard will have to believe that you were banished to a remote, solitary cell.”

Hauk nodded, understanding his uncle’s concern. If his fellow innfodt were to see him—mortal, aging, free—it would only inspire them to attempt a new round of dangerous experiments, in an effort to reproduce the elixir.

If it worked.

He felt an ache in the center of his chest for those he would leave behind. For the friends who would grieve for him.

For all who wanted to be free, and could not be.

“It is not fair, Uncle,” he said gruffly, “that I be the only one to—”

“Your father would have wanted you to have it.” Erik placed a hand on Hauk’s shoulder. “You must make your choice now.”

Hauk met and held his gaze. His choice. Endless lifetimes in a remote, solitary cell.

Or the chance for one mortal lifetime with Avril.

“Thank you, Uncle.” He reached out to clasp Erik’s arm. “Whatever happens, know that I am grateful to you.”

“I will miss you, Hauk.”

Hauk felt his throat tighten. “And I you.”

He lifted the bottle in the firelight.

And pulled out the stopper.

Chapter 23

Little Valkyrie...

Avril stirred in her sleep, moaning a soft protest at the voice that disturbed her slumber. Sighing, she slipped back down into her dream. ’Twas a sweet, new dream: that Hauk had returned to her, that he was here with her, in France. In Brittany.

Avril... I need you...

She lifted her lashes, blinking drowsily, confused. And somehow she did not leave that voice—that beloved, deep voice—behind in her dreams. It sounded as if he were here, with her. Beside her.

... help me...

With a startled cry, she lurched upright, eyes wide. She was not dreaming. And yet she was alone. The last embers of the fire still glowed on the hearth in her bedchamber. She was home, in her family chateau in Brittany, as she had been for more than a sennight.

And she was fully awake.

Avril, please.

She gasped in astonishment, covered her heart with one hand, could feel it thundering. Hauk’s voice was not coming from her dreams but from inside her somehow. Shaking, she rose from the bed and rushed toward the window, sensing that he was here.

Here, in France. In Brittany. Not far away.

And he was hurt.

She could see naught in the darkness outside, though rain no longer pattered against the windows. The storm that had lasted all day had abated. She did not stop to question how she knew he was here, or how it was even possible. She ran for the door, into the corridor beyond, and down the stairs. Below in the great hall, she paused only long enough to snatch up her cloak and throw it on over her shift as she raced outside.

It was late, most of the family servants asleep. She crossed the bailey with pounding steps, mud splashing her garments. Reaching the stables, she did not pause to saddle her horse, taking time only to bridle the stallion before she leaped onto his back, galloping through the chateau gates and into the surrounding trees.

Avril, I love you...

Her heart in her throat, she relied on her feelings to guide her, riding through the night until she found him, lying in a clearing.

He was stretched out on his back, a black horse nearby, its reins trailing on the ground.

“God’s breath!” She jumped from her stallion’s back and rushed over to him. Sank down beside him in the drenched grass. He was garbed in a dark tunic and leggings and cloak, the garments soaked with rain.

He opened his eyes, a trace of a smile on his lips. “Heard... me,” he said weakly.

“Hauk.” She sobbed, leaning over him, touching his face. “How can you possibly be here—how long have you—”

“Seven...” he murmured, his lashes drifting closed. “Seven days.”

“Do you mean you have been away from Asgard for seven days?”

He did not respond.

“Hauk—”

“Thought it worked...” he whispered. “Did not... kill me. But may have been... wrong.”

Avril shook her head, unable to understand what he was talking about. She checked him for injuries, could not find any, save for a deep cut on his forehead. It seemed he had fallen from his horse.

She grasped his shoulders, felt anguished at how warm and solid and strong he felt, when she knew his life was ebbing from him. “Hauk, what can I do? There must be something I can do!”

“Saw you... one last time.” He looked up at her, his eyes glassy. Lifting one hand, he brushed his fingers over her cheek. “Worth it.”

“Hauk, nay—”

“Love you...” he whispered.

His arm fell back to the ground, limp, and his eyes closed.

“Nay!” she cried. Nay, she could not lose him, not again! Mercy of God, not again. She crumpled over him, wrapping her arms around him. Her cheek pressed against his chest, she held on tightly, as if by her will alone she could hold him here, with her.

And then she gasped in astonishment, in stunned relief.

His heart was still beating.

Even through the cloth of his tunic, she could hear it—steady and strong beneath her ear.

He was alive! She did not understand how it was possible, but he was not dead. Nor was he in the langvarig sovn trance he had said he could experience only on Asgard.

He was unconscious, his breathing even, his skin warm—too warm. Pressing a hand to his forehead, she realized he had a fever.

And an entirely different kind of fear shook her.

The first warm glimmers of sunset shimmered through the window, painting the bedchamber with shades of copper and gold, before his lashes finally lifted again. Avril exhaled shakily, felt as if she had been holding her breath all day. Sitting beside him on the bed, she brushed his damp hair back from his forehead, wanting to kiss him breathless, offer prayers of thanks for his life, and besiege him with questions all at once.

She settled for leaning down to kiss his bronzed cheek, relieved to find his skin no longer hot. She set aside the damp cloth she had used to try and cool his fever.

“Hauk, are you all right?” she whispered brokenly, all the tension and fear of this awful day spilling out of her.

He blinked up at her for a moment, as if uncertain she was real. Then he smiled. “Aye.” His voice was a dry whisper. He tangled his fingers through the loose strands of her hair, caressing her cheek. “Tired... but well.”

“You are not in any pain?”

“Nay.” He sounded surprised.

“Thank God.” Suddenly she was trembling. “Hauk, I cannot believe you are here. How is it possible? How long have you been away from Asgard? How is it that your—”

“Shhh, my little Valkyrie.” Burying his fingers in her hair, he drew her down to him for a kiss. “I am sorry that I frightened you so. I am not in any danger—”

“But last night you said you had been away seven days,” she sputtered. “Seven. And today makes eight.”

“Aye,” Hauk murmured, smiling as he tenderly kissed her tears away, a storm of emotions in his eyes. “It took time to find you. I first went to your beau-frère’s keep in the Artois, only to learn that the duc and his wife had escorted you here, to your home in Brittany, with your daughter—”

“Hauk, I do not understand.” She could not stop shaking. “How can you be here, with me, alive?”

“I am all right, Avril.” He pressed a finger to her lips, his smile deepening to reveal his straight white teeth and the dimples in his stubbled cheeks. “More than all right. I am free. As free as you are. Let me explain.”

Some time later, after he had told her everything, she sat staring at him through tear-filled eyes, too astonished and overjoyed and hopeful to speak.

“And that was when I fell from the saddle,” Hauk finished, frowning as he admitted it. “I had been feeling unwell all afternoon—dizzy and hot—and I became light-headed and fell. I feared mayhap the elixir had not changed me after all.”

“Hauk, I believe what you experienced is simply what we call the ague. It is what happens sometimes when one rides for long hours in a cold autumn rain.” Relief bubbled through her as she smoothed his tangled hair back from his forehead, smiling down at him. “It is quite common among us mortals.”

“I was eager to reach you, my love.”

“And I am afraid you will have a mark to show for it,” she told him reluctantly. “This cut on your forehead will take a while to heal, and it looks as if you may have a scar.”

He reached up to touch it, an odd smile playing around his lips. “A scar?”

“Pray do not sound so pleased,” she admonished. “I would greatly prefer that you not acquire any more.”

He laughed. “I will try, my love.”

“Hauk,” she said more seriously, “there is... there is something else that puzzles me. When you were out in the forest, hurt, I-I heard you somehow, calling to me—”

“From inside you, as if I were in your mind, your heart.”

“Aye,” she said in soft wonder, holding his gaze.

“I am not certain myself how it is possible, only that it is said that some men of Asgard share such a bond with their brides. Does it frighten you, little Valkyrie?” he asked gently.

“Nay.” Avril touched his face, her heart beating fast. “I... it only startled me. The way the dreams did. I—” She blushed, glancing down. “I had dreams of you, before we even met. Rather vivid dreams.”

“And I have dreamed of you, as well,” he said huskily, drawing her down onto the bed with him.

Their mouths met in a deep, lingering kiss.

“Hauk,” she said with a sigh as he nuzzled her cheek, her hair. “I am afraid I cannot stay in here much longer, or they will become suspicious.”

“They?”

“Celine and Gaston. They are waiting downstairs in the great hall.”

“Avril, you did not explain to them—”

“Nay, of course not,” she assured him. “I told them I happened upon an injured man—while I was out riding because I could not sleep—and like any good Samaritan, I brought you here to one of the guest bedchambers to heal.”

“A pleasure to make your acquaintance, milady.” He chuckled.

“And yours, sir,” Avril returned with a grin. “But if I remain in here with you any longer, they will begin to realize I am much more to you than a concerned hostess.” She started to get up. “I have been informing them of your condition every now and then.”

“Tell them I will live—as long as you stay with me.” Smiling, he pulled her back down to sit beside him. “Tell them we once saw each other from afar, and I have traveled a great distance to find you because I knew I would love you forever. But do not go yet. First, I have something to ask of you.” His expression became serious. “We must still keep Asgard a secret, to protect everyone there.”

“Aye.” She nodded, warmed by his words and his touch.

“And I am afraid I must retract the other promise I asked of you.” He smoothed her hair back from her face, drew her down for another kiss, murmuring against her mouth, “I do not wish for you to find another husband.”

“Oh?”

“Marry me again, Avril. In the tradition of your people. Let me love you, and take care of you and Giselle... and give you more children to love.”

Tears blurred her vision as she looked into his eyes, those pale-blue eyes like the sky lit by the sun’s hottest rays. “Aye. Oh, aye, Hauk Valbrand. I will marry you. Again.”

Another quick kiss gave way to long, slow kisses. And an embrace that made her body tingle in all its most sensitive places.

“Hauk,” she murmured, even as she melted down onto the bed with him, “I really should go and speak to Celine and Gaston...”

“Five minutes,” Hauk murmured hungrily, easing her onto her back, his hard body covering hers. “Only five minutes more.”

“You are most impatient.” She laughed, twining her arms around his neck. “For a man of three hundred.”

“Thirty,” he corrected lightly. “Here in your world, I am only thirty.”

She pulled him closer, filled with wonder and joy. “I think you will be very handsome, all craggy and silver-haired one day.”

“You will have a chance to find out, my love.” He grinned. “Now then, I believe I was about to make your dream come true.”

“You already have,” she whispered happily. “You already have.”

~ The End ~

An Asgard Island Glossary

Althing – traditional gathering ceremony for innfodt raiders and their utlending women

Althing-vellir – place where the althing ceremony is held

Eldrer – council of elders

Frigga – highest among the Norse goddesses, wife of Odin

God kveld – good evening

Havamal – ancient text offering advice to the young men of Asgard about how to please a wife and be a good husband

Hel – Hell in Norse mythology

Hjem – home

Hjerte – heart

Hneftafl – game of strategy played on a carved wooden board

Horde – small chest, used for holding valuables

Hund feig – cowardly dog

Innfodt – the native-born people of Asgard Island

Ja – yes

Jeg gjor – I will

Knorr – single-masted ship used for transporting cargo

Kvasir – a mysterious son of the gods, associated with wisdom and poetry

Langvarig sovn – the deepest sleep

Loki – dark god of lies and mischief

Mine – my

Nei – no

Odin – chief ruler among all the gods, powerful and wise

Sommer root – extracted juice of this plant can be used to induce sleep

Stille – peace, calm, quiet

Thor – god of the sky, thunder and lightning

Torque – a decorative band of metal worn around the neck

Tyr – god of war and bravery

Ulv – wolf

Utlending – foreigner

Vaer snill – please

Valhalla – Heaven in Norse mythology

Valkyries– fierce warrior maidens in the Norse myths

Vaningshus – longhouse, the most common type of dwelling on Asgard

Velkommen – welcome

Vokter – the peacekeeper, appointed by the eldrer to enforce the laws and serve as guardian of the island’s security

If you enjoyed this book,

try more in the Stolen Brides series by Shelly Thacker…

Prequel: His Stolen Bride

Book 1: Forever His

Book 2: His Forbidden Touch

Book 3: His Captive Bride

About Shelly

USA Today bestselling author Shelly Thacker has won numerous national awards and earned lavish praise from Publishers Weekly, The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, The Detroit Free Press and The Oakland Press, who have called her historical romance novels "innovative," "addictive," "erotic" and "powerful." Find out more at shellythacker.com

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The Pagan’s Prize

By Miriam Minger

Author’s Note

In the eleventh century, the country known today as Russia was called “Rus” by its inhabitants, and so they referred to themselves. The Rus called the Norsemen who came as mercenaries and traders to their land “Varangians,” meaning “pledge men,” for these fierce warriors obeyed an inviolable oath to defend their sworn leader to the death. The word “viking,” a name given to the Norsemen in later centuries, described a favorite activity of these bold and fearsome Varangians…“ adventuring in search of wealth.”

For now brother said to brother: “This is mine, and that is mine also,” and the princes began to say of little things, “Lo! this is a great matter,” and to forge discord among themselves.

“The Lay of the Host of Igor”

(S. Cross’s Translation)

Prologue

Novgorod, Rus Land,

April, A.D. 1024

“No, you cannot go! You stay with Semirah!”

Rurik Sigurdson smiled lazily at the pouting, sable-haired woman straddling his hips, her wet warmth sheathing that part of him that only moments before had throbbed in thunderous climax.

Of his six concubines, he favored this tempestuous Khazarian slave with her long white limbs, lilac-stained nipples, and flashing agate eyes. But he would never allow her to know his mind, or permit his attraction for her to grow beyond lust. He had learned long ago to put no faith in women, seeking only the carnal pleasure they could provide him.

“You have no say in the matter,” he said huskily, caressing Semirah’s slender thighs. Her pale skin, a startling contrast to his deeply bronzed hue, was as soft as swan’s down beneath his large, callused hands. “I leave at dawn.”

The woman’s chin jutted, her expression growing determined in the glow of an oil lamp placed near the richly carved bed. She touched her fingers to her breast as she leaned over him, her silky hair enveloping them like a gossamer ebony cloud. She laid her hand over his heart. “I go with you.”

Chuckling at the absurdity of her statement, Rurik drew her against his chest and rolled with her to one side, her lithe, coltish body molded to his powerful frame.

“Greedy wench.” He nuzzled her throat, her spicy citrus scent of bergamot and cedar exciting his senses. “Isn’t it enough that I summoned you to share this last night with me rather than one of the others?”

“Those women are cows,” came her petulant reply. “How could you not choose Semirah?” Draping a smooth leg over his thigh, she softened her voice, almost purring. “Take me with you, Lord Rurik. I want to please you, yet how can I if you go so far away?”

“Enough,” Rurik said firmly, his patience ended. He raised his head to look into her face. As his newest concubine, this exotic desert woman with her thick, honeyed accent had apparently not yet discerned what his other women already knew and accepted. He treated his concubines equally, granting none special favors. “Fetch us more wine, Semirah, and plague me no more with your demands. You will remain here like the others and wait patiently for my return.”

Despite the disappointment shining in her eyes, the slave woman said no more. Extricating herself from his embrace, she rose with athletic ease from the bed and sauntered across the room, her body gleaming white as alabaster, her trim bottom swaying with provocative exaggeration as if she wanted to emphasize what he would soon be missing.

By Thor, she was impertinent. Rurik smiled and felt his good humor return. Yet it was tempered by the memory of his meeting that morning with Grand Prince Yaroslav, his sworn lord, at the kreml, the citadel overlooking the city of Novgorod. Without the distraction of a warm, willing woman in his arms, his thoughts turned easily to the gravity of the times and the secretive mission to which he had been entrusted.

“Not only has my brother Mstislav laid claim to my throne and invaded my realm with his warriors,” Yaroslav had blustered, the short, barrel-chested ruler pacing restlessly in front of Rurik, “he has now conquered Chernigov, one of my most prosperous trading cities, and established there what he calls his temporary throne! His arrogance knows no bounds! Does he truly believe that he can defeat me, the grand prince of all Rus Land?”

“Perhaps so,” Rurik had commented dryly. “It is rumored that Mstislav boasts of victory before the winter brings ice again to the rivers.”

“Never! He was nothing but a boy and a weakling when our father Vladimir sent him as viceroy to Tmutorokan. I always thought that southern city founded upon stinking swampland a fitting place for him to rule!”

“A weakling no longer, my prince, but a bold and calculating warrior who lusts for more than a swamp. While you fought your brother Sviatopolk for the Rus throne after your father’s death, Mstislav made no move but harbored his forces during those four long years of battle.”

“Yes, the coward! And while Sviatopolk, may his putrid corpse writhe in hell, murdered three of our brothers, Mstislav hid behind his palace walls among his women–”

“Shrewdly waiting,” Rurik interrupted, knowing that in his position of friend and trusted adviser, Yaroslav would not take offense. “He planned his strategy during these last five years of peace since your victory to strike against you now.”

“And so he has.” Yaroslav faced Rurik, who towered almost a foot above him. “You must go to Chernigov under a merchant’s guise and discover the strength of Mstislav’s forces. I’ve already sent a message to my northern allies, your King Olaf of Norway and to my wife’s father, the king of Sweden, asking them to send more Varangian mercenaries to bolster my army. When they arrive, we shall make our move, but until then I must know how many enemy warriors we face to better plan our attack. And if you can find out Mstislav’s battle plans without jeopardizing your guise, do so.”

“I will leave at first light tomorrow,” Rurik assured him, eager to serve again the Rus prince to whom he had sworn a sacred oath of allegiance eight years ago.

“Excellent. My steward will see that you have everything you need.” The energetic man resumed his agitated pacing. “What goods will you sell, Rurik?”

“Furs,” he replied. “The perfect ruse. Easy to transport both by river and on land. Anything else would only hinder my pace. I want to inspect the entire region and return to Novgorod by June.”

“Such a journey will take at least that long.” The grand prince stopped to stare at Rurik thoughtfully. “I chose you because you know a merchant’s life well. I am only grateful you returned in time from your latest trading ventures to fight for my cause.”

As if this reminded him of his brother’s foul ambitions, Yaroslav cursed vehemently. “Go now, Rurik Sigurdson, and make your preparations. And take a few of your men with you as fellow merchants. I will sleep better knowing you travel with friends to guard your back. I do not want to lose the most famed warrior in my senior druzhina to those vermin dung-eaters. May Christ protect you!”

“And Odin,” Rurik said grimly to himself, his baptism into the new faith shortly before he entered Yaroslav’s service unable to wash away pagan beliefs engrained in him from birth…

“Are you thinking of Semirah, my lord?”

As Rurik focused upon the beautiful woman who stood beside the bed holding two silver goblets, her lilac nipples hardened temptingly from the early spring chill pervading the room, his reverie faded into sharp reality. The days ahead would bring many dangers, but for now he wanted only to enjoy this night.

“Now I am,” he said thickly, paying no heed to the wine sloshing upon him and the soft furs as he grabbed her and sat her astride him, Semirah squealing with delight. Taking both goblets, he slowly poured what wine remained down the front of her body. His desire flared like molten heat as the scarlet liquid slicked her small pert breasts, her belly, then caught and glistened in the lush sable pelt between her legs.

“Rurik Beast-Slayer, will you drink now?” she taunted, using the name he had earned during a hunt by saving the grand prince from a charging bear.

“Lie back, woman, and let me slake my thirst.”

The wine was sweet upon his tongue as he first suckled at her breasts, Semirah’s throaty moans fanning his lust like the hottest wind. Then pushing her down upon the furs, he cupped her taut bottom and lifted her to taste the intoxicating nectar he craved.

No one should trust the words of a girl or what a married woman says. Their hearts have been shaped on a turning wheel, and inconstancy dwells in their breasts.

Poetic Edda, Havamal

The Sayings of Odin, the High One

Chapter 1

May, A.D. 1024

Zora swept from her tent and brushed past the tall, pallid-faced chief eunuch, wrinkling her nose in distaste at his pungent scent of myrrh.

“But, Princess, will you not ride in the litter my mistress has sent for you?”

“I prefer to walk, Phineas.” She drew her cloak tighter against the damp chill that hung like a mist in the air. “It’s hard enough being confined upon a riverboat much of the day without having to be carried here and there once we make camp. I long for any chance to use my legs.”

“You will surely soil your slippers and the hem of your gown, fair one,” warned the eunuch, his voice effeminately high and nasal. He signaled for the four bearers supporting the drapery-shrouded litter to follow as he hastened to catch up with her. “It grows dark and the ground is muddy from recent rains…you could slip and fall, perhaps injure yourself. Certainly you would not wish that to happen only a fortnight from your wedding day.”

“Since when have you or your mistress ever been concerned about my welfare?” Zora muttered, pretending not to hear him. And why the sudden invitation to join Hermione in her tent? Zora could count on one hand the number of times she and her half sister had exchanged words since they left Tmutorokan weeks ago, which was no different than the icy distance they had maintained in the terem, the women’s quarters of their father Prince Mstislav’s palace.

Skirting murky puddles and quagmires of mud, Zora proceeded undaunted through the torchlit maze of striped tents toward the largest one erected at the very heart of camp.

Her own tent was always pitched on the edge, another not so subtle jab on Hermione’s part to ensure that Zora never forgot her place as a bastard daughter. But Zora didn’t mind. She liked being apart from the hubbub created by countless slaves, eunuchs, and guards who made up the bulk of this ponderous caravan. The number of retainers required by two Rus princesses, several concubines, and the wives and children of Prince Mstislav’s highest officials was astonishing.

Yet she did mind abandoning the deliciously fragrant supper of spit-roasted pheasant her cook had prepared for her. Zora’s stomach was growling irritably.

She had been tempted to refuse the unexpected invitation, but why incite Hermione’s anger? Soon they would be separated. In a little less than a week they would arrive at Chernigov, their father’s new capital city, and within another week Zora would marry and become the mistress of her own household. No longer would she have to endure Hermione’s imperious slights and petty jealousies, for they would rarely see each other except for court functions. That arrangement would suit Zora perfectly.

“Allow me to announce your arrival, beauteous one,” Phineas insisted, overtaking her just as she reached the guarded entrance to Hermione’s tent.

Noting his labored breathing and mud-splattered tunic, Zora felt a small ripple of satisfaction. She had always disliked this eunuch’s smooth and haughty ways, which so mirrored those of his mistress. It pleased her to have upset his composure, even a little.

“If you wish.”

As the guards pulled aside the flaps, Zora followed Phineas through a small antechamber and then into the sumptuous interior, which was flooded with golden light from shining copper lanterns and wax candles as thick as a man’s arm.

“My mistress, Princess Zora has come.”

“Thank you, Phineas. You may leave us.”

The eunuch bowed deeply and retired from the tent, leaving Zora standing alone just inside the entrance. Her gaze settled upon the lovely young woman ensconced upon a cushioned divan, dressed in amber silk, her smooth dark hair pulled back and coiled on either side of her head in the Byzantine fashion, the tight spirals interlaced with shimmering strands of pearls. Zora’s own thick hair had never accepted such a style and she fingered a long, unruly strand as she waited.

“How gracious of you to accept my invitation, dear sister,” said Hermione in a silky yet cordial tone. She gracefully waved a marble white hand at another divan placed opposite from her own. “Please. Come and sit.”

Lifting her chin, Zora coolly approached. Her life would have been truly miserable at the hands of this intimidating half-Greek princess if their father had not accepted Zora into his family. Bastards without paternal acknowledgment counted for little in Rus. But Prince Mstislav’s enduring favor and fatherly affection had given her courage, and instead of growing into womanhood cowed and meek, she carried herself with pride and met any insult with determined defiance.

“Have you eaten?” Hermione inquired as Zora took the seat offered to her.

“I have supper waiting for me at my tent,” she replied, giving her half sister a pointed hint that she did not intend to linger.

“Oh, but you must be hungry.” Hermione clapped her hands before Zora could object, and a moment later female slaves appeared from a side entrance bearing trays laden with food and drink. “I haven’t eaten either,” she said as the ivory-inlaid table between them was quickly set with plates of chased silver, savory dishes were uncovered, and enameled goblets filled with vermilion wine. “Join me.”

Annoyed by her sister’s presumption, Zora reluctantly accepted a brimming goblet from a slave and watched as Hermione dipped her silver spoon into a steaming lamb stew laced with leeks and tiny onions. Stubbornly resisting her gnawing hunger, Zora took a healthy sip of wine to ease the hollow pangs in her stomach.

“Umm, it’s wonderful.” Hermione pushed the bowl of stew toward her. “You must try some.”

“I’d rather wait, thank you,” Zora said firmly, although her mouth watered at the wonderful aroma of fresh-baked honey and poppy seed bread. “Perhaps if you told me why you invited me here, I could return to my tent. It’s been a long day and we have to rise early tomorrow.”

Sighing resignedly, Hermione set down her spoon and regarded Zora with stunning cobalt-blue eyes, their only shared feature other than their like age of seventeen years.

“I suppose I’m to blame for your hostility toward me, my sister, but I hope that after tonight we’ll begin to find more pleasure in each other’s company. I invited you because I never congratulated you upon your betrothal to Lord Ivan. I would like to make amends for that oversight…and my callous mistreatment of you in the past, and present you with a gift.”

Zora blinked, incredulous.

“I know this comes as a surprise, but I’ve been thinking that since you and I will be separated soon by your marriage, it doesn’t seem right that we should part as enemies. We’re starting new lives in Chernigov. Father wouldn’t have summoned us to his new court if he wasn’t certain of his ability to wrest the Rus throne from Grand Prince Yaroslav. So in honor of Father’s approaching victory, I think we should reconcile our, shall we say, differences, and start afresh.”

Thoroughly stunned, Zora stared at her half sister. Did Hermione really believe that years of insults and unkindnesses could be so easily forgiven and forgotten? It had been Hermione’s bitter resentment that had first driven the ugly wedge between them.

As the silence lengthened, Hermione arched a slim dark brow. “Have you nothing to say? I hoped my words would have pleased you.”

“Pleased me?” Zora asked, finding her voice at last. “No, I’m merely puzzled. You speak of reconciliation, yet my tent remains on the outskirts of camp almost to the forest—”

“The slave manager’s oversight, I can only suppose through force of habit,” Hermione broke in, dismissing the comment with a wave of her hand. “But it won’t happen again, I promise you. Tomorrow night your tent will be pitched next to mine.” She lifted her goblet in salute. “I drink to your coming marriage, my sister. Receiving news of your betrothal to Lord Ivan must have brought you great joy. He’s handsome, wealthy, a landed boyar, and a member of Father’s senior druzhina. Fortune has indeed smiled upon you.”

Although highly skeptical of her half sister’s sincerity, Zora joined in the toast. She was content with Prince Mstislav’s choice for her husband.

True, she didn’t love Ivan—and his arrogant, imperious ways sometimes grated upon her—but she had agreed to the match knowing it would please her father. She could do no less for the honored place he had given her within his household, even though she was born out of Christian wedlock to a Slavic concubine.

Yet it was strange that she would be the first to wed, Zora thought, licking the tangy wine from her lips as she lowered her goblet. Lady Canace, Hermione’s Greek mother, would never have allowed such a thing if she were still alive. After all, Hermione was older by a few months and a trueborn princess. Zora imagined that Prince Mstislav must have someone else in mind for his eldest daughter, most likely some foreign monarch’s son who would befit her status.

“And now for my gift.” Hermione’s eyes were curiously alight as she again clapped her hands. Two slave women hastened to a great carved chest and while one held open the lid, the other withdrew a large oblong bundle wrapped in gray linen.

Despite herself, Zora felt excitement flare as the slave knelt before her and placed the heavy bundle in her lap. She glanced up at Hermione, whose smile seemed fixed upon her face.

“Open it, dear sister.”

Taking a small knife from the table, Zora slit the twine binding the linen and hastily unwrapped her present. Her breath caught as a bolt of iridescent cream silk was revealed, the thin, tissuelike material striated with sparkling threads of gold.

“It—it’s beautiful,” she murmured, astonished that Hermione would give her anything, especially a gift so fine.

“For your wedding gown. Do you remember those Byzantine fabric merchants who visited our camp last week?”

Zora nodded. She draped a glittering length over her arm, the fabric feeling wonderfully cool against her skin.

“I bought the entire bolt for you. I knew the moment I saw it that the color would accent your tawny hair and golden skin to perfection.”

For the first time since Hermione had said she wanted to make amends, Zora dared to believe that she might have meant it. She met her half sister’s gaze, and although it felt strange to do so, she smiled at her, her gratitude heartfelt.

“Thank you, Hermione. I’ll wear it proudly.”

“I know you will.” Hermione took a long sip of wine, then set her goblet upon the table. Delicately dipping her spoon into a silver bowl filled with glistening black salmon roe, she added, “The food grows cold. Dine with me.”

“If you don’t mind, I still wish to retire,” Zora murmured, rewrapping the bolt of silk. Indeed, she did feel tired, her eyelids strangely heavy. “As you said, this has come as a great surprise. I need time to think—”

“I understand,” Hermione interrupted, wiping her full, red mouth with an embroidered napkin. She rose with Zora, calling, “Phineas?”

The eunuch must have been waiting in the antechamber, for he appeared as if in an instant.

“Princess Zora would like to return to her tent. Will you escort her?”

“Of course, mistress, the litter is waiting outside.”

“I’d rather walk.” Zora wondered why her legs felt so sluggish as her taller half sister led Zora to the entrance. She hadn’t drunk much wine, but her weariness seemed to have quickened its effect.

“Walking will not be possible, fair one,” said Phineas. He cast a covert glance over her head at Hermione. “The rain has begun again.”

“Yes, you wouldn’t want that lovely silk to be ruined, Zora, and you do look exhausted. Please take my litter.”

“Very well,” she said, suddenly feeling disinclined to argue. Clasping her gift to her breasts, she turned to Hermione. “Good night…and thank you.”

Hermione’s tight smile did not reach her eyes. “Good night, dearest sister.”

As Zora entered the antechamber, she stumbled, but Phineas caught her arm, preventing her fall.

“I don’t know why I’m so tired,” she said as he helped her into the litter that was drawn right up to the tent.

“The journey from Tmutorokan has been a long and taxing one, Princess,” he said smoothly, closing the heavy curtains to leave her in darkness. “Do not trouble yourself. Rest.”

Zora obliged him by sinking gratefully against the plush cushions, but when the litter was hoisted into the air she was assailed by a wave of nauseating dizziness.

“Phineas?”

Her weak cry went unanswered. Outside she heard the bearers’ sandals squelching in the mud and rain beating upon the litter’s canvas roof, but not a sound from the chief eunuch.

Mother of Christ, what could be wrong with her? she wondered dazedly. Every pitch and sway of the litter heightened her sense of lightheadedness. Her tongue felt thick and as dry as wool, and try as she might, she could barely open her eyes.

Overwhelmed by a terrible drowning sensation as her body sank deeper into the cushions, Zora could swear that they should have arrived at her tent by now, but the slaves kept on walking. Where were they taking her? Was it possible she had lost track of time and they had not yet reached the camp’s outskirts?

Suddenly the litter pitched to one side as if a slave had tripped and lost his footing, then it felt like the world dropped from beneath her. The conveyance hit the ground with a jarring thud. Through the cold numbness enveloping her body she heard sounds of struggle—and muted screams?—then Phineas’s ragged whisper.

“Grab her and be gone! And I warn you, tell your master Gleb not to forget his sworn agreement. This concubine’s tongue is to be cut out, and she’s not to be sold until you reach Constantinople! My mistress has paid much gold to ensure that her wishes are met. Tell Gleb if they are not, she will gladly spend a thousand times more to have him found and punished.”

Zora moaned in horrified disbelief. She’d been caught in a treacherous web! She gasped as the curtains were torn aside and rough hands wrenched her from the litter. But it was so dark she could not see her assailants’ faces. Nor could she move her limbs to escape them.

“No, please…my wedding gown,” she whimpered almost incoherently, glimpsing the cream silk lying like a bright beacon upon the muddy ground.

In the next instant a dank, fetid cloth was stuffed in her mouth, and limp as a rag, she was flung over a broad shoulder, the wind knocked painfully from her lungs. She felt her captor running, his breathing hard and labored, and when he abruptly stopped, she heard as if from a great distance the rush of water and oars scraping. Then all consciousness receded and pitch-blackness engulfed her.

Hermione waited several hours—enjoying a leisurely bath and the ministrations of her slave women as they massaged her with fragrant oils and dressed her for bed—before she sent all of her attendants away and summoned a rain-soaked guard. Reclining comfortably upon a divan, she didn’t deign to look at him, but toyed with a filigree gold and glass perfume bottle.

“Go to Phineas’s tent and wake him. I wish to speak with him at once.”

As she expected, the guard returned to inform her that Phineas had not yet been to his quarters.

“Then search the camp and find him!”

And, as she expected, a short while later a great hue and cry of alarm was raised, echoing throughout the camp. Within moments a grim chief of the guards came rushing into the tent. Feigning panic, Hermione rose to meet him.

“What has happened?” she demanded shrilly. “Why all the shouting?”

“Princess Zora has been abducted, my lady! We found the empty litter near her tent and Phineas lying senseless beside it. Three of the bearers were strangled, while the fourth hovers near death.”

“No, this can’t be true,” Hermione objected with suitable disbelief while inwardly she fought the urge to laugh aloud in triumph. “It can’t be! How could such a thing have happened? Where were the guards?”

“Those assigned to your sister’s tent were murdered, their throats cut. The rest in the camp heard and saw nothing. The rain was so heavy, dousing the torches, and with no moonlight—”

“Did Phineas say anything when you found him? Did he see his attackers? Holy Mother Mary, I sent him a good while ago to escort Zora back to her tent after she and I had finished our supper. I thought him long abed!”

“When we managed to rouse him, he said only that he and the bearers were almost to the entrance when he was suddenly struck from behind on the head. He remembers nothing more. As for the slave, we will have to wait until he regains his senses…if he does.”

“Have Phineas brought to me.” Wringing her hands, Hermione began to circle the divan in distraction. “My women will care for him here.”

“Very well, my lady. I am ordering a search to begin at once for your sister—”

“No!” Hermione hysterically rounded upon him. “I forbid any guards to leave this camp!”

“But, my lady, Princess Zora’s abductors already have a good lead upon us. If we don’t set out soon—”

“I said no! We could be attacked again, and if your elite guards could not prevent this terrible event”—she glared at him accusingly— “what makes you think half their number will be enough to protect the camp? This could be some evil plot by Grand Prince Yaroslav…taking hostages to use against my father. Next, they might be planning to come after me!”

“Calm yourself, my lady. I will post a double ring of well-armed guards around your tent—”

“Yes, at once! But I still forbid any of your men to leave! You can blame the element of surprise for this unfortunate night’s work, but you will have no excuse for my father if we suffer a second successful attack!”

His sweaty face paling, the chief of the guards reluctantly acquiesced. “As you wish, Princess Hermione, but at first light I insist upon sending out some of my men. Prince Mstislav’s wrath will be fierce if we do not search for your sister.”

Sensing his stubbornness and accepting begrudgingly the truth of his words, Hermione decided it was wise to humor him. At least no guards would be sent out until morning, long hours away.

“Very well, that much I will allow,” she said shakily. “And though Chernigov is almost a week’s journey away, we shall make all haste and alert my father. If your guards fail to rescue my poor sister, his men surely will.” She bowed her head and covered her face with her hands as if about to weep. “Leave me.”

But no one would find her, Hermione thought smugly, watching the man through laced fingers as he strode from the tent.

The slavers who had captured Zora were miles down the Desna River by now, and would travel all night to put distance between themselves and the camp. They had been paid well to do so. Their ships would be past Chernigov and on their way south to Kiev long before word of the abduction ever reached her father, no matter how swiftly the caravan traveled. And even if the chief of the guards insisted upon sending messengers ahead with the grim news, they would still be too late.

Alone again, Hermione poured herself some wine and raised the goblet in a silent toast to Phineas. Her loyal chief eunuch had done his job well. It had taken him weeks to find a slave merchant to suit their purpose, but two nights ago while visiting a trading town not far from camp, he had finally succeeded.

A wily old trader bound for Constantinople with over one hundred slaves had readily agreed to have his men abduct a woman described as a concubine fallen into disfavor with her master’s wife. Apparently Prince Mstislav’s invading forces had killed both of the merchant’s sons, and he was only too eager to win his own brand of vengeance against the royal upstart from Tmutorokan. He believed he’d be depriving some arrogant boyar of his pampered whore. Gold grivna had changed hands and arrangements were made. All Hermione had to do was find some way to drug Zora, and that had been easy.

“Gullible little bitch,” Hermione muttered, disgusted by the conciliatory role she had had to play. She took a draft of wine, but her throat was so tightened that she could barely swallow.

Poison would have proved simpler—and she would have resorted to it if the right slave merchant hadn’t been found—but mute servitude suited a bastard daughter born of a common slave better than a quick death. A bastard who had usurped Prince Mstislav’s affection and become the favored one, the much beloved golden child. A bastard betrothed to Ivan, the man Hermione secretly loved and hoped to marry. That final indignity had forced the plan she had long nurtured. Tonight, vengeance was hers at last…

Hermione’s attention was drawn by a sudden commotion at the tent’s entrance. She glanced up to find Phineas suspended limply between two burly guards, his soaked tunic muddy and torn, his shaved head lolling upon his chest. How convincingly he played his part!

“Bring him here,” she ordered, gesturing to a divan that she quickly covered with a blanket. “Be careful, I tell you, or you’ll only cause him more pain!” When Phineas was settled, a warm blanket thrown over him, she asked one of the men, “Has the bearer been taken to the healer’s tent?”

“He is dead, my lady. A few moments ago.”

Absorbing this news, Hermione dismissed the guards with a nod. She held her breath, waiting until they were gone, then she exhaled slowly, a smile curving her lips.

“We’re alone, Phineas.”

The eunuch’s dark eyes opened, but he made no effort to rise. “I have pleased you, my mistress?”

“Infinitely, faithful one. You have secured my happiness. Lord Ivan’s bride will not be a bastard, but a true Rus princess with the blood of Byzantine emperors in her veins.” Kneeling beside the divan, she lifted his head and brought her own goblet to his lips. As he drank thirstily, she asked, “Did you give Gleb’s men my warning?”

Laying his head down, Phineas met her eyes. “Yes, mistress, but I have one fear. If Princess Zora tells them who she is before they can silence her tongue forever—”

“It will make no difference,” Hermione assured him as she refilled the goblet. “You said this Gleb burns for vengeance for the death of his two sons. Whether his captive is princess or concubine, he will follow my bidding and sell her with pleasure in the slave markets of Constantinople.”

“But if he becomes convinced of her royal parentage, he could find his revenge in giving her to Grand Prince Yaroslav.”

“You also told me that Gleb was a shrewd man,” Hermione reminded him. She had already considered this possibility and yet deemed her plan worth the risk. “To believe Zora was a princess, he would also know that he had not dealt with a rich, embittered wife as you described me to him, but someone vastly more powerful. I’m sure he would realize defiance of my orders would cost him his life.” She rose to her feet. “Enough talk, Phineas. I will summon my women to care for you. Remember, you’ve been struck violently upon the head. Now close your eyes and rest.”

Turning her back to him, Hermione went to the side entrance that led to her personal slaves’ tent. After sending one of the guards standing sentry outside for her women, she deftly pulled a small enamel vial from the tight sleeve of her sleeping dress and poured a measure of fine white powder into her goblet. The poison dissolved quickly and she returned the vial to her sleeve.

“I imagine you’ve heard about the tragedy that has befallen my sister, and that Phineas was injured,” she said quietly to the first slave who entered. “I put you in charge of his care.” She handed the somber-faced woman the goblet. “See that he drinks this wine. It will calm him.”

“Yes, mistress.”

Glancing at the divan, Hermione felt a twinge of regret. Yet she couldn’t allow Phineas to live. He knew too much, and it would seem suspicious that the four bearers had perished but not him, however convincing his charade. He would expire of a sudden seizure within the hour, a development easily blamed upon his injury.

“Is there anything you need, mistress?” inquired another slave woman who followed Hermione to her curtained sleeping area at the rear of the tent.

“No,” she answered as the brocade draperies were drawn for her privacy. “Go and tend to Phineas with the others.” Turning away, she smiled to herself. “Tell him I said to sleep well.”

Chapter 2

Zora awoke to the sound of snoring. Her ears buzzed from the loud rumbling noise and her head pounded viciously. Dazed, she opened her eyes, her blurred vision gradually focusing upon a canvas wall only inches from her face.

She wondered who could be making such a racket. Her brain ached at the effort to think. Surely not one of her slave women, and if a guard was sleeping at his post outside her tent, she would have to report him for his laxness. Yet she wasn’t inclined to leave her bed to discover the culprit. Besides her terrible headache, she felt dizzy, and it was comfortable lying here, the furs so soft beneath her.

“Furs?” she breathed, confused. Her bed had never been covered with animal skins, but a fine silken quilt. And she slept between linen sheets, not under a prickly wool blanket like the one pulled up to her shoulder.

Filled with sudden unease, Zora winced as she slowly raised herself on one elbow. Massaging an aching temple, she looked around the small, shadowy interior.

This wasn’t her tent! The space was empty but for this low pile of furs and some wooden barrels stacked against an opposite wall. A strange roughly dressed man slumped on a bench near the entrance, his arms crossed and his chin resting on his chest. Another snore shattered the stillness and she realized he was fast asleep, his mouth hanging open and drool trickling from one slack corner.

Her confusion mounting, Zora thought to rise, but suddenly uproarious laughter sounded just outside the tent. Gasping, she fell back upon the furs as if she had been struck and rolled onto her side, squeezing her eyes shut. Her companion snorted awake, the bench creaking as he shifted his stout bulk and rose.

“Damned Varangians,” he grumbled, coming to stand over her.

Zora fought the urge to stiffen as the man nudged her bottom with his toe. She heard him grunt and, to her disgust, break wind as he scratched himself, then he turned abruptly as the tent flaps were thrown aside.

“Still asleep?” The voice was gruff and gravelly, like that of an older man.

“Aye, Gleb. Hasn’t twitched a muscle. Whatever that eunuch used to drug her, he must have given her a double dose to knock her out for this long.”

So she had been drugged, Zora thought wildly, the dense mist gradually clearing from her brain. But how? When? She had gone to Hermione’s tent, had drunk some wine… Oh, God! Vague memories crowded in upon her and became more vivid…her strange weariness, the litter crashing to the ground, Phineas’s whispered voice, brutal hands seizing her—

“It’s just as well. I’ve no time for her right now. This trading camp is swarming with eager buyers. Foreign merchants, too. I want to make more sales before we set off again. The journey downriver will be swifter with a few dozen less slaves.”

“But, Gleb, do you think we should risk another hour’s delay? We’ve already been here since midafternoon and it’s nearing sunset. Guards could have been sent out to look for the wench.”

The older man gave a dry laugh. “For a concubine? I doubt it, but if they are, we’ve managed a good day’s lead on any search party. Why do you think we kept our ships so hard to the river until we stopped here?”

She was no concubine! Zora screamed silently, her thoughts reeling. She forced herself to take steady breaths, knowing both men now stood over her.

“Pity she has to lose her tongue, a fine beauty like this,” the younger one muttered. “As a mute, she won’t fetch but half the price in Constantinople.”

“To hell with your sentiments! The great Prince Mstislav’s soldiers showed no mercy when wielding their knives, accursed butchers! They did the same thing to my sons before both were slain as supposed spies, hacking out their tongues, chopping off their fingers, noses, ears…” Falling silent for a moment, Gleb’s roughened voice was bitter when he added, “That eunuch’s mistress paid me well to carry out her orders, and I’ll not invite her wrath. Call me when the girl wakes. I’d cut out her tongue now but she’d choke on her own blood.”

Horrified, Zora feared her pounding heart would give her away. Holy Mother Mary, please tell her that this was a terrible dream!

Yet Phineas’s urgently whispered words came back to her with bone-chilling clarity— “Grab her and be gone!” She knew the nightmare was real. Hermione had finally engineered the cruelest offense of all, staging reconciliation while treachery seethed in her breast.

Zora banished her sister’s hateful image from her mind as the two men, engrossed in a discussion, moved away from her toward the entrance. She half opened her eyes to take a peek at them.

The older one, Gleb, wore a purple silk caftan over his gaunt frame, a stark contrast to the stout guard’s coarse woolen shirt and trousers. A close-cropped graying beard covered Gleb’s jaw. He looked shrewd, his features angular and pinched, and she stifled her irrational impulse to jump up and tell him that she was no mere concubine but Prince Mstislav’s daughter.

If this slaver’s sons had been killed by her father’s men, any such revelation would place her in greater danger. Who knew what Gleb would do to her then? Maybe kill her on the spot!

Zora shut her eyes as Gleb left the tent and his stocky subordinate retook his seat. It seemed her traitorous sister had chosen her abductors with care. Her only hope lay in escape.

Interminable moments passed while Zora lay upon the furs, her body tense beneath the blanket. She heard the bench creak each time her captor shifted his weight, but she didn’t dare look at him, certain that he was watching her. She couldn’t have been more astonished when a short while later, a loud, gargling snore burst from his throat. After a third such noise, she dared to raise her head. He was stretched out upon the bench, sleeping again!

Seizing her chance, Zora pushed back the blanket and rose shakily to her feet, fighting the lingering dizziness. For the first time she noticed that her silken clothes had been exchanged for a plain linen tunic and she was barefoot, her slippers gone. Why, those bastards must have seen her naked! And she was a princess!

Refusing to dwell upon the indignity, Zora swallowed hard as she took a few cautious steps to test her wobbly legs. When she felt certain that she wouldn’t collapse, she edged stealthily across the tent, all the while keeping a cautious eye upon her prone captor.

She almost jumped through her skin when he snorted and smacked his lips, but he did not waken. Carefully she lifted the flap, peering outside, and was dismayed to see that the camp was abustle with activity, traders haggling everywhere over various goods while groups of silent slaves, mostly women, were being led here and there. She also heard muffled male laughter emanating from several tents and occasionally high-pitched squeals that were decidedly female.

But there was one clear advantage. Although the tent was pitched near some larger ones, it was also close to the trees. If she could reach the forest, she could hide near the river and wait for the caravan to pass. The merchant had said there was only a day’s lead between any search party and the trading camp. But if she couldn’t escape through the front entrance, fearing that she might be seen…

Zora’s gaze fell upon the knife protruding from the man’s leather belt. Dare she?

Another resounding snore startled her, spurring her into action. With shaking fingers, she crouched beside him and eased the weapon from its sheath, then moved quickly to the rear tent wall. Fortunately the razor-sharp blade slashed through the canvas as silently and smoothly as if the fabric were butter, and falling to her knees, she slipped through the narrow opening.

Her heart beating in her throat, Zora lifted her tunic above her knees and fled, looking neither to the left nor right but dashing straight for the tree line. She was nearly there when her left heel glanced off a jagged rock and, grimacing in pain, she had to hobble the rest of the way. She was almost crying with relief when she safely reached the dense woods. She leaned upon a trunk and paused for a brief instant to catch her breath and inspect her foot.

“By the blood of Odin, where are you flying to, my pretty bird?”

Gasping in fright, Zora glanced up to find a huge Varangian trader fastening his breeches as he stepped from behind a tree. Her heart sinking, she realized she had been so preoccupied with her injury that she hadn’t noticed the man relieving himself against a gnarled trunk only a few feet away.

“Stay away from me!” she cried when he took a step toward her. Brandishing the knife she still held, she glanced beyond him to the darkening forest and freedom, then met his leering gaze. In the fading light filtering through the leaves, his eyes appeared a pale, chilling blue, and the deep scar bisecting his sparsely bearded cheek only heightened his air of menace. His hair was white-blond and coarse, and he was dressed in fur skins like a barbarian.

“Have you flown from your master’s nest?” Ignoring her poised weapon, he advanced another step. His gaze roamed over her, lingering uncomfortably on the rapid rise and fall of her breasts. “I don’t remember seeing you among the other women. If I had, I swear I would have sampled you first.”

Craning her neck, Zora felt as if she faced a giant. She had seen these massive Norsemen before in Tmutorokan’s marketplaces, and her father himself was a tall man, descended from fierce Swedish warriors who had settled in Rus two centuries ago. But now she was alone with the large Varangian, with only a knife to protect her.

“Stand back,” she warned shakily. “I am Zora, princess of the Tmutorokan Rus and taken captive against my will—”

“And I’m the king of Denmark,” he mocked her, drawing closer. “Sheathe your talons, pretty bird, and come back to the camp with Halfdan Snakeeye.” His arm, strangely tattooed with serpents devouring each other, suddenly shot out as he lunged for her.

“No!” she screamed, swiping at him with the knife. As the blade sliced into his flesh, his harsh laughter filled the woods. He easily knocked the knife from her hand, and catching a fistful of tangled hair, he yanked her hard against his massive chest. Crying out from the stinging pain, Zora thought her scalp would be ripped from her skull.

“I said come to Halfdan. I want to find your master and strike a deal.”

Zora fought him with all her strength as he lifted her in his arms, but he only laughed harder, enjoying her struggles. Nor did it seem to make any difference to him that blood trickled from his wound. When they stepped from the trees, a curious crowd began to gather and Halfdan smiled broadly, enjoying the attention.

“Look what I found while I was pissing in the woods! A golden bird, a daughter of Freyja, goddess of desire and beauty! From whose nest has she escaped? I wish to speak with that man!”

Zora twisted wildly in his grasp, but the giant’s muscled arms were like bands of steel and thick as small tree trunks. Torn by cold fear and outrage, she demanded, “Let go of me, you vile, disgusting—” A beefy hand clapped over her mouth abruptly silenced her, and she was jerked even harder against his chest, pinned so tightly she couldn’t move. Her stomach roiled from the Varangian’s acrid stench of sweat and filth.

“Who owns this woman?” Halfdan bellowed, now almost to the center of camp.

“I do! Release her at once!” came an indignant reply. Gleb rushed forward with his stout guard. “She is not for sale!”

“Not for sale?” the Varangian trader echoed incredulously.

“I’m saving her for a better market…Constantinople,” added Gleb, his gravelly voice raised in anger. He halted right in front of the Norseman, who loomed over him, then he shot a dark glance at his wide-eyed companion. “My man here was watching her, but she managed to escape. Release her, I tell you—”

“My silver grivna are as good as any Greek’s!” With one swift movement Halfdan yanked a gleaming broadaxe from his belt and lifted Gleb’s pointed chin with the well-honed blade. “Will you stop me from sampling her now, little man? Maybe she will displease me and then you can have her back! If not, I will buy her. Those are the rules of the trade!”

Answered by stunned silence, Halfdan snorted in triumph and shoved the ashen-faced Gleb aside, then strode to a nearby tent. As he stormed inside the stuffy lamplit interior, Zora was assailed at once by the overpowering smell of sex, cloying and primal. She gaped in horror at the sight before her.

Everywhere she looked naked slave women were being bedded by potential buyers, upon the floor, on crude benches, against the tent walls, a wild, sweaty tangle of rutting bodies. But she heard no cries of protest, some women laughing throatily, some moaning in pleasure, others mutely bearing what must be a slave’s lot…dear God, and this barbarian thought she was a slave!

Suddenly realizing the Varangian’s lustful intentions, Zora sank her teeth into his callused palm and his hand fell from her mouth. “No! You can’t do this!” she shouted hoarsely, her throat constricted with fear.

“Silence, woman!” Halfdan threw her down upon the nearest vacant bench and held her there, despite her wild flailing, with one massive hand pressed between her breasts. Wrenching at his breeches, he released his huge, swollen member and Zora froze, her eyes widening in terrified disbelief. “Frey the Fruitful has blessed me well with the means to please you,” he said, coarsely fondling himself. “Now spread your plumage and enjoy the god’s bounty.” With a harsh laugh, he ripped her tunic from collar to hem, exposing her trembling body to his gaze.

“Stop…no, oh, no!” Zora cried as he straddled the bench and lowered his bulk down upon her. In wild desperation she brought her knee up sharply, catching him in the groin. As the Varangian doubled over, sucking in his breath and cursing, she wrenched herself from beneath him and fell hard to the dirt floor. An instant later she was scrambling on hands and knees toward the entrance. As she clambered to her feet and dashed outside, Halfdan’s bellows of rage resounded from the tent.

“Help me!” she screamed, seized by hysteria. She took refuge behind several traders only to have them dart away in fear as the Norseman burst through the tent flaps, brandishing his broadaxe. Spying Gleb, she ran to him but he, too, backed away, the sight of three hundred pounds of enraged Varangian stifling any protest he might have offered.

Clutching her torn tunic against her body, Zora spun in terror. Halfdan looked like a vengeful behemoth as he slowed his mad dash to a relentless stalking, his pale eyes gleaming almost silver in the torchlight illuminating the camp.

“You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have you…here, now, in the dirt in front of everyone. And when I make you scream with pleasure, you will wish you had surrendered sooner to Halfdan Snakeeye.”

“Mother of Christ, protect me!” she begged in a daze, shock enveloping her like cold, creeping fingers. Stumbling backward, she turned and fled toward another tent, her eyes nearly blinded by tears. She didn’t see the tall, broad-shouldered man stepping outside until it was too late and she ran headlong into him, jolting the breath from her body. She would have fallen if he hadn’t caught her, his grip strong and sure.

“Help me! Please help me!” she pleaded almost incoherently, swiping her hair from her eyes. “A reward…I promise you a reward! You must help…” Her entreaty died in her throat as she stared up into the bearded face of another Varangian trader, a gaze of intense blue meeting hers. “Oh, God…no!”

Pushing away from him in horror, she staggered back the other way, everything around her becoming a swirling blur. As Halfdan bore down upon her, his triumphant laughter ringing in her ears, she heard her own voice as if from inside a deep well, crying, “You can’t do this to me! I am—”

“Silence, bitch!” Halfdan’s sudden openhanded blow to her cheek sent her reeling into a pile of stacked goods, jagged flashes of light bursting before her eyes. Without a whimper, she crumpled amid overturned casks and crates, escaping into sweet blackness.

Chapter 3

“So what will it be, man? Do you want the wench or not? I’ve two other traders waiting to try her if you’re not in the mind to buy.”

Rurik did not waste a glance upon the fat Bulgarian merchant or the nude slave being thrust toward him, a voluptuous, almond-eyed beauty who had eagerly opened her legs for his pleasure moments before the commotion that had drawn him outside the tent. His gaze was riveted upon the young woman lying on the ground like a limp cloth doll only twenty feet away, and the Varangian trader who stood above her.

“Didn’t you hear me, friend? Time is money and you’re wasting mine. Now what’s your answer?”

Again ignoring the merchant, Rurik tensed as the huge Norseman bent down and grabbed one of the woman’s delicate ankles, clearly intent upon dragging his quarry from the debris scattered around her.

He had witnessed many abuses at trading camps, but never anything that had so turned his stomach as seeing that fur-clad oaf striking down a woman who appeared almost a child to his massive bulk. A woman with the most incredible blue-green eyes Rurik had ever seen, and a face and form rivaling Freyja herself. A woman who had begged for his help, mumbling frantically of a reward, only to recoil from him in terror. A woman whose refined accent marked her as no common, illiterate slave. Yet he knew the wisest thing for his guise and secretive mission was not to become involved, however strong the temptation, and by Odin, he already had enough women at home.

“Well?”

Rurik turned at the insistent tug on his arm and fixed a dark glare upon the presumptuous merchant. The man withdrew his pudgy hand as if stung and stepped backward in surprise, his eyes round with fear.

“You risk much to impose yourself so upon a stranger,” Rurik said in a low warning. “Take your slave and be gone.”

“V-very well.” The affronted merchant grabbed his crestfallen chattel’s forearm and pushed her back into the tent. “Just the same, you’re passing up quite a bargain,” he added as the flap fell behind them.

A female slave was the last thing he needed on this journey, Rurik told himself again, watching grimly as the Varangian dragged the fine-boned woman back to the center of camp, her torn tunic trailing behind her and her exquisite body bared to the gathered crowd’s gaze.

He and his three men had stopped to trade furs for supplies for their trip downriver to Chernigov, nothing more. Sampling slave women was part of their ruse as merchants, a pleasurable one to be sure, but indulged in only to satisfy lust, not with any intention to buy. So there was no logical purpose in challenging the Varangian for his golden-limbed captive.

“Rouse yourself, woman! Feigning a swoon won’t save you!”

Rurik felt disgust tighten his throat as the Norseman roughly shook the young woman’s prone body. The dullard hadn’t even noticed that his vicious blow had rendered her senseless.

When he received no response, the trader spread her legs wide with his foot and went down on his knees between them, dropping his broadaxe near her head. He stroked her upturned breasts with huge, thick-fingered hands, then, grinning, cupped the golden mound at the apex of her thighs and squeezed.

“I said I’d take you in the dirt, pretty bird, and I meant it. When you feel Halfdan’s Frey-wand deep inside you, you’ll wake soon enough and cry out for more.”

“By Thor’s hammer, enough! What kind of dog are you to rut on the ground with a woman who lies as if dead?”

All eyes turned to Rurik in astonishment. A charged hush filled the air. The Varangian trader did not rise, but his grin tightened perceptibly as he appraised Rurik.

“You addressed me, stranger?”

Rurik nodded, his hand moving to the bright silver hilt of his sword. Although acting upon impulse was foreign to him, he felt strangely glad.

“Get up. You heard the wench before you struck her down. She doesn’t want your attentions.”

“This slave’s wishes are none of my concern, nor are they yours, if you value your neck—”

“But they are mine!” A well-dressed Slav merchant pushed his way to the front of the silent onlookers, though he and the stout fellow who stood at his elbow remained a good distance from the kneeling Varangian. “That woman belongs to me and she is not for sale until we reach the markets of Constantinople.” He eyed Rurik shrewdly, then his gaze shifted back to Halfdan. “I offer ten gold grivna…no, twenty, to any man who will wrest her from this barbarian, Halfdan Snakeeye. He refuses to release her to me of his free will.”

As the Varangian trader cursed and rose to his feet, speculative conversation surged among the crowd but no other man stepped forward. Surprised that a merchant would pay gold for a slave’s behalf, even one as fine as this lithe, tawny-haired beauty, Rurik’s curiosity flared hotter. The man would hardly recoup such a sum once they reached Byzantium’s capital; the most sought-after slaves sold for much less, and usually in silver. This one woman was obviously valuable to him. Strange.

“My lord Rurik, surely you do not plan to fight this trader!” whispered the urgent voice of one of his men.

Leif Einarson’s ruddy face was flushed an even brighter shade of red, his light blue eyes wary. “The woman is beautiful but just look at her captor, my lord! Almost a head taller even than you and as big as an ox, no doubt with the strength to match.”

“The wits of an ox as well, Leif. The man is ruled by lust instead of brains.”

“True, but big, dumb, and well armed could prove a dangerous combination, and we have much at stake—”

“Is it two of you who conspire against me now?” Halfdan blustered. He swung his broadaxe menacingly in front of him. “Come on, you dung-sniffers, and let’s have done with it. When I’ve cut out your beating hearts” —he glanced fiercely at Gleb— “next there’ll be a merchant’s blood staining my blade.”

“Go back to the ship, Leif.” Rurik’s voice was grim as he kept his gaze trained on the Varangian. “If I don’t return shortly, you, Arne, and Kjell sail without me.”

No protest came. Rurik hadn’t expected one, for as their sworn lord, the right of command belonged to him. Yet he could sense that the seasoned warrior wished to remain by his side, ready to fight to the death for him if necessary.

“As you say, my lord.” Scowling at the huge trader, Leif stalked away.

“I accept your offer of twenty grivna,” Rurik announced, noticing the merchant’s look of relief. His instincts told him that the man had something more important at stake than simply regaining possession of a female slave, and he intended to find out what it was, if Odin the all-powerful deemed him the victor. Let the wily slaver think Rurik was fighting for gold. In truth, he wanted to know more about the woman, yet that was impossible until this belligerent Varangian was brought down.

“So your copper-haired friend is afraid to fight Halfdan,” the Norseman jeered, his extreme height enabling him to see above the crowd. “Look how he hastens toward the river with his tail dragging between his legs.”

“Hardly afraid.” Rurik stepped forward as he pulled his sword from the leather scabbard hanging from his belt. His lips curved into a taunting smile. “Why use two men where only one is required?”

His insult was met with a violent oath from his opponent, who suddenly rushed at him, moving amazingly swift for one so large. Halfdan wielded his heavy, long-handled broadaxe with both hands. Possessing no defensive shield, Rurik barely had time to raise his sword before Halfdan’s flaring blade, a full twelve inches across, came crashing down toward his chest.

Steel sang out against steel, Rurik’s sword deflecting the death blow as he dodged to the left and whirled, aiming a low, swinging stroke at the Varangian’s legs in hopes of severing a limb. But Halfdan must have anticipated the tactic for he leapt aside, the tapered end of Rurik’s blade barely scraping his knee.

As they circled each other, the clamoring crowd began to press closer, sputtering torches held high to illuminate the deadly contest. Fearing that the woman might be trampled, Rurik shot a glance in her direction to see that the merchant and his stocky companion were dragging her from harm’s way. Halfdan must have noticed, too, for he shouted, “You cannot hide her from me, you stinking Slav! The moment I find her will bring your death!”

Rurik took advantage of the Varangian trader’s fleeting inattention. With a bloodcurdling cry, he grasped his sword with both hands and swung the gleaming blade in a heavy blow across his opponent’s stomach. To his surprise, a loud thwack met his assault and not the sensation of polished steel slicing into flesh. Cursing, Rurik leapt backward just in time to elude a retaliatory strike, now aware that the Norseman wore a padded jerkin beneath his fur clothing.

“Reindeer hide and bone plaques,” Halfdan rasped through clenched teeth, the ferocity of Rurik’s blow nevertheless having doubled him over. “As good as any rich man’s mail-coat.” Glaring at Rurik, he drew himself to his full height. “It appears you and I are well matched, stranger. I would swear a hardened warrior hides beneath that merchant’s garb. Pity you are soon to be a corpse.”

The Varangian had hit perilously close to the mark, but Rurik had no time for concern over possible spies in the crowd. Halfdan charged at him, roaring in rage and swinging his broadaxe.

Ducking a blow aimed at his head that could have split his skull like an eggshell, Rurik twisted to get clear, but the Varangian’s raised knee caught him under the chin. Smashed backward, his sword knocked from his hand, Rurik sprawled in the dirt, stunned. In the next instant Halfdan landed on top of him and pinned him, his broadaxe hovering directly over Rurik’s heart.

“Pray to Christ or Odin, stranger, but pray quickly for now you die—”

The Varangian’s words were cut off by the zinging flash of a sword, his blond head severed from his body and sent flying into the crowd. As warm blood rained down upon Rurik, the broadaxe falling harmlessly from a lifeless hand to the ground, Halfdan’s twitching body was kicked unceremoniously to one side and Rurik hauled to his feet. Still slightly dazed, he stared into Arne Flat-Nose’s grinning face. Rurik was never more glad in his life to see the grizzled bear of a warrior.

“Must I forever rescue you from scraps, my lord? It’s a good thing your father granted me the right to disobey your orders if necessary, and aye, this occasion was surely one of them.”

“Forever rescuing me?” Rurik wiped the blood and sweat from his face with his sleeve. “A fine exaggeration. In all the years I’ve known you, Arne, I could count on two fingers—”

“Three now, my lord, and well timed, wouldn’t you say?”

At the glint of seriousness in Arne’s eyes, Rurik could only nod, all semblance of joking put aside.

“You have my thanks, friend.”

“That is all well and good” —Arne glanced pointedly at the curious onlookers and lowered his voice— “but the best thanks would be to walk with me to our boat and forsake any idea of rescuing some slave wench in distress. I’d say we’ve drawn more than ample attention to ourselves for one day. It’s time we sailed.”

“Not yet.” Rurik’s senses were now back in sharp focus. Ignoring Arne’s look of disapproval, he picked up his sword and then scanned the surrounding faces for the Slav merchant, but the man had vanished. The cunning bastard! Doubtless he had no intention to pay the sum promised, not that Rurik cared for the gold. The merchant had probably used the fight as a screen to spirit away the woman.

“Where are you going?” Arne called out as Rurik stepped over the headless corpse and strode through the gradually thinning crowd, traders and buyers alike returning to their business now that the bloody spectacle was finished.

Rurik didn’t answer, his gaze sweeping from one end of the camp to the other. No sign of the merchant or the woman. He was about to begin a search of every tent when he spied a flash of purple silk near the well-lighted docks, and he began to run. Arne huffed not far behind him, grumbling loudly about the witchery of women.

“Hold!” Rurik shouted, not surprised to see the merchant and his burly companion, the woman slung over his shoulder, increase their pace as they headed toward a large river ship that was already loaded with slaves and other retainers. “Hold, I tell you!” When Rurik was almost upon them, the merchant turned back and hastened to meet him while the other man hurried on with his precious load.

“Ah, forgive me, good sir…how forgetful of me! Your gold is right here.” Smiling tightly, the merchant held out a small leather pouch. “Count it if you must, it’s all there. Twenty grivna, the least I could pay for such skill and bravery, such honor—”

“I don’t want your gold.” Rurik’s gaze burned into the man’s eyes. “Tell your fat companion to bring the woman here, now, or I will not hesitate to slit your treacherous throat.”

“Treachery! What treachery—”

Rurik grabbed the older man and spun him so that he faced the river, his sword resting ominously against the merchant’s scrawny neck. “Tell him!”

“As you wish, as you wish! Urho! Bring the slave to me at once!”

“Now talk and quickly, but keep your voice low,” Rurik commanded, aware that they were eliciting much observation from curious passersby. “Where did you get that woman?”

“Her parents sold her to me…they were poor, needed the silver—”

“You lie! Before that Varangian trader struck her down, she promised me a reward if I helped her. No peasant’s daughter would swear such a thing, and no peasant wench would speak with such refinement. Where did you find her?”

“Please, I cannot say or my life may be forfeit!”

“Speak or your life is forfeit.” Rurik turned his weapon so that the razor-sharp blade rested upon the man’s bobbing Adam’s apple.

“Very well, I will tell you! Stay your sword! My men abducted her from a wealthy river caravan a day’s eastward journey from this camp.”

“A caravan?”

“Traveling from Tmutorokan to Chernigov.”

Rurik tensed, his instincts alert. Such a caravan might be somehow connected with Prince Mstislav…

“How could your men have gotten so close without an alarm being raised?” he demanded. “Surely there were guards—”

“Yes, but what few we found near the girl’s tent were slain. It couldn’t have gone more smoothly. Everything was arranged in advance.”

“By whom?”

“The eunuch of the woman who wished to rid herself of her husband’s favorite concubine. The half man paid me much gold to see that the girl’s tongue be cut out and she be sold in Constantinople. He said that if his mistress’s orders were not followed, she would not rest until I was found and punished.”

So the wench was a concubine. Rurik watched as the man called Urho drew near with the limp woman. She was wrapped in a dark cloak with only her head visible, her long sandy-colored hair, more blond than brown, tumbling down Urho’s back. Rurik found himself wondering what it might feel like to touch that golden tousled mass, to bury his fingers in it…

Rurik snorted. From his own reaction, he was not surprised that she was a favored one.

Her status would explain her graceful speech. She must have been granted an education with the finest tutors by her wealthy master—whom Rurik suspected was a member of Mstislav’s senior druzhina to afford such a luxury—no doubt fueling the jealousy that had brought her to this trading camp. The woman who had sold her into slavery must have hated her, which meant her master must love her. The hapless wench had promised him a reward, hadn’t she? She probably knew that her master would pay well to get her back.

“How much were you paid?” Rurik asked, again pressing his sword against the merchant’s stubbled throat. “It must have been a great sum for you to put your own life in jeopardy.”

“Two hundred gold grivna.”

“A woman’s cunning knows no bounds,” Rurik muttered, disgusted. This concubine’s nemesis obviously wanted her to suffer, otherwise she would have had her killed. To cut out her tongue and sell her to some foreign buyer? He wondered what the witch would think when her beautiful rival turned up once more upon her doorstep, but with a tale of treachery to condemn her before her husband…for Rurik had a bold plan formulating in his mind.

“Arne, go to the ship and bring me the money chest,” he called to his friend who was standing close by, sword drawn.

The warrior’s bushy black brows knit together. “My lord?”

“Just do as I say.”

Shaking his shaggy head, Arne sheathed his sword and lumbered away, grumbling to himself.

“If you’re thinking to offer me money for the wench, I will not take it,” said the merchant stubbornly. “She is not for sale.”

“You took a rich woman’s gold readily enough—”

“Why not enrich my purse and steal away some boyar’s whore?” The man spoke vehemently, oblivious to the cold metal pressed against his flesh. “I’m no warrior. What better revenge could I seek against the scourge that has come upon our land? Those bloodthirsty hordes from Tmutorokan! I lost two sons to that usurper Mstislav’s men!”

Rurik turned the merchant so abruptly to face him that the older man almost lost his footing. “Is this true?”

Fear shone from the merchant’s eyes, but his expression remained hard. “I have said too much already. For all that I know, you could be one of them.”

“I am not,” Rurik replied, his voice almost a whisper. “But I can tell you no more. Now answer me.”

The merchant studied Rurik’s face for a long moment, then his bony shoulders seemed to drop. “I would not have sold my soul for coin. My sons’ faces haunt me in my dreams, their voices beg me for justice. If you take this woman from me, I will have lost everything, my vengeance and, one day I fear, my life.”

Rurik could see that the older man spoke the truth, and he chose his next words with care.

“Would you sell me the wench if I told you a greater vengeance could be yours? A battle will soon be fought, and your slave may be the bribe I need to sway the outcome to our favor. I can tell you little else, except that you and your remaining family would be safe in Novgorod, should you choose to seek refuge there. This I promise.”

Rurik glanced toward the docks, and spying Arne returning with the chest, he turned his gaze back to the silent merchant.

“My man comes with the money. I offer you two hundred gold grivna to match the payment already made to you, good for evil. All I ask is that you do not make me wrest the woman from you by force.”

“Keep your gold,” the merchant said quietly, his shrewd eyes fixed upon Rurik’s face. “But when I return from selling my slaves in Constantinople, I will hold you to your promise. All I ask is that you tell the girl when she wakes that you had to kill me to win her. Perhaps that will be enough to throw that rich she-hound from my scent…if it is in your mind to send this concubine back to whence she came.”

“Done.”

As they grasped each other’s wrists in agreement, the merchant asked, “Do you have a name, stranger? I must know where to seek you in Novgorod.”

“None that I can give you now, nor is it safe for me to know yours.” Rurik unfastened his cloak-pin, a broad silver ring engraved with a snarling beast, from the right shoulder of his bloodstained cloak. “When you arrive in the city, go to the kreml and speak to the master of the guard. Tell him you wish to return this brooch to its rightful owner. It will be enough.”

The merchant took the brooch, then motioned for Urho to hand his limp bundle to Rurik. “The woman is yours. You are welcome to her. In truth, she has caused me nothing but trouble.”

As Rurik sheathed his sword and took the woman in his arms, the lush feel of her body aroused in him an overwhelming sense of possession, but he quickly stifled his reaction. This beauty belonged to another man, an enemy. He intended to make her a pawn: a fact he would do well to remember.

“Be warned, stranger,” the merchant added, his gravelly voice low. “Guards may be looking for the wench, though the caravan is yet a day’s journey from here. You would be wise to travel swiftly and keep to the west.”

Rurik gave a short nod, noting the miniature cross dangling from the older man’s neck. “May Christ keep you on your journey to Constantinople.”

“And you.”

“I take it, then, that the money is no longer required,” Arne said dryly behind them.

Rurik turned around as the merchant hurried away. “No, my friend, it is not.”

Sighing resignedly, the warrior hoisted the heavy chest upon his shoulder and fell into step with Rurik as they strode alongside the busy docks to their ship.

“Ah, well, you already have six concubines at home. What hurt will one more do? There are seven nights in a week. If you could survive the tantrums when you brought back that Khazarian she-cat, I imagine you’ll weather the uproar this golden-haired temptress will surely cause.” He laughed heartily. “Your good looks are your curse, Lord Rurik. If you were ugly and squat, or flat-nosed like me, your women would not mind so much that you had found another to warm your bed!”

“I’m not keeping this wench for myself, Arne.”

The warrior glanced at him in astonishment. “No?”

Shaking his head, Rurik felt keen regret.

“Come,” he said, shrugging off the strange feeling. “We will talk once we set sail. Kjell and Leif must also know my plans.”

Chapter 4

“So you think whoever owns this wench might be willing to part with military information for her return?” Leif asked, his hand firmly on the helm as he kept the thirty-foot riverboat straight upon its course.

“There’s a good chance of it.” Rurik’s gaze shifted from the red-bearded Leif to Arne and then to the youngest warrior, Kjell Thordarson. Each face, illuminated in the pale light of the waning moon, was somber yet thoughtful, each man weighing for himself the decision Rurik had already made. “Once she wakens, we’ll find out the name of her master, then when we reach Chernigov, we’ll send a message to the man with our demands. Either he gives us what we want, or his favorite concubine will disappear forever.”

“You don’t mean to kill her!” came Kjell’s incredulous response. “I’ve never seen a prettier—”

“Are you going daft, man?” Arne interjected, exasperated. “We’re not blasted murderers!” Softening his tone, he leaned over and elbowed the nineteen-year-old Varangian sharply in the ribs. “I’m sure Lord Rurik will find some use for the wench if Mstislav’s man doesn’t want her, never you fear.”

Rurik made no comment, thinking as his gaze strayed again to the makeshift tent they had erected near the mast that he would decide that issue later. For now, he waited to see that first movement, or hear that first moan, some sign that the woman was regaining her senses.

Other than some purplish bruises on her body, the worst on her left cheek, she seemed whole. He had felt no broken bones. Yet an hour into their journey her eyes still remained closed, her breathing slow as if she was locked in deep slumber. Even when he had discarded the cloak in which she had been wrapped and then exchanged her torn tunic for one of his own, the garment engulfing her slender body, she had not stirred…although he could not say as much for himself.

He had seen perfection in women before, but never a form that seemed to tempt his very soul: honeyed limbs of delicate yet shapely proportion, a trim waist so narrow and hips so beautifully curved that he ached to caress them, a taut abdomen with the gentlest rounding, and ripe, upturned breasts he defied the gods to describe. The swiftness of his arousal had stunned him, its near painful intensity disgusting him. Was he no better than that swine Halfdan Snakeeye to lust after an unconscious woman?

Covering her with a blanket, he had quickly left the tent, but his lingering erection had been a powerful reminder that few had so fired his blood. Thank Odin the work of setting sail had finally fixed his mind on other matters.

“I’ve a demand to add to that message,” said Leif, drawing Rurik’s attention back to his men. “Now that we know the Severians have been swayed by Prince Mstislav’s promises of sharing the spoils of victory, we should ask this boyar how many other Slavic tribes have sworn their allegiance to the usurper.”

“None, I hope. Mstislav’s armed strength is mighty enough with the Khazar and Kosogian warriors he brought with him from Tmutorokan. The bastard must be gloating to have wooed those Slavs to his banner.” After a moment’s grim silence, Rurik nodded at Leif. “Your demand is a good one, especially since we cannot traverse the entire southern realm and spy upon each tribe. Not if we’re to be back in Novgorod by June, three weeks hence.”

As Arne leaned forward and rested his thick forearms on his legs, the narrow rowing bench squeaked beneath his weight.

“Mstislav’s battle plans might be in our grasp now as well, my lord!” he said, his voice tinged with excitement. “That would be a fine coup for Grand Prince Yaroslav, and all because some jealous she-bitch hated the sight of her husband’s concubine.”

“My lord, look to the prow!” Leif cried suddenly. “The wench has climbed onto the railing!”

“What…?”

Rurik was on his feet in an instant. The damned wench must have evaded them by crawling under the back of the tent. He raced to the front of the boat, but he had barely ducked beneath the sail when he heard a loud splash near the starboard side. Throwing off his fur mantle, he shouted, “Bring the boat hard about!” then he vaulted over the railing, the frigid ink-black water of the Desna River closing over his head.

He gasped as he resurfaced, the water’s chill so intense it had sapped the breath from his lungs. He looked around him, but he did not immediately spy the woman. Thor help him, if she had gone under he would never find her, not with these demon currents!

Clenching his teeth against the cold, Rurik swam with long, powerful strokes into the boat’s wake, his gaze cutting to the right and left. Only then did he see two slim arms flailing wildly some twenty feet away, and he swam as he never had before in his twenty-eight years.

It was not fast enough. When he drew within four strokes of catching her, she went under, her hands eerily clawlike as she disappeared beneath the waves.

“No, damn you…you will not have her!” Rurik shouted, spitting water as he cursed the evil river spirits who were dragging her down to her death.

Sucking in a great breath, he dived, his lungs aching as he descended into the midnight depths and groped for an arm, a leg…anything. His chest was ready to explode when he suddenly felt something curl around his hand. He clutched at it, realizing he had caught her by the hair.

Rurik yanked the woman up until he held her beneath the arms, then he kicked furiously to the surface, his chest on fire as they burst above the waves. Dragging in huge lungfuls of air, he could not remember a time when it had smelled or tasted so sweet.

“Leif! Arne! Over here!” he shouted hoarsely. Relief flooded him as the woman suddenly coughed and sputtered in his arms, her ragged gasps for breath assuring him that she was alive. Though she clung to him limply, she began to kick her legs. He was astounded that she still had the strength to swim.

“Let me go…must escape!” she gasped, trying weakly to push away from him. “Halfdan…must escape…”

Rurik had no time to reply for the boat was coming alongside them, the woman soon hauled aboard, followed by himself. As Arne released him, he leaned heavily against the railing, fighting to catch his breath.

“By the gods, Lord Rurik, you’ve turned my beard a lighter shade of gray twice this day! When I saw you dive for the wench—”

“Surely you didn’t think you’d seen the last of me.” Rurik wiped the moisture from his eyes and gave Arne a wry half smile. “You were the one who taught me to swim, remember?”

“Aye, thank Odin, like a dolphin.” The burly warrior jerked his head toward Kjell, who stood in a widening puddle of water, the dripping, exhausted woman in his arms. “Mayhap we should tie the wench to the mast for the rest of the journey, what do you think? She’s proving as much trouble as she’s worth.”

“I’ll take her,” was Rurik’s only reply, sobering as Kjell brought the woman to him. By the light of an oil lamp set upon a nearby rowing bench, he noted with concern that her face was ashen, her teeth chattering, her lips and closed eyelids tinged with blue. If she wasn’t warmed and soon, they still might lose her…and their best chance to gain some information.

“Set her down, but hold her so she doesn’t fall,” Rurik ordered. Without ceremony he drew the sodden tunic over her head and threw it on the deck. Ignoring his men’s sidelong glances, he lifted her into his arms, grabbed the lamp, and strode with his nude charge to the tent, ducking inside.

“No…Halfdan,” came a small whimper, the woman burying her face against Rurik’s chest as he placed the lamp near the tent’s back wall. “Must get away…please—”

“Halfdan is dead.” Rurik hoped the finality in his tone would reassure her. “He cannot hurt you anymore.”

Kneeling, he laid her upon the fur pallet, attempting to ignore her nakedness—impossible task! Hastily he brought the blanket up to her chin. To his surprise, she was looking at him, her eyes the most stunning shade of blue in a face hauntingly pale and marred only by the ugly bruise on her cheek.

“Dead?”

He nodded. She looked so vulnerable, the quality in her voice almost childlike, arousing in him a powerful surge of protectiveness. Or perhaps it was simply his own exhaustion. He sat back upon his haunches, determined to get some answers now that she had finally regained her senses.

“The Slav merchant was also killed. You no longer have anything to fear from them.”

Rurik was greeted with a blank stare, then a soft query, “Merchant?”

“The one who stole you from your master’s caravan.” This time he was answered with silence, and she seemed confused. Wondering if Halfdan’s blow or her ensuing fall might have done more damage than he had thought, Rurik tried another, more direct tact. “Tell me your name, little one.”

Oddly, she opened her mouth as if to say something, then her brow creased in consternation.

“Your name,” he tried again. “Think hard.”

An interminable moment later, she murmured almost to herself, “I…I don’t know.”

“Damn that swine!” Rurik cursed under his breath, wishing it had been his sword that had ended Halfdan’s miserable life. The terrible shock must have robbed her memory. Only the image of the Varangian’s brutality remained.

“Surely you remember your master,” Rurik pressed. “He’s one of Prince Mstislav’s boyars, isn’t he? A member of his senior druzhina? You were on your way to Chernigov to meet him when you were abducted.”

“Master? I don’t know…” Suddenly she grimaced. “My head…it hurts so.”

“Easy, wench, easy,” Rurik said soothingly. It was clear he would discover no information tonight. Perhaps she would remember more tomorrow after a comfortable 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 irritation. He would be a fool to change his plans and keep her. It would be akin to treason, and let him never, never forget that wanting a woman too much held its own dangers.

“Dawn will come soon, Arne. I’ll stay on watch while you get some rest.”

“As you wish, my lord.” He gave a grunt as he hauled himself to his feet. “But rouse me if you decide to go for another moonlit swim. The wench may yet surprise us.”

Chapter 5

But there were no surprises during the next three days. To Rurik’s annoyance, the woman’s state did not improve. Sleeping much of the time, she ventured from the tent only to attend to her private needs behind a blanket while he made sure that all eyes were averted. To him, it seemed as if she were ensnared in a strange dreamlike daze, for she showed little interest in anything around her and cared not if she ate or drank. She still remembered nothing when questioned about her identity, and the one time he had raised his voice at her to see if she might for some reason be feigning her malady, he brought on such a fit of tears that he no longer doubted her loss of memory.

She also made no further references to Halfdan, seemingly content with Rurik’s explanation that the Varangian trader had been killed. Nor did she ask any questions about Rurik or his men or why she might be with them. In fact, she had spoken very little since that first night. Whenever Rurik questioned her about the name of her master, he had been greeted with the same blank stare.

“Slap her, my lord! That will bring the wench out of it quick enough!” Arne had urged impatiently on more than one occasion, but Rurik had decided that remedy was too severe.

Instead, he hoped that the simple trust she displayed in him would encourage her memory. She clearly viewed him as her protector, a role he knew was useful. Yet they were nearing Chernigov, and she seemed no closer to recalling her name than the first night of their journey.

“The trousers, my lord.” Kjell handed over the linen garment as well as a rope belt and a wide cloth sash. “They only reached to my knees, so the wench won’t be swallowed up by them.”

“They’ll do.” Rurik strode to the tent, glad for the concealing gray light of dusk. He had purposely adjusted the sail earlier, slowing the boat’s pace. He wanted to arrive at the fortified city at nightfall, no sooner.

The men would easily pass as fur traders, but the wench might attract attention, even disguised as a male slave. In the light of day a sharp-eyed individual might discern a female’s form so he would take the cautious path, especially since the caravan’s searching guards might have reached the city before them.

Inside the tent, Rurik was displeased to see that the woman was resting again, one small hand curled beneath her chin as she lay on her side. He had never seen anyone sleep so much, ill or no! But he supposed it was a form of healing and it had kept her from trying any tricks. The past days she had been as docile as a newborn lamb.

Usually, he preferred women with fire and passion like his tempestuous Semirah, although this woman’s tawny beauty more than compensated for her lack of spirit. Looking at her now, the seductive curves of her body outlined beneath the woolen blanket, was enough to rekindle the wanton thoughts he had done his best to repress these past few days—

Thor’s blood, man, do not forget she may still remember her name! Rurik berated himself, angered by his wavering self-control. He went down on one knee and shook her by the shoulder.

“Time to wake, little one.”

His breath caught as she opened her eyes, huge liquid pools of cobalt-blue that inexplicably fascinated him. Their unusual hue reminded him of the faraway Sea of Marmara on a cloudless, sunlit morning. She yawned prettily and stretched, kittenlike, her slim arms extended in front of her and her bare toes peeking from beneath the blanket. Then she looked up and gifted him with a smile as open and guileless as a child’s, a becoming dimple in each cheek.

For a fleeting moment, Rurik could not remember why he had come to the tent. She made such a fetching picture with her wild tousled hair, hanging almost to her waist, framing her face, the oversize wool tunic she wore fallen from one delicately boned shoulder to reveal the soft curve of a breast. Only the sharp scraping of oars outside focused his attention back to his purpose. Cursing himself, he laid the trousers beside her.

“I brought these for you. Stand up and I’ll help you put them on.”

Without a word she obeyed him and rose, catching his arm to steady herself when the boat suddenly swayed beneath their feet, the waves grown choppy in the stiff wind whistling past the tent. Her unexpected touch sent a charge racing through him like wildfire. Rurik clenched his teeth, warning himself to move fast with what needed to be done. Standing so close to this golden goddess was proving too much of a temptation.

“Lean on my shoulder.” While she did, Rurik bent down and slipped first one trouser leg and then the other past her feet. He drew the garment quickly up to her waist beneath her borrowed tunic so that he had little time to focus upon the enticing curve of calf and thigh. Grabbing the rope belt, he secured it around her and then he turned her so she faced away from him.

“I’m going to wrap this sash around your breasts,” he told her, bringing the piece of cloth up under her tunic. “Let me know if I tie it too tightly.”

Rurik swallowed hard as his knuckles grazed firmly rounded flesh, and he must have startled her, for she gasped and stepped backward. Instinctively, his arms closed around her and for an instant he reveled in the arousing sensation of her slim body pressed against him.

Surprisingly, she did not pull away but leaned even closer, her bottom rubbing against the hard bulge his flesh had become. With supreme effort he pushed her away, concentrating again on tying the sash. Last, he gathered to one side the extra folds at the neckline of her tunic and fastened them with a plain metal cloak-pin. Her disguise would be for naught if the tunic slipped again from her shoulders.

“It’s safer for all of us if you’re dressed as a male slave,” Rurik explained as he turned her to face him, although she didn’t seem the least interested in her garb. “We’re very near your new home…and your master. Soon you’ll be with him again.”

She looked at him silently, her tantalizing lips forming no response. Rurik wondered if perhaps he should try Arne’s remedy. There must be something he could do to shatter the queer spell that gripped her, something that would draw forth her master’s name. By the gods, he wasn’t one to use brute force against a woman, but in this case…

“My lord, we’re nearing the city wharf!” came Leif’s voice just beyond the tent.

Deciding to wait until they had found their next few nights lodging before attempting a drastic measure that could bring on a noisy flood of tears, Rurik surveyed his handiwork and deemed the woman’s attire passable. She made a pretty lad, but with her breasts flattened beneath the sash and baggy clothes, he doubted any would question her sex. Yet he had to do something about her hair, although the thought of cutting those magnificent tresses did not set well with him. He had never seen their like before.

“Could you braid your hair for me, wench?” Wielding a sword was far more suited to his large hands than such a task.

Rurik was gratified when she twisted her hair into a thick braid as deftly as if she had done so a thousand times. “Like this?”

He was stunned by her soft query, the first question she had posed to him for three days. Despite himself, he reached out and touched the heavy braid, admiring its silkiness and wondering if she sought to please her master as readily as she had just done for him. He imagined, as a concubine, that she must know many ways to please a man…

His imagination firing at the thought, a sudden idea came to him. His blood raced red-hot through his veins.

By Odin, why had he not considered it before? For a woman accustomed to giving pleasure to one man, whose name, then, would she most likely cry out at the height of passion? Surely that of her lover, the hated enemy with whom Rurik hoped to strike his furtive bargain.

A jarring thud suddenly threw the two of them together. As Rurik grabbed the startled woman to prevent her from falling, he realized the boat was sliding against the wharf. Yet this time he didn’t push her away. He crushed her against his chest, his lust rearing inside him like a wild thing set free. Why not both satisfy his need and aid his plan? He saw no harm in it, and the quicker he got rid of this far too captivating wench, the better!

Lifting her chin, Rurik brought his mouth down fiercely upon hers, tasting her lips for the first time and finding them as warm and soft and as sweet as he had imagined. He was not surprised when she didn’t struggle or twist to escape, instead leaning seductively into their kiss as might any concubine.

When she parted her lips, the moist tip of her tongue touching his, Rurik groaned from the desire shaking him. By Thor, she was eager and willing! Deepening his kiss, his hands slid down her back to squeeze her bottom, and he lifted her against that rock-hard part of himself that ached for the hot softness of her body—

“Harrumph…forgive me, Lord Rurik.”

Arne’s startled yet urgent voice broke through Rurik’s impassioned haze. “What is it?”

“Armed guards, my lord, making their way toward the boat. I suspect with the intention of boarding.”

Rurik eased his hold upon the woman. There would be time…later.

“Find the wench a hat, Arne, quickly!” he ordered. “Her hair must be completely covered.” While the Varangian warrior dropped the tent flap to do his bidding, Rurik lifted the woman in his arms and placed her on the furs. He took a moment to stuff her thick braid down the back of her tunic, and noting her flushed cheeks and the anxious frown between her brows, he sought to reassure her. “You must remain here, little one, until I come for you. Do you understand?”

To his surprise, she protested. “No, I want to stay with you!”

Rurik had no time to contend with this sudden and wholly unexpected spark of spirit, although it boded well for her recovery.

“You cannot, wench, it isn’t safe. You must remain inside the tent. Do not disobey me.”

He had spoken with such sternness that this time she nodded, her eyes very wide. As Arne reappeared with a woolen cap, Rurik rose and brushed past him.

“Put it on her, then meet me outside,” he said grimly. “But stay close to the entrance, Arne. It seems our meek little lamb has a mind of her own after all, and might think to join us.”

“She’ll not get past me, my lord. Have no fear of that.”

After casting a last glance at the woman, Rurik stepped from the tent to greet the enemy warriors he surmised were there to check all vessels docking at the wharf. It made sense in this time of war, and Chernigov was the usurper Prince Mstislav’s most recently conquered city.

“For this hole we must pay thirty silver grivna a night?” Arne held up a smoking lamp to better view the dingy interior of the shack they had rented close to the main marketplace. Tattered furs hung from two narrow windows, the only furnishings a dilapidated table shoved against a planked wall and two benches. Cursing under his breath, the husky warrior kicked at the filthy reeds littering the floor. “Smells of piss and stale ale to me.”

“We’re lucky to have it.” Frowning, Rurik ignored Arne’s continued muttering. “The city is overrun with merchants and Mstislav’s retainers. If we hadn’t chanced down this street as those other traders were leaving, someone else would have slept here tonight.”

“Aye, and if the prince’s watchdogs had only kept us a while longer with their questions, we’d have missed the honor!” Arne snorted in disgust. “Are you sure you won’t return to the ship, my lord? I’d trade a pallet on deck for this stinking hovel any day, and the thought of Kjell and Leif aboard alone, surrounded on every side by our enemies—”

“Enough, Arne.” Rurik’s voice was low and firm. “You know the plan. Leif and Kjell will stay with the ship while we gather what information we can at the market and deal with our valuable charge.” He glanced at the silent woman holding his arm, then met the warrior’s disgruntled gaze. “Don’t forget that our surly welcome committee granted us a mere four-day trading pass, then we must leave the city. We don’t have time to waste.”

Turning away, Rurik held his lamp higher and pushed open a door leading to a tiny separate bedchamber. A mouse squeaked and skittered over his foot into the main room, causing the woman to start.

“You’ve nothing to fear, little one,” he said as he led her into the shadowed, windowless chamber. “It’s only a mouse—”

A loud stamping sound came from the other room, followed by a satisfied grunt. “A dead one,” Arne announced.

Shaking his head, Rurik set the sputtering lamp on the floor and tossed the large bundle of furs he’d been carrying onto the bed. The straw-filled mattress appeared somewhat fresh, but he would cover it with soft skins anyway. This room wasn’t the fine bower his wide-eyed beauty was surely accustomed to, but it was the best available. At least it would offer them more privacy than the tent aboard ship.

“My stomach’s yowling like the wolves of Hel,” said Arne, appearing on the threshold. “If you’d like, my lord, I’ll set up a fine feast in the other room.” His gaze raked over the woman. “She looks like she could use a hot meal. She’s a bit too skinny for my taste.”

“Better skinny than too fat like you.” The woman’s retort had been uttered so softly that Rurik almost believed he had imagined it. Then he noticed the slight jutting of her chin. Amused by this little show of temper, he glanced back at Arne, who thankfully had missed the insult.

“The wench and I will be eating alone tonight,” he said, not offering any further explanation.

Arne stared at him in some confusion. “You will?”

Rurik nodded meaningfully. Settling his arm around the woman’s shoulders, he felt the tension in her body subside as he drew her close.

Arne appeared even more confused. “But, Lord Rurik…you said you weren’t keeping the wench for yourself—”

“I’m not. I have a plan, Arne. Trust me.”

The warrior gaped at them for an instant, then understanding lit his eyes and his swarthy, bearded face broke into a lusty grin. “Aye, I’m sure you do, Lord Rurik. When it comes to pleasing the wenches…” Chuckling, he turned to leave.

“A jug of wine would be nice, my friend, and half of that fine crusty loaf of bread if you can spare it. And some of that spit-roasted mutton,” Rurik called after him.

“There’s more than enough.” Arne gave Rurik a broad wink over his shoulder. “It’ll take me a moment to fetch your meal, then I’ll trouble you no more save for my snoring.”

Rurik smiled wryly, but he sobered when he studied the woman nestled against him. If she had been affronted a moment ago, he saw no sign of it now. She seemed perfectly content in his embrace, her eyes large and luminous in the lamp’s golden light.

Feeling his heart beginning to pound, he hoped Arne hurried with their meal. He was inclined to slam the door shut so they would not be disturbed. He could not remember ever having such a pleasurable task before him, his goal being to drive this woman to such wild distraction that she screamed out her master’s name.

He couldn’t wait to claim her, to quench within her temptress’s body his mounting lust ignited too many long hours ago. Surely when he was spent and satiated, he would be freed from this ungodly fascination. Other enchanting women had ceased to intrigue him when he had tasted their feminine secrets. She would be no different.

Rurik was relieved when Arne’s hulking form appeared once more in the doorway, and he left the woman to drag a low, lopsided table over to the bed, indicating with a nod that their meal should be set upon it. As the warrior obliged him, Rurik cut the rope binding the furs and spread some of them over the mattress. The rest he tossed to Arne.

“Sleep well, my friend, but take care that your sword is drawn and ready at your side,” Rurik cautioned. “As you said, we’ve enemies all around us.”

“Aye, the usurping dogs,” Arne muttered in agreement as he shut the door behind him.

Following his own advice, the first thing Rurik did when he and the woman were finally alone was unbuckle his sword belt and lay it upon the floor within easy reach of the bed. Then he bade the woman to sit upon the lumpy mattress and he took the place beside her.

“Are you hungry, little one?” Rurik noted how prominent her cheekbones were in a face grown thinner during the past few days.

She smiled her assent, a small curve of her lips that tugged strangely at his heart. He tore off a chunk of bread for her, deciding as she eagerly took a bite that the recovery of her appetite was a good sign. Combined with her recent displays of temperament, he hoped that before the evening was done he would see many more such signs, and thus have a terse message addressed to her wealthy master not long after the first light of dawn.

“Wine?”

As she swallowed another mouthful of bread, she nodded, and he quickly pulled out the stopper and offered her the jug so that she might drink. To his surprise, she took a long draft as if very thirsty, yet it pleased him for her to do so. If she possessed any fears at all about his sensual advances, he hoped they would be dulled by the wine’s soothing effect.

“Try some of the mutton,” he urged, waiting until she had eaten a good portion despite the fact that the fragrant seared meat had his stomach growling.

It seemed in moments that the wooden platter was empty between them, the bread devoured, and the wine jug empty. He could not help noticing how delicately she had consumed her meal, confirming to him that her manners were indeed refined. Frowning as if trying to remember something, she seemed to look about her for a water bowl to cleanse her soiled fingers, then she sighed in frustration, her hands falling to her lap.

“Would you like to bathe?” Rurik asked, remembering the large bucket of fresh water that the owner of the shack had left them in the other room. At her low-spoken “Yes,” he was on his feet and striding from the bedchamber, startling Arne who almost dropped a hunk of mutton as he lurched from the table.

“My lord?”

“Go back to your meal.” Rurik picked up the bucket, wishing that he had hot, steaming bathing water to offer the woman. It was easy to imagine how fetching she might look sitting in a tub with her wet hair streaming around her, her beautiful breasts sleek and glistening with moisture.

When he returned to their room, the woman had stripped to the waist, her tunic and the cloth sash lying upon the floor, and she was working at the rope belt at her waist. She must have sensed him standing there, for she looked up and met his eyes, her expression troubled.

“I can’t untie the knot.”

Closing the door, Rurik moved quickly to her side, marveling that she was so unconcerned by her nakedness. As he deftly undid the belt, she regarded him with such frankness that it took his breath away. Her manner was so comfortable, so trusting, she must look upon him in the same light as her master.

Suddenly he found himself deeply envious of this boyar to possess such a woman. She seemed so eager to please him, almost as if awaiting his next move…

“Let me help you,” he said huskily, slipping her trousers down over her curved hips and deliciously rounded bottom. When she was standing naked before him, her body silhouetted in gold from the lamp behind her, Rurik doubted he had ever known such desire. She was fashioned so finely. Perfection.

His instincts screamed for him to take her, now, but another part of him wanted to savor the treasure that had been placed in his path. Wadding the sash, he dipped it into the bucket until the cloth was soaked. Then he began to bathe her, first her face, taking care to rub gently over the bruise upon her cheek that was just beginning to fade.

Her entrancing blue eyes never wavered from his gaze, and she stood still for his ministrations as if it were a common thing for a man to perform such a task upon her. Again he found himself filled with envy, but he did not stifle it, the emotion part of the spell under which she held him captive.

Next he slid the wet cloth down her lovely throat, across her fine-boned shoulders, and along slender arms he couldn’t wait to feel wrapped tightly around his back. Dipping the sash into the bucket, he brought it to her breasts and squeezed, the coolness of the water that slicked her golden skin causing her to gasp and her apricot-brown nipples to pucker.

Rurik thought for sure that he had endured enough, but he continued to bathe her, down her taut belly, over her hips and between her legs, when suddenly she lost his gaze. Closing her eyes and whimpering deep in her throat, she arched against his hand, her soft woman’s curls tickling his skin.

It was too much. Sweeping her into his arms, Rurik laid her upon the bed and leaving her for only a moment, undressed more swiftly than he had ever thought possible. As he blanketed her with his body, he no longer cared about savoring her or taking his time. He wanted her so badly that he was shaking. Believing she wanted him just as much, he parted her legs with his knee and thrust inside her with such vehemence that she cried out…not a man’s name, not in ecstasy, but in raw pain.

“By Odin…?” Rurik had had virgins before, and in that unsettling instant, he knew the woman moaning beneath him had never known another man. Yet he could no sooner stop his wild assault than the furious hammering of his heart.

“Sshh, little one…sshh,” he soothed, knowing from experience that soon her pain would pass and rippling pleasure take its place.

Kissing her hungrily, passionately, the wine-scented taste of her mouth driving him into a frenzy, he nonetheless drew back a little and slipped his hand between their bodies. His fingers found the slick, wet heat he was seeking and he slid them into her, teasing the tender bud hidden there that seemed to swell beneath his touch.

He was rewarded at once by her sharp inhalation of surprise, then broken whimpers as she began to toss beneath him, her hips thrusting upward as urgently as he delved within her, neither his fingers or his deepening kisses giving her any peace. He almost laughed in triumph against her lips when her arms curled around his neck to grip him tightly, her panting as hot and breathless as his own.

Then he thought no more, the searing sensation in his loins building to such intensity that he grimaced as if in mortal pain.

From some far-off place he heard her cries of rapture, her incredibly tight, blistering sheath gripping him like a throbbing vise…squeezing him, teasing him, until he reached that point where his body stiffened and his breath jammed hard in his chest. As a pure hot explosion of sensation overwhelmed him, more blindingly powerful than anything he remembered, he called out to the woman beneath him, no matter that he didn’t know her name…

Rurik could not say how much time had passed before he raised his head, but he guessed a good while for the woman’s eyes were closed, her breathing deep and regular as if she were asleep. Either that or she had fainted from the force of her passion. He had seen such a thing before. Fearing his weight was too much for her, he rolled over and carried her with him until she was lying on top of him, their bodies still joined.

Loki take him, the wench had been a virgin, he thought incredulously, cursing the devious god of mischief who had wreaked this havoc. A damned virgin! The last thing he had expected was innocence.

Rurik sighed heavily as the woman’s gentle breathing stirred the blond curls upon his chest. He hadn’t expected the powerful feelings that were crashing in upon him either. Instead of being satiated, he was more intrigued than ever.

A concubine, yet a virgin? An innocent possessing the passionate nature of a wanton? A woman who had looked to him for protection, yet who might now be compromised in value to her master because Rurik had stolen her chastity? An insistent inner voice demanded that he save her from the wrath his defilement of her might arouse, that he keep her safe from harm and take her back with him to Novgorod. He had never felt so strongly drawn to any woman since Astrid—

No, by Odin! For that reason alone, he would leave this wench to her fate!

His actions had been impulsive since the first moment he saw her, but no more! Women were trouble of the worst kind, and he would do well to remember that.

Besieged by bitter memories, Rurik shifted the woman from his body and rose from the bed. To continue touching her, holding her, was a torment he did not need. After covering her with a soft fur, he threw several skins onto the floor and lay down.

Tomorrow morning he would rid himself of her, even if he must abandon his plan to use her for information. He wanted no woman around him that made him feel like this one. He would leave her near the gates of Prince Mstislav’s palace, where someone would surely recognize her and return her to her rightful master.

It had to be done.

Chapter 6

Awaking with a start, Zora winced at the tenderness between her legs. It wasn’t a true pain, but a dull ache, yet she had never felt such a sensation before.

She shifted slightly, amazed that her entire body was sore. She stared in confusion at the raftered ceiling, trying to gather her muddled thoughts. Where was she? Rubbing her hands over her face, she sharply inhaled as she touched her left cheekbone. Ouch, it hurt! Frowning, she ran her fingertips more gingerly over her skin, wondering what she could have done

“Holy Mother Mary,” she breathed in horror, all too suddenly remembering why her cheek hurt so painfully as if a ray of brilliant light had pierced her brain. He…he had struck her! That Varangian trader, Halfdan Snakeeye!

Dreadful memories leapt to life in her mind, lurid sights and sounds: Halfdan’s scarred face, his leering grin, his terrible laughter…and the naked slave women in the tent, all of them writhing, moaning, then the trader throwing her down upon a bench and stroking himself right in front of her!

Halfdan’s coarse words flew at her “You cannot escape me, pretty bird. I will have you, here, now, in the dirt!” Then she was running, running, and begging for aid but no one would help her. No one would listen! Fierce-looking Varangians were everywhere, and Halfdan was coming closer and closer. She remembered crying out, “You cannot do this!” then he struck her down and she was falling

“Oh, no…” Zora whispered, feeling suddenly very sick. “Oh, God, no.” Rising abruptly on her elbow, Zora flung aside the furs, her hand moving to the place where the dull throbbing was centered. She felt a wetness and gasped in disbelief at the scarlet blood staining her trembling fingers, the same telltale sign smeared upon the inside of her thighs.

He had raped her! That brutish, dung-smelling Varangian had raped her!

A half sigh, half groan suddenly drew her gaze to the floor. She stared wide-eyed, her heart pounding in rage and fear, at the naked man sleeping only four feet away with his broad, muscled back to her. In the dim lighting she could see that he was huge, his hair blond. She didn’t need to see more.

Halfdan!

Her first thought was to flee. Then the bright glint of metal near the sputtering oil lamp caught her eye and she drew fresh courage. Focusing with deadly intent upon the sword lying within arm’s reach, she decided then and there that she was going to kill him for what he had done to her.

Burning for vengeance, Zora vaulted from the bed, and grabbing the sword hilt, she yanked the heavy weapon from its sheath. She staggered beneath its weight, but clenching her teeth from the effort and fueled by blinding fury, she managed to lift the sword high enough to deal one fatal, hacking blow.

“Now you will pay!” Yet the blade had no sooner begun its downward motion when she was knocked violently to her knees, the sword wrenched from her hand.

In the next instant she was hauled by the shoulders to her feet, coming face-to-face with a man she realized at once was not Halfdan. In fact, she could not recall ever seeing him before, although she guessed from his sheer size and fair hair that he must be a Varangian. She gaped up at him in astonishment, his expression so thunderous that she was swept by cold fear.

“This is something new, little one,” he said in a low husky voice that sent strange chills through her. He gripped her upper arms tightly. “I’ve heard of those who walk in their sleep, but to engage in swordplay? A most dangerous affliction indeed. Someone could have been hurt.”

Confused that he addressed her as if he knew her, Zora stared into eyes that appeared black as night in the room’s dimness and a bearded countenance made no less handsome by his obvious anger. “Who-who…are you?” she finally demanded, her voice hoarse.

“You don’t recognize me?”

Again, she was startled. Recognize him? How could she? She had never seen this man before.

Zora shook her head.

Now the blond giant seemed somewhat surprised. “Yet you raised my own sword against me,” he said, searching her face. “Why?”

“You raped me! You deserve to die for what you have done, you…you filthy pagan!”

Rurik stared at her incredulously, his head beginning to pound. It seemed his docile charge had at last recovered. Gone was the acquiescent child-woman who had so captivated him, and in her place, a defiant avenging angel with apparently no memory of the past few days, let alone the last few hours. Thor’s blood, if he hadn’t heard his sword sliding from the scabbard, he would have been dead!

“It was no rape,” he said tightly. He had never taken any woman to his bed against her will. That might be the sport of other Varangian warriors, but not his. “You did not spurn my advances, wench, but eagerly welcomed them.”

“Liar!” Her eyes snapped indignant fire. “I would rather die than submit to a barbarian such as you!”

Suddenly she ground her heel into his big toe with such fury that he released her, cursing. She fled to the foot of the bed, and as if realizing for the first time that she was stark naked, she yanked a fur off the mattress and flung it around herself.

“Say what you like, wench, but you did submit to me and willingly.” Undaunted by her insults and her behavior although his toe throbbed in pain, Rurik took a step toward her but reconsidered when she lunged for the empty wine jug and held it poised in front of her like a weapon. Perhaps if he tried to reason with her, he might coax her into cooling her temper. She had already tried to kill him once and then stomped upon his foot. He didn’t relish the idea of sustaining any further injury at her hand.

“I didn’t know you were a virgin.” He used the same soothing tone she had responded to favorably in the past. “If I had, I wouldn’t have touched you. It was not my intent to cause any trouble between you and your master—”

“Master?” Zora interrupted, deciding that this Varangian must be mad. He had made little sense since first opening his mouth. She was glad when he picked up a pair of trousers and tugged them on, although she would be the last to admit how disconcerting she had found his nakedness. Keeping her gaze trained upon his face had been almost impossible for what lay below, his physique more formidable than any man’s she had ever seen—

Furious at herself for even thinking that this Norseman was remotely attractive, especially after what he had done to her, she spat, “I have no master.”

“No? Before I took his life, the Slav merchant who stole you from the caravan told me that you did.”

“You killed Gleb?” Stunned, Zora recalled all too clearly that ruthless merchant’s plans for her.

“So you remember him.”

“Yes,” she replied bitterly. “He was going to cut out my tongue and sell me in Constantinople. How could I forget such a man?”

“Then you must remember Halfdan as well.”

Zora eyed the Varangian with renewed suspicion.

“Do not fear, little one. He is also dead. I told you all of this before, but you’ve been ill since I took you from that trading camp. You suffered a severe shock. I’m not surprised you don’t remember me, even though you’ve shared my and my men’s company for almost four days now.”

Four days?

Unwittingly lowering the jug, Zora wondered if this astounding statement could be true. She remembered the events at that horrid camp so clearly, as if they had happened only an hour past. Yet here she was in a tiny room at some unknown place with a half-naked stranger who was leading her to believe that he had saved her from Halfdan and Gleb.

Saved her? she scoffed, taking the Norseman’s measure from head to toe. He had also raped her, and she refused to believe otherwise. Surely even ill she would not have allowed him to steal her honor. This damned Varangian had ruined her!

“Where are we?” she demanded, raising her weapon again when he made a slight movement toward her.

“Chernigov.”

Her father’s city! So close to her new home, to Ivan her betrothed, and yet this giant was holding her captive for God knew what purpose. Zora lifted her chin, her tone icy. “What do you want from me?”

An unsettling glint of humor lit his eyes. “Only your master’s name, little one. I want to release you to his care, but I cannot until—”

“I told you I have no master!” she snapped, infuriated that he would find anything in this situation amusing. “You make it sound as if I am a slave—”

“Not a slave, perhaps, but a boyar’s concubine or so I was told. A favored one…and obviously without having shared his bed. No wonder the man’s wife hated you.”

It was on the tip of Zora’s tongue to declare hotly that she was no concubine but a princess of the Tmutorokan Rus, and that everything he had been told about her were lies. But something stopped her. She was not certain this man would truly help her. She was nothing to him…unless he had something to gain by assisting her.

Smelling treachery, Zora nervously chewed her lower lip, her heart beating a little faster.

Perhaps she was in the hands of an enemy of her father’s. Varangian warriors held positions in Mstislav’s army, but they were few in number. Unlike Grand Prince Yaroslav who possessed strong alliances with Norse kings and chieftains. If this man knew she had been abducted from the caravan, why hadn’t he taken her back?

She was no fool. Her father employed spies against his elder brother. Yaroslav must do the same. Perhaps this man was a spy, and hoped to use her to gain some military advantage for the grand prince. He obviously believed her to be a boyar’s concubine; perhaps it was best to convince him.

“What I meant is that I don’t look upon Lord Ivan as my master,” she said in a much softer tone, giving the Varangian the true name of her betrothed. Ivan would never betray her father, and he was a shrewd man. He would know how to outwit her captor and win her return long before the Norseman discovered her identity. “Nor does he see me as merely his concubine. We are so much…more to each other.”

“So I thought,” Rurik muttered, any amusement he had derived from her pretty display of hauteur vanishing at the image of her even smiling at another man.

Then, angrily reminding himself of his resolve to be rid of her, he demanded, “Where can I find Lord Ivan? I want to send him a message and let him know that you are well.”

“Why don’t you just take me to him?” Zora countered as guilelessly as possible. “If we are in Chernigov, it would be an easy matter to escort me to the kreml. My Ivan is one of Prince Mstislav’s most trusted warriors.”

Rurik had no intention of betraying himself or his men. It was best she believed he was a mercenary. “It’s not that simple, wench.” He was determined not to call her “little one” again, forcing himself to think of her as nothing more than a pawn. “There is the matter of ransom.”

“Ransom?” came her startled reply.

He laughed, mocking her. “Of course. Did you think I had brought you all this way for charity? When I learned of your value from the Slav merchant, I knew I would profit well by your safe return.”

Zora felt her face grow hot as she realized she might have misread this man entirely. So he was only interested in gaining ransom…and he was a murderer to boot! She would have felt safer if she were in the hands of a disciplined spy and not some ruthless fortune hunter.

Suddenly her situation felt much more precarious, and Zora decided that she would not wait for any ransom to be delivered. As soon as she saw her chance, she would escape. Then, once she was safe with her father, she would have this coarse Varangian and his companions hunted down and see that they paid with their lives for the unthinkable indignity she had suffered.

“What is your name, wench?”

Zora hesitated. If he discovered that he held a princess, who knew what he might do? “Ilka,” she lied, using the name of one of her slaves.

“Ilka. It doesn’t suit you.” The Norseman’s gaze raked over her in a manner that filled her with apprehension. “Beauty such as yours deserves something finer.” He gestured to the bed. “Lie down, Ilka.”

Zora clutched the fur more tightly around her. “Lie down?”

“We’ve only a few more hours left until dawn and I want you to look your best tomorrow for Lord Ivan.”

Zora wanted to refuse—it was humiliating to sleep in the spot where he had so recently defiled her. But his forceful tone discouraged any argument. Perhaps she had nothing to fear from him, she tried to reason with herself, setting the wine jug close within her reach as she lay down upon the bed and arranged the fur so that it covered her torso. He had been sleeping upon the floor after all—

“Move over.”

She stared up at him in disbelief, her heart hammering. “What?”

“I don’t trust you, Ilka. You’ve already proved to me that you can wield a sword. I don’t want to wake up to find myself bleeding to death. Or you gone.” When she hesitated, he kicked the jug so hard under the bed that it shattered against a corner post. “Move over!”

Her mouth suddenly dry, Zora obeyed by quickly scooting as far to the wall as she could go. She had just turned her back to him when a powerful arm went around her waist. She gasped as he brought her hard against him and threw a heavily muscled leg over her thigh. To her horror, her bare bottom was nestled right up against his hips.

“Sleep well, Ilka.”

Sleep well? she thought furiously as his breathing soon became deep and regular.

God help her, she’d be damned if she closed her eyes at all!

Chapter 7

To Zora’s relief, morning came mercifully swift. Watching sullenly as the Varangian pulled his tunic over his head, she told herself that she held no interest in the immense breadth of his shoulders, so thick with muscle, the bulging contours of his arms, the impressive span of his chest, or the masculine leanness of his waist. She was merely keeping a cautious eye on him.

Amazingly, she felt little fatigue even though she hadn’t slept, the heat of his body alone enough to help keep her eyes open. His every movement in sleep, radiating more strength than she imagined most men possessed in their waking hours, had also kept up her defenses.

She suspected that she must have gotten enough rest during the past few days to make up for the lack last night. Since the moment her stern-faced captor had arisen to relight the oil lamp and begin to dress, she had felt alert, eager, and ready for any chance of escape that might present itself.

“Get dressed,” the Varangian ordered as he fastened a wide leather belt about his waist. Drawing his gleaming sword from the scabbard, he ran two fingers along one filed edge to the tapered tip and then down the blade’s other side as if checking for any damage from its recent mishandling.

To Zora, it looked almost like he was caressing the weapon, the expression on his handsome face somber and reverent. She had heard tales that Norsemen revered their swords, surrounding them with an aura of mystique. Some Varangians even gave their swords a name.

“What do you call it?” She must have asked her question a bit too flippantly for he shot her a dark glare.

“Branch-of-Odin.”

“Makes sense for a pagan like you,” she muttered, resenting his frown and her own shiver of fear.

He ran the flat of his palm down the three-foot-long blade and then thrust the deadly weapon back into its sheath. “I thought I told you to get dressed.”

Bristling at his tone, Zora held the fur she had not let go of since last night more snugly against her body. “In what, if I might ask?”

He picked up some clothes scattered upon the floor and tossed them to the bed.

Inspecting the two garments gingerly, almost afraid to touch them for fear of finding lice, Zora’s eyes widened. Trousers? A man’s tunic? Was he mad? She glanced at him in confusion, but before she could speak the Varangian chuckled in amusement.

“You seem surprised, Ilka. Surely you can see that we couldn’t bring you into the city as a woman wearing fine silks and slippers, your beautiful hair unbound and flowing down your back. Someone might have recognized you and we would be dead men.” He threw a rope belt and a damp piece of cloth into her lap. “Until you’re back in Lord Ivan’s arms, you will play the part of my slave”—his voice grew heavy with warning—”and a docile one at that. Do you understand?”

Nodding, she bit back her sharp retort, though the thought of meekly following this heathen’s orders even for a short while turned her stomach.

“May I at least bathe before I dress?” she began in a deceptive flat monotone, but her anger at her lost virginity suddenly overcame her discretion. “Ivan will not be pleased to have the smell of another man upon me.”

Her statement was rewarded with a black scowl. She glared right back at him, which seemed to displease him all the more.

“There’s water in the bucket,” he said tightly. “I used that cloth sash to bathe you last night, but of course you don’t remember.”

“You did what?” Her gaze skipped in surprise from the wrinkled length of material to his face, which was inscrutable.

“It doesn’t matter,” he bit off. “Take care that you wring out the sash well when you’re finished. Your breasts must be bound with it as part of your guise.” Paying no heed to her gasp of outrage, he strode to the door and flung it open, only to pause at the sight of another Varangian who appeared as if he had been just about to knock.

Zora swallowed her pique for the moment, thinking ahead to her escape. She hoped there were not many more Norsemen hiding in the adjoining room. This older man was as dark as her captor was fair, even for the sprinkling of gray in his hair and beard, yet a full head shorter and much wider in girth. His face was round and swarthy, and he had the most peculiar nose she had ever seen. He looked as if someone had punched him good and hard, breaking his nose and squashing it to one side.

“Ah, Lord Rurik, you’re awake,” the graying warrior said amiably. His gaze flew to the bed and he grinned, which made Zora grip the fur all the more tightly to her breasts. “I trust you and the wench slept soundly.”

Lord Rurik? Zora thought, realizing she had neglected to ask her captor his name. Then again, most likely he wouldn’t have told her even if she had. She decided Rurik suited him. A hard name for a hard man. But what of the title? That puzzled her. Since when did mercenary rogues of his sort have titles?

“Not as soundly as I might have wished,” Rurik said, casting a meaningful look in her direction. “It’s not every night that a man’s own sword is raised against him.”

“Your sword?” The hulking warrior’s grin vanished. He glanced incredulously from Zora to Rurik. “The wench?” Rurik nodded.

“By Odin, I slept too well! I heard nothing!”

“Don’t trouble yourself, Arne. There was never any real danger. Our captive beauty vastly underestimated her opponent. Now come, we have much to discuss and the wench wishes to bathe.”

Not missing his sarcastic tone as he shut the door behind him, Zora felt like flinging the damned bucket across the room. Damn his pagan’s soul to hell. She couldn’t wait to be free of him!

Rising from the bed, she dropped the fur to the floor and proceeded to scrub herself clean, the cold water proving some balm for her temper. A bit of soap would have been nice, but she would just have to wait until she was back in the women’s terem where she could enjoy a proper bath.

As she gave herself a final rinsing, she squeezed the dripping cloth against her shoulder, relishing the opportunity to wash away any remnant of Rurik’s loathsome touch. Sucking in her breath as the chilled water trickled down the front of her body, she suddenly froze as an unsettling flash of memory struck her…Rurik, standing tall and broad in front of her, his eyes burning into hers, his knuckles grazing her sensitive flesh as he pressed the soaked cloth between her breasts—

No, that couldn’t have happened! she told herself fiercely, cursing that her nipples had grown hard and turgid. He hadn’t bathed her! That had been another of his lies!

Flinging the cloth into the bucket with a splash, she dressed quickly although her skin was still damp. She wanted to be clothed, her nakedness an unwanted reminder of her disgrace. Outside, the sounds of activity beyond the planked walls—people shouting and laughing, carts rumbling, horses neighing—spurred her on.

She felt as if she were suffocating in this dim, stuffy little bedchamber, no windows to provide fresh air or an escape. She wanted to see the next room, wanted to know how many other Varangians were in Rurik’s band and then weigh her chances. With trembling fingers, she rebraided her hair, then she went to the door and thrust it open.

Rurik was leaning against the wall with his heavily muscled arms folded over his chest, obviously waiting for her to emerge. Her breath caught, for in the bright morning sunlight streaming in from a nearby window, she finally got a good look at his face.

He was more strikingly handsome than she had thought, his short beard and mustache only accentuating his hard, sculpted features. His thick blond hair was longer than she recalled, skimming his shoulders, and gleamed with silvery highlights that mirrored the brightness of his sword. When he inclined his head slightly, she spied a glint of gold and noticed for the first time that he wore a small hooped earring in his left ear, although he bore no other ornament.

But what drew her attention was his eyes. They weren’t black as she had imagined them to be, but an intense blue like the color of deep water, or the sky after twilight just before it darkens into night. She found herself captivated by them, thinking they were the most arresting hue she had ever seen…

“You forgot the sash, Ilka.”

“What…?” As if shattered from some spell, Zora felt a hot blush burn her cheeks as he smiled lazily at her, his teeth a brilliant white against his sun-bronzed skin. Clenching her jaw stubbornly, for she didn’t want to wear that clammy cloth against her skin, she muttered, “I did not.”

“I’m not blind,” he countered, his gaze falling to her breasts. “Your beauty juts free and unfettered for all to see.”

Zora wanted to slap him for staring at her so, and to her mortification when she followed his eyes, her hardened nipples were well outlined against the linen tunic. That alone made her rush into the bedchamber, and turning her back to him, she lifted the garment and wound the damp sash around her upper body.

“Do you need any help?”

“No!”

But she did. She sighed with frustration as she struggled with her arms behind her to tie a knot, then jumped when she felt his large warm hands cover hers to take over the task. Shivering at his touch, she jerked her hands away as if stung and, made furious by her reaction, wondered what the devil was coming over her. The man had raped her, let her not forget!

“Come, Ilka,” he said when he seemed satisfied that the sash was tied tightly enough. Her breasts were all but flattened, which was quite uncomfortable. “There’s food in the other room.”

Biting her tongue, Zora followed him from the bedchamber. She made quick inventory of her new surroundings—two narrow windows that she could easily squeeze through, another door leading outside, and best of all no other Varangians in sight except the strapping Arne—while Rurik led her to a bench where he gestured that she should sit. Arne was already seated at the table, ale glistening in his beard as he thunked down his mug and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“Aye, she’s got a vixen’s gleam in her eye, just like you said, my lord. But I’ll watch her well, you can be sure.”

Zora shot a glance at Rurik as he set bread, cheese, and a mug of frothy ale in front of her. “You’re leaving?”

He nodded. “I’ve a message to deliver to the kreml, remember?” He quaffed his ale standing up as if soon to depart.

Zora’s mind raced. Though her stomach grumbled noisily, she gave no notice to the food beneath her nose. If the Varangian gave her name as Ilka, then Ivan might not know it was her and think the message a ruse!

“Are you going to describe me in this message?” she asked Rurik innocently. “I mean…it might be wise. Ivan is a suspicious man. He might require some proof that you really hold me, especially since he believes I am safe with the caravan—”

“I had already thought of that,” Rurik interrupted.

Before Zora could blink, he pulled a wicked-looking knife from his belt and cut off a two-inch length of her braid. As Arne bellowed with laughter, Rurik’s lips curved into a half smile.

“Do you think this proof enough?”

Staring at him in shock, Zora could only nod. Now she knew she was being held by ruthless cutthroats.

“Don’t let her out of your sight,” Rurik said over her head to Arne, who waved his mug in assent, some of his ale splashing onto the table. “I’ll be back soon. If all goes well, we’ll have our ransom and the wench will be back in Lord Ivan’s arms by sunset. You and I, my friend, are going to leave this city as very rich men.”

She’d be gone from here much sooner than that, accursed Varangian! Zora vowed to herself, choking down her bread and cheese as Rurik picked up a bundle of furs and strode from the shack. She tossed back a good swallow of ale, hoping to fortify her courage.

“Aye, drink up, wench.” Arne slammed his empty mug upon the table so hard that she jumped. “It’ll calm your nerves. You look to be a skittish thing to me.” He reached for Rurik’s mug, which was still half full, and noisily slurped the contents. “But don’t be thinking that I’ll be less wary for the ale I’ve swallowed. Believe me, I’m going to watch you as if I had three eyes in my head instead of two.”

“Take that in your eyes!” cried Zora, dashing her ale into Arne’s flat-nosed face. As the Varangian sputtered and cursed, she made a dash for the door, wild excitement filling her. Soon she would be free. But her hand barely touched the latch when the door burst open and knocked her backward onto the rush-strewn floor. She landed hard on her backside.

“I had an idea this would happen,” Rurik said dryly, ducking his head as he stepped over the threshold.

Forcing back frustrated tears, Zora spouted without thinking, “You loutish pagan! I’ll not stop trying to escape until I’m free of you—” Too late, she clamped her mouth shut, but she knew the damage was done when he hauled her roughly to her feet and half dragged her back into the bedchamber.

“Here’s some rope, my lord,” Arne announced behind them when she was thrown unceremoniously onto the bed. As she lay facedown upon the furs, her arms were forced behind her and her wrists securely tied. Then she was flipped over as if she weighed nothing at all. Tears blinded her eyes as Rurik bound her ankles together.

“I didn’t want to have to do this, wench, but you’ve forced my hand,” he said tightly, his expression hard. To complete her humiliation, he tore a length of fabric from the hem of her tunic and used it to gag her. “Nor can I have you shouting for help. Someone outside might hear you.”

Then he and Arne were gone, leaving her lying upon the bed like a trussed bird. They had tricked her. As hot tears tumbled down her flushed face, she heard Rurik slam the outer door and she silently heaped every curse she knew upon his head…which in truth weren’t very many and hardly enough to do his crimes justice.

It was some comfort to imagine the day of his execution. A hanging? No, too kind. An arrow through the heart? No, too swift. A tumble into a pit filled with wild dogs? Yes, now that would suit him! She only hoped her father would allow her to give the signal that would bring about his much-deserved death.

Rurik strode through the crowded market, an odd tenseness dogging him.

He knew he had been too rough on the wench, but she had pushed him. It had been clear from the mutinous expression in those lovely blue eyes that she planned to escape. After all, she’d tried last night. It was necessary to leave Arne there to watch her.

Foolish little spitfire! She had looked almost comical sitting there on her bottom, her mouth agape in surprise until her chin had jutted at him defiantly, yet laughter had been the last thing on his mind. He should have known she wouldn’t cooperate.

That Slav merchant Gleb had been right about the wench. She was nothing but trouble! She didn’t have a docile bone in her body. Instead she was the most spoiled, disobedient, insolent, and excessively imperious concubine he had ever seen. If one of his women even dared to go so far, he would break her of her bad habits soon enough. Even Semirah, his passionate desert beauty, knew when to silence her tongue.

Lord Ivan was welcome to this woman, Rurik thought irritably. Such impudent wenches served only to ruin a man’s existence, and if there was one thing he demanded in his home, it was harmony. To think that he had momentarily believed he wanted to keep her…

Cursing his folly, Rurik shifted the bundle of furs upon his shoulder and scanned the variety of colorful stalls for the scribners’ section of the market.

He needed to buy paper, pen, and ink to write his message to Lord Ivan. He planned to arrange a secret meeting to discuss his demands, allowing the boyar the knowledge that to thwart him would mean Ilka’s death. It was a dangerous scheme, but carefully weighed, and Rurik thrived upon taking such risks. If not, he would never have achieved his esteemed status under Yaroslav, and would still be a lowly member of the grand prince’s junior druzhina.

Spying at last a stall displaying a wide array of quills, Rurik made his way through a noisy, bustling throng of merchants and eager buyers. The air was filled with spirited haggling in a dozen languages and when he reached the stall, he found the scribe engaged in a heated debate with a foreign customer over the price of some pens.

Impatiently awaiting his turn, Rurik leaned against the booth. His gaze swept a busy market scene that was no different from a hundred others…save for the large number of guards who moved through the crowd. At first he wasn’t troubled by their presence. Chernigov was a newly conquered city whose occupants had once been loyal to Yaroslav. But then he spied two different sets of guards, four men in each group, moving from stall to stall obviously questioning each trader. Rurik tensed.

“What’s the trouble?” he queried the merchant who had finally waved off his previous stubborn customer in disgust, having failed to settle upon a price. Rurik inclined his head toward the nearest group of guards. “You’d think some valuable prisoners might have escaped from the kreml for the armed men in this market.”

The sallow-faced trader, his skin deeply pitted from the pox, warily appraised Rurik. “You traveling through?”

Rurik nodded, lowering his furs to the counter. “Four-day trading pass.”

“Well, you can expect to be answering to the bastards soon enough,” said the trader, his gruff tone indicating that he didn’t look too highly upon the city’s newest citizens. “They were just here, slinging their questions so fast as if to confuse a man. I suspect they’ll harry us until they find the wench, be she alive or dead.”

Rurik held his voice steady. “Wench?”

“Aye, Prince Mstislav’s youngest daughter,” the trader spat. His gaze narrowed at the distant kreml that loomed on a hill above the city. “Word came just this morning that she was abducted from a caravan bringing her to Chernigov. The guards are ordering everyone to watch for any sign of her. Troops have been sent to search every trading camp along the Desna.” Lowering his voice, the merchant leaned toward Rurik. “The prince has offered quite a reward for her safe return…one thousand gold grivna! Any chance you’ve seen a wench with hair the color of a lion’s mane, golden skin, and blue-green eyes? At least that’s how they described her. Sounds like a real beauty.”

Rurik shook his head, hoping he didn’t appear stunned. Loki take him. Ilka, his captive concubine, now bound hand and foot with two inches of her braid hacked off…Prince Mstislav’s daughter?

The trader grunted his disappointment. “Too bad, my friend. Leading Prince Mstislav’s men to his daughter Zora could have made you a wealthy man.”

Zora?

Rurik’s attention was suddenly drawn to a commotion at one end of the market square, the pounding of hooves growing louder. Shoppers, merchants, and guards alike scattered as thirty mounted guards thundered past the stalls, led by a dark-haired warrior whose countenance was as black as the rumbling storm clouds gathering to the west.

“Lord Ivan, the girl’s betrothed!” the trader shouted above the din. “It’s rumored that he was to marry her shortly after her arrival.” The man coughed on the dust billowing around them. “The guards said a search of all ships was to begin at once, Lord Ivan to lead it. I’d hate to be questioned at that one’s hands! He’s said to be as cruel as he is arrogant, the kreml prison filled with wretches he’s marked to die.”

Rurik didn’t need to hear more; a new plan formed. Yet he took a moment, despite the fierce impatience gnawing at his gut, to buy a quill from the trader so as not to arouse suspicion. Then he left the market by a narrow side street, taking a different route than the mounted warriors. One he prayed would lead him faster to the wharf as he cut between frame houses and down winding alleyways.

He had to get Leif and Kjell off the ship before Ivan reached them. He trusted their loyalty, but torture could drive the truth from the strongest warriors and that would surely be their fate if the enraged boyar found their answers suspect.

Somehow Rurik, his men…and his lying little princess had to escape from the city while confusion still reigned.

How swiftly her royal blood had changed their circumstances.

Chapter 8

As thunder crashed overhead, Rurik burst in the door of the shack.

Arne lurched from the bench. “My lord, you’re back sooner than I—”

“Leave everything here, Arne, we’ve no time to pack!” he shouted, wiping the rain from his face. Soaked to the skin, he left a trail of water as he strode to the bedchamber.

“By Thor, what’s happened?”

“I’ll explain later. Kjell and Leif are waiting outside with the horses. Now go!”

“Horses? What of the ship?”

Ignoring him, Rurik pushed open the door to the bedchamber to find the room in darkness. Cursing the unlit lamp, he went to the bed and gathered his captive in his arms. Unable to see her face, he felt her slender body tense. She tried to say something to him, but her words were muffled by the gag.

“Easy, wench, it’s me,” he said to reassure her, although he imagined that she was less than thrilled to find herself in his embrace. Carrying her into the other room, he was glad to see that Arne had already gone outside. He unceremoniously set the woman down, and severed the rope binding her wrists and ankles.

“The arrangements have been made,” he lied, sheathing the weapon as she gasped. He swept her again into his arms. “The ransom has been delivered. We’re taking you to where your Lord Ivan will find you.”

Rurik could feel her staring at him in astonishment, but he did not meet her eyes as he moved to the open doorway. After glancing up and down the deserted alley, he carried her outside into the pouring rain and handed her to Leif, who was waiting beside a restless roan stallion.

“Lift her up,” he commanded after mounting, having already instructed his warrior to do so in such a manner that the woman was seated facing him, a leg on each side and her bottom between his thighs. “Wrap your arms and legs around me,” he told her gruffly, not surprised when she didn’t respond. Meeting her wide confused gaze, he grated, “Do you want to see your Lord Ivan or not?”

Immediately she hugged his torso and her legs wound tightly around his hips, crossing at the ankles. Pushing her head down low against his left shoulder, he signaled to Kjell, who threw him a large sodden blanket with a ragged hole cut from the middle.

Settling it over his head, Rurik was pleased to see that the woman was completely covered beneath the blanket’s voluminous folds. Next came a dripping wet fur mantle over his shoulders that when pulled around to the front further hid the woman from view. Nestled as she was so snugly against him, he only hoped that she could breathe.

“Keep very still,” he ordered, bracing his upper arms around her. “Whatever you do, don’t raise your head. I promise you, wench, if you thwart me now, you will pay!” With that, he kicked his mount and they set off, his men silent and riding close behind him.

They soon reached a gate leading west out of the city, and Rurik was relieved to see that the driving rain had chased many of the guards indoors, only a half dozen remaining. Still, if something went wrong now, they would have to fight their way out of Chernigov.

“Remember, wench,” he warned in a low, harsh voice. “Keep still and silent or you will not see Lord Ivan again.”

“Hold!” came a command from the leader of the guards.

Rurik reined in his horse some ten feet from the gate, his men following his example. Slipping the four-day pass from beneath the edge of the saddle, he held it out to the drenched man who squinted to better see him in the stinging rain.

“We’ve finished our trading,” he informed the leader as the pass was snatched from his hand. Suddenly a huge thunderclap rent the air, and Rurik winced inwardly when the woman jerked against him. Quickly twisting in the saddle to camouflage her movement, he gestured with a nod to his three stone-faced men. “You see, we have nothing left and in only one morning at the market. Our furs have been sold.”

“Where are you bound?” the leader demanded, eyeing them suspiciously yet stamping his muddy feet as if eager to escape the storm.

“South to Kiev, to fetch more furs. The trading here is the best I’ve ever seen.”

“Move on with you, then, you’re blocking the way!” announced the leader, obviously noticing no more than Rurik had wanted him to see…four empty-handed, rain-soaked merchants leaving the city. As the man hurried for shelter, he waved for his guards to open the timbered gate.

Sending a fervent prayer of thanks to the new God, whom he called upon in times of greatest need, Rurik urged his mount onward, and riding two abreast, he and his men passed safely from Chernigov.

Outside the gate that slammed shut behind them with a heavy thunk, they set off at a hard gallop to the southwest. The journey ahead was dangerous. Doubtless Mstislav’s troops surrounded the outskirts of the city, but if the rain held, they might keep to their tents and not stop them to ask questions.

It was only a thirty-mile ride to Liubech, their true destination: a northern trading town along the Dnieper River that, as far as Rurik knew, still lay in Grand Prince Yaroslav’s hands. As soon as they were well out of sight of the city walls they would veer north. Once in Liubech, they would buy a swift riverboat and sail for Novgorod.

He did regret leaving Chernigov before he had gleaned much military information. Yet he believed Yaroslav would be well satisfied with what they had discovered, and now he and his men possessed an even more valuable prize. The grand prince’s own niece, Prince Mstislav’s daughter…Zora.

The usurper had offered one thousand gold grivna for her return, Rurik marveled. An unheard-of sum! She was obviously beloved. Mstislav might be willing to concede much to his elder brother now that Yaroslav held such a beautiful pawn.

The grand prince didn’t have her yet, Rurik reminded himself. His captive had grown very still in his arms although her limbs still gripped him. He hoped that she had enough air to breathe beneath the blanket.

“Are you all right, wench?”

Dazedly feeling Rurik shake her, Zora would have screamed if not for the sodden gag in her mouth. Holy Mother of Christ, he had to be a fool not to know that she was close to suffocating beneath these heavy coverings!

Her face burning and her lungs on fire, she felt him shake her again, this time not so gently. His voice held unmistakable concern as she heard the blanket ripping.

“Look at me, wench! Lift your head!”

Realizing that he must have torn a wider hole for her, Zora obliged him and gasped with relief as he yanked the disgusting gag from her mouth. She paid no heed to the cold rain pelting her upturned face or Rurik’s anxious expression as she drew in huge lungfuls of fresh air.

“You…you lout!” she rasped, glaring up at him. “Are you trying to kill me?” Surprised by his look of amused relief, she wondered if it was possible that he might actually have been worried about her. But she shrugged off the thought, swearing to herself again that when she was safe in Ivan’s arms, somehow this accursed Varangian would pay for his foul treatment of her.

“How much farther are we going to ride?” she added hoarsely when Rurik gave her no reply. “I’ll be nothing but bruises—”

“Relax,” came his mild answer, although his expression had tightened.

“Relax?” she echoed incredulously. “With this constant jarring and jostling?”

Infuriated when he ignored her, Zora thought back to what she had heard before she had grown so dizzy from struggling to breathe…something about them traveling to Kiev, and Rurik fetching more furs, then another male voice yelling for them to move on. Strange talk. Yet she supposed it made sense that they might have passed through one of the city’s gates. Perhaps that had been part of Rurik’s arrangements with Ivan…they would journey for a short way beyond the city to gain a head start and then release her.

Her impatience mounting, Zora blinked against the moisture clinging to her lashes.

“Surely we’re almost there,” she said with exasperation, but she fell silent when a deep frown marred Rurik’s all too handsome features. Odd. He should be elated that he had won his ransom, shouldn’t he?

“Soon, wench. I told you to relax. Sleep if you can.”

Sleep? Was he mad? The last thing she wanted to do was rest at a time like this, when she was so close to freedom. Yet the moments dragged on and Rurik’s furious pace never slackened.

Her limbs growing numb, Zora finally released her hold upon him. The warmth of his massive body pressed so intimately to hers combined with the stifling weight of the blanket was making her sweat in a most unladylike fashion. She could feel moisture trickling between her breasts and down her back, and it wasn’t rainwater! The downpour had slowed to a drizzle. Yet despite her attempt to shift away from him, he held her tightly against his chest with one powerful arm wrapped around her waist.

“Damn you, you’re hurting me!” she cried, twisting futilely. “Why are you squeezing me so? I’m not fool enough to jump off a galloping horse!” When he didn’t answer or ease his hold, she peered around her and saw that they were riding through dense woods, the sky still so gray and cloudy that it appeared almost dusk.

“Maybe you think we haven’t gone far enough, but I certainly do,” she persisted, struggling anew. “What of your arrangements with Lord Ivan? He won’t know where to find me in this forest—’

“No arrangements were made,” Rurik interrupted, his voice grim.

Zora felt a telling chill. “No arrangements?”

“Your Ivan is probably still searching the ships along the Desna River. When he and his men reach ours, they will find it deserted. And when he discovers his so-called elite guards allowed four unknown men to leave the city, he’ll connect the two incidents and hang the witless fools right then. I would do so if they were warriors under my banner.”

“You…you lied to me!” Zora cried, sickened that she could have allowed herself to be tricked by this black-hearted devil. She should have screamed, struggled, fought him, anything to draw attention to herself! Instead she had clung to him as he had commanded, afraid that if she made a move she would never see Ivan again. “I’ll see you skewered alive for this treachery! You damned heathen, you lied!”

“As you did to me…Zora, princess of the Tmutorokan Rus.”

She froze, gaping at him. Fear and incredulity quickly quenched her indignation. May God protect her, he knew!

“Why do you call me by that name?” Zora said in a desperate attempt to confuse him. But she knew it was hopeless. He was too perceptive, seemingly able to read her moves before she even made them. “I’m Ilka—”

“Your name is Zora and you are the youngest daughter of Prince Mstislav, the usurper.” Rurik’s expression was hard as he glanced at her for an instant and then lifted his gaze to the path ahead of them. He kept his voice just loud enough so that she could hear him above the horses’ galloping hooves.

“You were abducted from a royal caravan by a slave trader who was tricked into believing you were a concubine, although for what purpose I have yet to discover. News of your disappearance reached Chernigov only this morning and presently hundreds of your father’s troops, perhaps thousands, are searching for you under the direction of your betrothed, Lord Ivan. Your father has even announced a reward of one thousand gold grivna for your safe return.” He clasped her tighter, his grip punishing. “But they won’t find you, Princess. By sunset, we’ll be on a ship bearing north.”

“North?” she parroted, her mind unwilling to grasp how close she had come to her father, Ivan, and safety only to have their rescue and all hope snatched from her. “What of Kiev?”

“Another lie,” he said easily. “We’re bound for Novgorod.”

Zora tensed. So her captor was a damned spy. Why else would he forgo such an exorbitant reward, instead planning to travel almost five hundred miles? No unscrupulous fortune hunter with a whit of sense would pass up such a sum! This Varangian was fueled only by allegiance, and she could well imagine to whom it belonged. Grand Prince Yaroslav, her father’s hated brother. Novgorod was his city, and the seat of his power.

With this startling realization came some comfort, and Zora willed herself to relax.

Her captor could no longer hurt her! If anything, he would be obliged to protect her until they reached Novgorod and she came face-to-face with the liege lord who had sent him upon his secretive mission.

“You’re a spy, aren’t you?” she accused, not surprised when Rurik briefly met her eyes. “For Yaroslav, my uncle.”

He did not answer, but she knew from the way he clenched his jaw that she had guessed the truth.

“And I?” she demanded. “What have I become, Lord Rurik?”

“A pawn.”

His blunt reply was horribly final, and Zora was seized by sudden desperation. “Please…” she begged, though it galled her that she even found it within herself to do so. “Please let me go. What use can I be to Grand Prince Yaroslav? He must know that I am a—”

“Enough!” Rurik cut in harshly. “It is not my authority to release you. The grand prince alone can decide your fate. I only escort you to him.”

Zora held her reckless tongue then. She must keep calm; use her head. It was a good thing that he had interrupted her before she had given away her baseborn status. A very good thing.

If she had revealed to him that she was a bastard daughter, Rurik might think her less valuable and decide that he could still take liberties with her. It was possible. He had assaulted her when he thought her a mere concubine, hadn’t he? Usually, bastards counted as no more than slaves in Rus, and even though her father had offered an incredible reward for her, Rurik might hold the more common view.

Suddenly an idea came to her, filling her with nervous excitement and almost bringing a smile to her lips.

Why not make this journey as difficult for him as possible? Since he must protect her until they reached Novgorod, he would be loathe to touch her or punish her no matter what she did to frustrate him. And frustrate him she would! This pagan would wish a thousand times that he had left her in Chernigov!

Now Zora did smile. If she escaped somewhere along the route to Novgorod, so much the better. How humiliating it would be for him to return to her uncle’s kreml with the news that he had captured her, but she had eluded him! If Rurik was a lord indeed, as his title suggested, her escape would discredit him. A proud Varangian warrior bested by a mere woman! He would be dishonored forever.

Zora glanced furtively at Rurik to find that he was paying her no heed, his expression grim and his gaze narrowed as if searching the forest for signs of danger.

Why not begin? It would make a fine test and maybe, if she was lucky, she would bring some of her father’s troops down upon them. They might still be close enough to Chernigov that someone might hear her.

Inhaling deeply, Zora let out such a piercing scream that a flock of blackbirds perched high in the branches above them took to the sky, screeching and cawing in protest. Rurik was so startled that she managed to scream once more, this time right in his ear, before he could clap his hand over her mouth.

“By Odin, woman, what are you trying to do?” he shouted, his face flushed dark with anger. Yanking the gag back into her mouth, he called to his warriors. “The wench might have given away our position. Ride hard, men, as if the black hounds of Hel were upon us! They might be now!”

Zora gasped as Rurik jerked her hard against his chest and kicked his mount into a faster canter, his tone menacing as he added, “And if they find us, wench, I swear—”

“I hope they do find us!” she retorted in spite of her gag, and to enrage him further, she started to laugh.

“Minx! Do you think this a game? Thor’s blood, royal princess or no, you’ll soon discover that you’ve more than met your match!”

“So will you, you cloddish pagan,” Zora replied under her breath, grinning just for his benefit. “So will you.”

Chapter 9

Her knees clasped to her breasts, Zora glowered at the tent wall.

Were those swine going to bring her something to eat or not? Her stomach was so wretchedly empty that she felt almost sick from hunger. She hadn’t tasted food since the few bites she had managed in Chernigov, yet her Norse captors had the gall to be enjoying a meal without her! Outside they were loudly commenting on how delicious everything was while Arne recounted some ribald tale. She was certain his mouth was full as he spoke. The coarse, unmannered slob!

The boat dipping and swaying beneath her like a flimsy piece of flotsam wasn’t helping her hollow stomach either. She had never imagined a river could be so rough, but then again, she’d only traveled smaller routes in the past. They were now on the great Dnieper, one of Rus Land’s main trade routes. When she had caught a glimpse of the vast river before she had been whisked aboard late yesterday afternoon, appearing as wide as any three she had ever seen, it was still swollen from the spring thaw, the currents fast and dangerous.

Hearty male laughter erupted outside again. Zora frowned. The Varangians certainly seemed relaxed now that they were a night’s journey from Liubech.

Before today the mood had been much darker. The tension resulting from her screaming fit in the forest had been palpable enough to cut and had lasted until well after they set sail. Although it had become clear from eavesdropping on Rurik’s low-spoken conversation with his men that the small trading town posed no threat, he hadn’t said more than a sentence to her.

He had thrust her inside this stuffy, hastily constructed tent and roughly removed her gag with a terse threat that she had better remain quiet or else. She had been tempted to fling at him, “Or else what?” but had reluctantly held her tongue. His scowl had been fearsome. Obviously his anger toward her had not abated.

Eventually she had fallen asleep, so exhausted from their long ride that she couldn’t keep her eyes open. At one point in the night she had half awoken to the unsettling sensation of someone watching her, but when she had rolled over to look, she was alone. She hadn’t opened her eyes again until a short while ago.

“Shall I take the wench some food, my lord?” came an unknown male voice. At last someone had thought of her needs! “She’s probably awake by now and I imagine she’s hungry,” the voice continued.

“You heard my orders, Kjell. If she wants something to eat, she can come out here and fetch it. I don’t want to see any of you waiting upon her. She may be Grand Prince Yaroslav’s niece, but I’ll not have you taking your minds off your duties to coddle some spoiled, overindulged princess.”

Spoiled! Zora thought, outraged. Hardly! Hermione had always seen that she remembered her place in the terem whenever their warrior father wasn’t around, which was much of the time. And if she had known she was free to leave the tent without fear of rebuke, she would have done so earlier!

Rising to her feet, Zora quickly smoothed her hair—the shortened length of her braid blatant testimony to Rurik’s cruelty—and adjusted her rumpled clothes. Then she swept from the tent to stand blinking at the bright morning sunshine.

“Ali, Princess Zora. So you’ve decided to join us.”

She shielded her eyes to look in the direction of that familiar mocking voice. Its rich, husky quality had strangely stirred her, she realized to her annoyance. Immediately she skipped her gaze from Rurik, whose wry half smile only fanned her resentment, to Arne, who eyed her suspiciously, then she regarded the two Varangians whom she’d barely gotten a close look at yesterday before that smelly blanket had been tossed over her head.

One of the men, his hand upon the helm, was nearly as tall and immense about the shoulders as Rurik, with curly, flame-red hair and beard, while the other was clearly the youngest of the group and very blond, his youthful face sparsely bearded and quite handsome in a boyish sort of way. He gazed upon her almost with awestruck shyness. This surprised her. She had always heard that Varangians were brutal, bloodthirsty warriors, yet this one, although he had the build of a fighter, possessed the expressive eyes of a poet.

“Are you going to stand there gawking or come and eat?”

With a start, Zora met Rurik’s gaze and her heart suddenly seemed to beat faster. His eyes were so devastatingly blue, the sunlight glinting off his silver-blond hair as from a mirror, and there was certainly no boyish youthfulness about him. He was all man, dangerous-looking, powerful, from his arresting features to the hard, muscled lines of his body. To think that she had lain in his arms, that he had touched her so intimately—

What in heaven’s name are you doing? Zora berated herself, stunned and infuriated by her thoughts. The rogue was her captor! He’d kidnapped her, gagged her, and practically starved her. Doing her best to ignore his disconcerting appraisal, ignoring all of them for that matter, she lifted her chin and went to the bench where the food was laid out.

Entranced by the graceful way she moved, Rurik drank in the sight of her. Despite his determined resolve to consider her only as a pawn, he was relieved she was wearing baggy male garb. If she could look this fetching in ill-fitting rags, he could well imagine how she might appear in a luxurious full-length silk tunic cut to fit her temptress’s form.

Apparently Kjell had noticed as well. The warrior was fairly gaping. Rurik threw the younger man a stern warning glance, though he could hardly blame him. Princess Zora seemed fashioned to turn any man’s head.

“There’s plenty of food so take as much as you want.” Zora merely glared at him.

Undaunted, Rurik added, “I suggest you take an extra portion of boiled beef. You slept through supper last night, so it’s cold. But it tastes good, and we won’t have fresh meat again for days.”

She gave no reply, but quickly filled a wooden platter. Then she turned away, and determinedly kept from looking at them while she proceeded to the prow where she perched upon a water cask with her back to them.

“Uppity little thing.” Arne tore off another generous chunk of rye bread. “Why don’t you tell her something of yourself, my lord? I don’t see any harm in it. Mstislav’s troops will never catch us now. You said she already knows you’re a spy, and if she knows your high rank as well, maybe she’ll feel herself in better company.”

“I doubt anything I have to say will appease her,” Rurik muttered, ignoring the sidelong glances his men cast each other.

He only hoped he could appease her uncle. He could imagine the heated accusations that would fly when they reached Novgorod and he presented his indignant captive to the grand prince. Yet he doubted Yaroslav would fault his actions. Rurik trusted that the grand prince would understand his motives, which had been fueled by Zora’s misrepresented identity. In time of war, such an excuse should suffice, even though Rurik knew it wasn’t the entire truth. Lust had played a part as well.

Since leaving Chernigov, the journey had become a Hel for him. He kept recalling the sleek softness of her skin and the firm rounded beauty of her breasts, the seductive way she had parted her lips to him and the sweet, intoxicating taste of her mouth…the way she had moaned in ecstasy beneath him. He had been tempted to caress her cheek last night when he had gone to check on her, and only her sudden waking had sent him quickly from the tent.

“Women,” Rurik said under his breath, rising.

“Aye, they’re the plague of the world,” Arne answered with a grunt as Leif and Kjell looked on in silence. “You’re going to speak with her, then?”

Nodding, Rurik filled a wooden cup with honey mead. After studying the distant shoreline for a moment and glancing upriver, he ordered his men, “Keep alert for any trouble.” Then he walked toward her. If Zora heard him approaching, she gave no hint of it, not even deigning to look in his direction, which irritated him further.

By Thor, he couldn’t wait until they arrived in Novgorod, where he could relinquish his charge of her to Grand Prince Yaroslav! Surely having his six beautiful concubines around him again would chase this all too bewitching woman from his mind!

“I brought you something to drink,” he said, holding out the brimming cup.

Flustered by how close he was standing, Zora shifted to the very edge of the cask. “What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“Mead. Have you ever tasted it before? We Varangians highly favor it—”

“I don’t want any,” she cut him off, although in truth she would have enjoyed the heady drink. But she refused to partake of anything this man said he enjoyed. Her eyes returned to her meal.

Rurik sighed but he didn’t leave. To Zora’s annoyance, he sat down on an opposite cask, facing her.

“It’s not poisoned, Zora, or drugged, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

Swallowing a bit of beef and feeling that she was fast losing her appetite, Zora met his gaze. It unnerved her to hear him utter her name with such intimate familiarity. At least he could continue to address her properly as “Princess Zora” or “my lady,” but she doubted he would even if she demanded it.

“What’s on my mind is none of your concern—”

“It is my concern,” he interrupted stiffly as if bridling his temper. “You may be my prisoner, Zora, but you don’t have to fear for your life or your person. Contrary to what you probably believe, my men and I do not prey upon women.”

“Oh, no? After what I experienced at your hands, Lord Rurik, I would have to disagree. If rape isn’t preying upon women, then I must be misinformed.”

His eyes took on a dark stormy hue as he leaned toward her. “It was no rape, and this is the last time I will tell you! How can you say that when you have no recollection of what happened? You weren’t yourself, woman! And you were not unwilling. I believed that you were a boyar’s concubine, familiar with the ways of men and women and experienced in lovemaking,” he stressed pointedly. “I took you to my bed hoping you would call out your master’s name in your pleasure, then I could return you to the man–”

“In exchange for military information, am I not right?” Zora’s cheeks were ablaze from even hearing him talk of bedding her. It did not matter what he said, she would never believe him. How could she have given him so easily what she had wanted to preserve until her marriage to Ivan? She was no wanton!

After a long moment, Rurik finally nodded, his expression grave. “You are as perceptive as I had thought. Yes, I knew when I learned of your value from the Slav merchant that my mission could profit from assisting you.”

“I could expect no more from my father’s enemy,” Zora spat.

“Aptly put, Princess. Enemies, with opposing allegiances. Yours rests with your father and mine with Grand Prince Yaroslav. Eight years ago, I pledged my loyalty to him and for my service, he rewarded me with an honored position in his senior druzhina. So you see, you’re not in the hands of some ruthless mercenary. And although we’re enemies, it is my duty to protect you until we reach Novgorod. I’ll honor that pledge with my life if need be.”

Despair swept Zora. Since Rurik was talking so freely of his power and position, he must feel confident that her father’s troops would never rescue her. Clearly she would be on her own and with no hope of aid if the chance to escape ever arose.

“Tell me something, Zora,” he said, interrupting her desperate musing.

She stared into his eyes, noticing the crinkles at the corners and the light brown of his lashes for the first time.

“How did you come to be in that trading camp? The slave merchant told me it was because you had fallen into disfavor with your master’s wife, but as you’re no concubine, that cannot be true.”

“My sister sold me into the slaver’s hands,” she replied tightly. “Hermione.”

“Your own sister betrayed you?” Rurik’s blond brows knit into a frown. “Why?”

His question shattered the self-pitying reverie that gripped her, and Zora tensed. She couldn’t reveal to him the true story behind her abduction! Then he would know she was a bastard daughter and maybe withdraw his promise of protection.

“She hated me,” Zora said bluntly, planning to quickly skirt the topic. “She was jealous of me. It’s as simple as that.”

“Jealousy? Hatred? Those are not simple emotions. There had to be a cause.”

“Hermione believed I held more than my share of our father’s affection and favor.” Growing more agitated, Zora blurted, “I don’t want to talk about it anymore!” She raised her chin defiantly. “Now I have a question for you, Lord Rurik. What made you help me in the trading camp? You couldn’t have known when Halfdan struck me down that I was worth anything to your mission—”

“You asked me to help you.”

Shocked, she stared at him. “That couldn’t be true.”

“You did,” he replied, his voice grown somber. “You were fleeing from Halfdan and you stumbled into me as I walked from a tent. Don’t you remember? I caught you from falling, and you begged me to help you. You even promised a reward.”

“A reward…?” Suddenly Zora did remember him, not so much his face but the vivid blue of his eyes.

“Yes,” he continued. “But when you looked up at me, you cried out and pushed yourself away.”

“All I saw was another Varangian trader…another Halfdan.” She shivered. “It was all so horrible…his laughter, the stench of him, those awful serpent tattoos…”

“It’s in the past,” came Rurik’s firm reply. “As I told you, Halfdan is dead. I only wish I had been the one to kill him.”

“You didn’t kill Halfdan?” Zora asked, startled. “If not your sword, then whose?”

“Arne’s. He saved my life. I underestimated Halfdan’s skill and when he caught me under the chin with his knee, I went down.” Rurik shook his head, as if still angry at himself that the other Varangian had bested him. “Arne was there, disobeying my orders, and thank Odin he did that day.” His expression grew hard as he regarded her, his eyes angry. “If he hadn’t, then you would have been justified to cry ‘rape,’ Princess. Without Arne’s help, I would have been dead and you…

Grateful when Rurik didn’t finish, Zora could hardly believe everything that he had just told her. She hadn’t considered how Halfdan had met his end, yet now that she knew, the facts were astonishing. Rurik had risked his life for her when he hadn’t even known who she was. Or that he could profit from rescuing her. Why, he could have been killed! Aiding an unknown slave woman!

Yet she remained wary. Perhaps he had sensed even then that she was more than a common slave. Perhaps something cued him, her manner of speech, her promise of a reward, anything! To think that he might have felt compassion for her was more than she could stomach.

“If you don’t mind, Lord Rurik, I would rather not discuss what happened to me at that trading camp anymore,” she said. “Now I’d like to finish my meal before the bread becomes stale and the cheese moldier.”

Noting the stubborn set of her chin, Rurik knew the matter was already closed.

“Very well, then. I’ll leave you.” He rose, setting the cup of mead near her bare feet in case she decided to drink after all. He couldn’t quite tell her mood, but it was clear she still did not trust him. He felt he should offer a stern warning.

“If you haven’t already realized it, screaming is useless. Unlike yesterday when it might have saved you but thankfully didn’t. And if you’re considering any more escape attempts, Princess, I caution you against late night swimming. You were lucky that night you plunged into the river, but the Dnieper’s currents are far more treacherous than the Desna’s. And deadly to all but the best of swimmers.”

“You’re clearly lying again,” she retorted. “I would never have jumped from any ship. I can’t swim.”

Rurik studied her, amazed. She must have been fearful indeed to dive over the side with no skills to help keep her afloat.

“You did jump overboard, Zora, whether you believe it or not. We were on our way to Chernigov, and this time I was the one who saved you…from drowning.” Rurik smiled, but he felt no amusement. “You see? There is much you don’t remember.”

She didn’t reply, nor had he expected her to. Her tightlipped, rebellious expression was answer enough. Thor, but she was obstinate! She had obviously decided to reject much of what he said.

“I almost forgot,” he continued. “I bought you some things in Liubech before we sailed.” He indicated with a quick nod a brass-bound sea chest. “You’ll find some clean garments more to your size, trousers, a tunic, and another sash. I want you to dress like a male slave until we reach Novgorod. The last thing we need is for your beauty to attract any undue attention.”

In response, she glared at him.

Rurik sighed with exasperation and turned to go, then added as an afterthought, “I also purchased a brush for your hair and some soap in case you’d like to bathe. As you cannot swim, my men will have leave to draw water for you when you have need of it. But ask them for nothing else.”

Astonished that he would have given any consideration to her personal needs, Zora watched as Rurik walked back to his men.

Soap? A brush? She toyed with her disheveled braid, then raised her hand to her cheek, wondering if her skin was smudged and dirty. Had he thought her in need of a bath? She supposed she did look a sight after not washing her hair for days, and she had hardly been able to bathe herself properly without soap—

Stop! she scolded herself, angry that she would care even for an instant about her appearance. The last thing she wanted was for that pagan to find her attractive, and if she was freshly bathed, combed, and wearing more fitted clothes…for all his pretty words, he might very well forget himself.

Setting her wooden plate with a clatter upon the deck, Zora knew exactly what to do. She went directly to the chest and, throwing open the lid, gathered up all the items Rurik had mentioned.

She knew that he was watching her. She could feel it, like a strange heat upon her skin. And she knew he’d be furious, but she didn’t care. Stifling a tiny glimmer of fear and any regrets about how lovely it would have felt to wash with real soap again, she went to the side and tossed everything overboard.

“Woman! By all the gods…!”

Ignoring his roar of outrage, Zora retook her seat upon the cask and calmly resumed her meal. So what if she looked like a rumpled, smudge-nosed witch and stank to high heaven? If it would keep Rurik away from her, she could bear it gladly!

Chapter 10

An uneasy stalemate reigned aboard the riverboat for the next few days, Zora attempting to avoid Rurik, which proved difficult in such limited space. Yet somehow she managed. She kept to her tent much of the time, and when she could no longer stand the boredom and needed fresh air, she ventured outside and moved to whatever part of the small vessel where Rurik was not.

Thankfully, he seemed just as disinclined to encounter her. Zora wasn’t surprised.

He had been beyond anger. Even furious hadn’t done his foul mood justice. Although he had said nothing more to her after his initial outburst, she had seen his temper raging in the way he glared at her when she went to get a second helping of food. His eyes were filled with a cold fury.

Abandoning any thought of continuing her meal, she had fled to the solitude of her tent, where she had remained for most of the day. Her frustration had grown hourly.

How she longed to be free of this accursed vessel and her captors! To be so confined, without any real privacy or the amenities to which she was accustomed—a decent chamber pot, for God’s sake—was simply too much!

With her humiliation fueling her, she had created a new plan. She would covertly observe the Varangians and hopefully discover each man’s weakness. Such knowledge could then be used against them when an opportunity for escape arose.

Yet much to her disappointment, she had found over the following two days that the ruddy-faced helmsman called Leif had no discernible weaknesses. He possessed both brawn and brains, his skill at steering the boat evidencing sharp instincts. He also obeyed unquestionably everything Rurik said, so there was no help there. As for Arne, he was another of whom to be wary. For all of his grumbling and coarse bravado, she sensed that he had a keen mind, his suspicion easily aroused.

Arne’s close relationship with Rurik bordered upon that between father and son. If the story about him saving Rurik’s life in the trading camp was true, Zora imagined that Arne had made it his task to watch out for Rurik, his loyalty fierce and as unquestioning as Leif’s.

Kjell was the only one who didn’t seem to fit into the group. Physically a warrior and appearing more than strong enough to do battle, it nonetheless seemed that his heart was not in his duties. Kjell rarely joined in the laughter after one of Arne’s vulgar boasts about his exploits with lusty, big-breasted women, or how much ale the crusty Varangian could consume at one sitting. Sometimes Kjell seemed so detached, Zora wondered how he had been included on what she assumed had been a very important mission.

Kjell seemed most enlivened late in the evening when he recited poetry for his compatriots’ entertainment. He told strange mythic tales of long ago battles and heroic deeds that Rurik and the others obviously enjoyed. Kjell’s impassioned voice would carry to her inside the tent where she lay abed, and to her amazement, Rurik occasionally joined him, reciting verses commemorating a danger or triumph in battle.

Once, Rurik’s eight-line stanza had been a lamentation for a slain friend, Sveinald, who had lost his life because of his love for a woman. The haunting words had moved her more than she wished to admit and shown her a heretofore unknown side of him…a sensitive, personal side upon which she had no desire to dwell.

But even though Kjell lacked enthusiasm, she had not discovered his weaknesses, at least until the following evening when she spied him staring at her quite openly. His platter of salted fish and black bread sat in his lap, untouched. Rurik’s response was swift and harsh.

“Look to your food, man, and quit gaping at the wench like a besotted pup!”

After that, Zora noticed a dark scowl thrown in Kjell’s direction whenever Rurik caught him watching her, and she realized that he must resent the young warrior’s obvious infatuation. Was it simply because Kjell seemed more inclined to staring at her then going about his duties? Such disregard for orders would certainly anger any commander. Or did Rurik’s reaction have something to do with his promise to protect her? Did he think Kjell might overstep his bounds?

Well, whatever the insufferable lout’s reasons, Zora had found her chance. She even went as far as to hope that any discord she fomented between the two men might somehow aid her escape. She couldn’t wait to put her latest scheme to the test!

The next morning dawned beautiful and sunny, which lightened her mood all the more. Taking care to avoid Rurik, whom she spared no more than a casual glance when she left the tent, she gave Kjell a surreptitious smile. To her delight, he beamed back at her. He must be attracted to her, she realized. She tried to quell a flash of guilt over using the young man. After all, she was a prisoner. Exchanging such smiles the rest of the day convinced her to step up her plan. It would mean forgoing her vow not to wash, but the more appealing the young Varangian found her, the better.

With supper finished, she fetched the bucket that Rurik had given her to use for bathing—one that had remained empty since she’d thrown the soap overboard four days ago!—and humming to herself, she made straight for Kjell, who stood in the bow with his back to her. He seemed so rapt in watching the glorious sunset that she doubted he had even heard her approach.

“Excuse me.”

Kjell spun in surprise, almost dropping his mug of ale. Some of the dark, pungent-smelling liquid splashed upon her trousers and his expression became stricken, his youthful face burning.

“Forgive me, my lady!”

“It’s nothing,” she said lightly, acutely aware that Leif, Arne, and Rurik had grown silent in the stern, no doubt listening to their exchange. She could almost feel Rurik’s gaze boring into her back, and it made her smile at Kjell all the wider. “Lord Rurik said that I might ask you for assistance if I needed some water drawn from the river. Could you help me?”

“Of—of course.” For a moment Kjell didn’t seem to know what to do with his ale, but finally he set the mug upon a nearby chest and took the bucket from her. “How much would you like?”

“Oh, you can fill it to the top. I want to have enough to wash my clothes when I’m finished bathing.” As she looked up at him through her thick lashes, Zora ran the back of her hand across her cheek, all the while thinking how strange it felt to be flirting with a man, well, toying with him really. It felt awkward. She had never done it before. She sighed plaintively. “I must look disgraceful—”

“Oh, no, my lady, you look beautiful to me! Like a golden goddess!” Kjell blurted, then he glanced nervously above her head to the stern. What he saw must have made him more anxious, for his eager-to-please smile vanished. He quickly dunked the bucket into the river and then set it with a dull thud at her feet.

Zora gazed at him with feigned confusion. “Surely you don’t expect me to carry that bucket, Kjell. It looks far too heavy.” From his astonished expression, she knew that she had startled him by using his given name. Yet he was pleased, too, despite his concerted attempt not to show it. His hazel eyes gave him away. “I’m sure Lord Rurik wouldn’t mind if you helped me.” She smiled at him prettily. “Just to the tent.”

Again he looked past her, and she surmised that he had been granted some sort of permission for he obliged her, even going so far as to place the bucket just inside the tent. Then he was gone before she could thank him, almost tripping on a pile of rope in his haste to attend to some rigging. Zora could well imagine the black scowl Rurik had hurled at Kjell.

“The filthy idol-worshiper,” she muttered as she swept into the tent. She hoped it was loud enough for Rurik to hear.

It was, but he made no reply, his jaw clenched tightly.

Arne, meanwhile, shifted on the bench, his prolonged belch breaking the tense silence. “It seems she thinks you’re a pagan, my lord. Are you going to set her to rights?”

Rurik shook his head grimly, wondering what little game Zora was playing now. After looking like a bedraggled ragamuffin for days, why the sudden concern for her appearance? He imagined it was for spite. “She’ll get no more explanations from me, my friend. I tried once already.”

“Aye, you’re right about that,” Arne said dryly. “Whatever you said to her, she didn’t like it, no, not a bit. I can still see her dumping all those things into the river—”

“Enough, Arne.” Rurik’s frown deepened. “I was a fool to think she’d appreciate a kindness.”

The burly warrior heaved a sigh, then after taking a deep swig of ale, he said, “That wench is a hard one to understand and I pity the man who ever accepts the thankless task! One moment she avoids the whole lot of us, then the next she’s talking as sweetly as can be to Kjell, and smiling at him, too.”

“You don’t have to tell me what she’s been doing,” Rurik muttered, angered as much by her overtly flirtatious behavior as at himself for the unreasoning jealousy that was churning inside him again.

Why in Odin’s name couldn’t he control his emotions? What did he care if Zora found another man to her liking? He had seen the stolen smiles and furtive looks passing all day between her and Kjell. Well, what of it? She meant nothing to him, other than as a valuable pawn, and Kjell was only reacting naturally to a beautiful woman’s attention. What man wouldn’t?

The cunning vixen! It couldn’t be purely attraction that was making Zora act this way. She hadn’t paid Kjell any special notice until this morning. She was scheming, that much was plain. But if she was thinking she could pit him and Kjell against each other, or somehow influence the young man to do something rash, she was mistaken.

Kjell might be an unseasoned fighter, but he was no fool. He had sworn allegiance to Rurik for the journey, an inviolable oath that was sacred among Varangians. To break it would bring grave dishonor upon himself and his father’s house. He might as well plunge his own sword into his breast, for to his own kind, he would be a man as if dead.

“Kjell!” His shout startled the warrior.

“My lord?”

Rurik lowered his voice, for he didn’t want Zora to hear him. “I’ve noticed lately that you’ve been paying far too much attention to our prisoner. What say you to this charge?”

Kjell swallowed hard, but he looked Rurik squarely in the eyes, which secretly amazed him. It seemed their reticent poet was finally becoming a man.

“Only that you are too harsh with her, my lord.”

“Too harsh?” Rurik quelled his sudden irritation at this unexpected criticism as best he could. “I say you are proving too gullible. Do you truly believe she favors you? She is using you to irritate me, Kjell, to spite me.”

“How could she possibly irritate you, my lord?” There was an undeniable spark of challenge in Kjell’s eyes. “Unless there is a chance you might care if she smiles at me or not. If so, perhaps you would rather she share her smiles only with you.”

Rurik lunged to his feet so abruptly that the young man, despite his height and warrior’s build, stepped back in surprise.

“What are you saying?” he demanded, his voice low and threatening. “Speak up now for after this, you will hold your reckless tongue until we reach Novgorod.”

“I’m saying that it’s clear you have an eye for the princess yourself,” Kjell said, moving so close that they were standing within inches of each other. “Why else would you glare at me every time you catch me looking at her? Perhaps since you already took her to your bed, you feel you’ve made some claim—”

“By Thor, what madness is this?” Arne interrupted with a bellow, hauling his bulk from the bench to push his way between them while Leif looked on, his mouth agape. “You’re growling at each other like two mongrels that’ve stumbled upon a bitch in heat…arguing about the wench as if it made a damned bit of difference!”

“It does when one of my own men denounces me with such a charge.” Rurik was so enraged that he could feel the blood pounding in the vein at his temple.

“No, it doesn’t, I tell you!” Arne insisted. “Must I remind you that this woman is a royal captive, not some war booty to be fought over? Grand Prince Yaroslav will most likely lock her in some chamber until he wins whatever ransom he asks and then he’ll send her back to her father. So what if she smiles at you”—he frowned at Kjell, then fixed a cautioning gaze upon Rurik— “or at you, my lord? Within another week’s time, she’ll no longer be any of our concern!”

When neither replied and still stood rigidly opposite him, Arne snorted in disgust and hurled a muttered curse at the tent.

“Do not forget that the beauteous Princess Zora is sworn to another man, Lord Ivan of Tmutorokan, her dreams each night no doubt full of him. If she smiles, surely it is only to deceive. Do not allow yourselves to be fooled.” Arne turned to Kjell, his voice filled with somber warning. “Go back to your work, youngest son of Thordar. You’ve tread in dangerous waters this night. If you value your oath and your life, think well before you seek again to challenge your lord.”

As Kjell stalked away without a word, Arne met Rurik’s furious gaze.

“Grant him this one error of judgment, my lord, if only for your friend his father’s sake. You know that Kjell’s sword would be no match for yours, like a cub attacking a rabid bear. If blame should fall upon anyone’s head for this night’s devilry, condemn the wench. Her false smiles have bewitched him. But I vow, if Kjell defies you again, I will not come between you.”

Rurik made to answer, but his words jammed in his throat as Zora suddenly emerged from the tent wrapped in nothing more than a blanket, her long wet hair swept back from her forehead and her dripping clothes slung over one arm. Arching a fine tawny brow at him, her expression smug, he knew then that she must have heard enough to believe that her devious scheme had triumphed.

“I thought I would hang my clothes on the railing,” Zora said, actually astonished and a little nervous that things had so quickly reached this stage. She had hardly done more than smile at Kjell, but already he and Rurik were at each other’s throat. “They should be dry by morn—”

“Get back in the tent.”

Zora shivered, and it wasn’t because the early evening air was chill. Rurik’s tone was ice-cold and furious.

“But, Lord Rurik, it will only take me a moment—”

“Damn your clothes, woman! You can wear them wet for all I care. Turn around and get back in the tent or I’ll…”

She retreated into the tent before he finished, her hands shaking as she dropped her sodden clothes at the foot of the fur pallet. Then she took refuge near the back tent wall, almost tripping over the water bucket in her haste to get as far away from the entrance as possible. Her heart pounding in her ears like a battle drum, she jumped when the oil lamp near her feet sputtered and hissed.

Holy Mother Mary, perhaps she had played her part too well…

Zora gasped as Rurik suddenly ducked inside the tent and straightened to his full height, his blond head touching the canvas ceiling. He had never entered her sanctuary before, and she was amazed at how small the space suddenly appeared. He was so massive, so broad, that his body blocked out all view of the entrance, making her feel as if there were no escape. From the dangerous look in his eyes, the strong lines of his face set as in stone in the flickering light, she imagined he would prevent her from leaving at all cost.

“What is your scheme, Zora?” The terse question was spoken in such a low voice, it was almost a whisper.

She clutched the blanket more tightly to her breasts. “I—I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Then let me help you,” he said, advancing toward her.

As the distance between them narrowed, Zora’s heart beat all the harder and she tried to take a step backward, but she was pinned in place. Already she was standing flush against the tent. She could only stare at him, his angry eyes searing into hers.

“Your little displays of defiance are annoying, though understandable, but this time you’ve gone too far. You are deliberately trying to turn my men against me, and I tell you now, Princess, that I will not tolerate it.”

“If…if you mean Kjell, I only asked him to fill the water bucket and then carry it for me,” she said desperately. Rurik was standing so close to her now that she had to tilt her head to look up at him, his scent of wind and sun and sweat disconcerting her all the more. “You said yourself that I could do that!”

“I haven’t forgotten.” Suddenly Rurik reached out and caught her by the upper arms, his touch like a grasp of iron. “But what of all those smiles, Zora, and those teasing glances of yours? Do you think I hadn’t noticed? It seems you are quite adept at playing the wanton, but I should have known that from the kisses we shared.”

“Kisses?” she rasped as he pulled her closer, so roughly that she lost her hold upon the blanket. To her horror, the covering slid from her body to the floor, leaving her standing naked within his arms. “Let me go!” she demanded, panicking. “I remember no kisses!”

“I do,” Rurik said huskily. Splaying one large hand over the small of her back, his fingers caressing her bottom, he drew her so close that her breasts swelled against his chest. “Warm, eager kisses that fooled me into thinking you were well accustomed to a man’s touch. I remember how you parted your soft lips for me, Zora, and how your tongue swirled around mine—”

“I would never have done that! I’m no wanton!” she cried, trying to twist free and realizing all too quickly that it was hopeless. Her skin puckered into goose bumps as his hand slid slowly up her back, a strange unsettling warmth radiating from some deep, mysterious place inside her to the ends of her toes and the tips of her fingers. Her hardened nipples were rigid pinpoints of sensation, his rough woolen tunic chafing her. Every time she moved against him, she felt a catch in her throat. To her dismay, she realized she was trembling.

“See how your body betrays you, Princess?” he taunted. “You don’t have to be a wanton to possess the passion of one. But why try to convince you of this with words when actions speak so much more clearly?”

Zora gasped aloud as his mouth came down hard upon hers. She was so shocked that she tensed from head to toe.

Her worst fears were coming true! Rurik’s promises of protection were meaningless! But this thought quickly left her. The warm, demanding pressure of his lips overwhelmed her, like molten heat filling her completely, and when his tongue swept into her mouth, sweet with the taste of honey mead, she felt that she was melting against him.

Sweet Jesus, she remembered this! Suddenly she recalled hungry kisses devouring her…the hard, powerful weight of flesh, bone, and muscle covering her body…wild, urgent embraces, panting breaths and sighing moans…then the sweetest, most agonized ecstasy she had ever known…

Her arms snaked around his neck when his kiss grew dizzyingly possessive, her tongue as with a will of its own mating with his, playing and teasing. She felt his hand cradle her breast, his callused palm rubbing slowly against her nipple, and a strange giddiness swelled deep in her belly. She pressed closer, her senses craving more of him…She felt drunk from the intoxicating taste of him, light-headed from his touch, the world spinning around her—

“You see, Zora?” came Rurik’s ragged whisper against her wet parted lips, his words shattering her passionate vision. “You’re a true wanton at heart. I wasn’t lying when I said you came to me willingly that night, and by Odin, if I had not vowed to protect you, I would take you again now and you would submit to me just as eagerly.”

He released her so abruptly that Zora had no time to regain her balance and she fell backward, slumping to her knees. She was so stunned that for a moment she could not find the words to speak, nor did she think to hide her nakedness.

“Allow me to recall the words for you…how does heathen sound?” he mocked her, his breathing hard. “Filthy pagan? Idol-worshiper? Barbarian?”

Suddenly Rurik went down on one knee in front of her, gripping her chin so tightly that she winced. “You’ll have far worse things to say about me, Princess, if you ever cause turmoil between myself and my men again. That I swear! And don’t think your uncle would fault me. My mission is of utmost importance to him, and he would not be pleased to know how you had attempted to thwart it.”

Rurik was gone from the tent before she found her voice, his dark threat ringing in her ears. If she had ever come close to hating a man, it was now…not only for what he had just promised, but for the bewildering spell that still lingered within her.

Her lips felt bruised from his kiss, yet still she yearned for the hard pressure of his mouth against hers. She had barely caught her breath, yet she longed to feel again his powerful arms around her, crushing her to his chest, and the wondrous heat of his body scorching her bare flesh through his clothes. Was it possible she might have submitted to him if he hadn’t stopped when he did? Considering how strange she felt right now, she feared, incredibly, that it was so. Yet how could that be? Her father’s enemy, her enemy?

Inhaling deeply to clear her head, Zora wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

Although she wanted to believe otherwise, she knew now in her heart that he had never abused her. Her hazy, provocative memories evidenced no struggle, only passionate surrender. Yet she would never admit it. Never! She would fight these impossible feelings as surely as she would continue to fight him. Let him wield his threats! Give her time, she would best him. One day he would wish that he had never seen her face.

“And that, I swear, Lord Rurik of Novgorod!” Zora vowed fiercely, even as her skin still burned from his touch. She rubbed her arms where he had grabbed her, but the unsettling feeling would not disappear.

“I take it the wench will no longer trouble us?”

Standing in the prow, Rurik did not turn his head at Arne’s approach. He continued to stare into the deepening dusk. “Not if she’s wise.”

Arne left him then, clearly sensing Rurik’s mood. His heart was still pounding so hard that it threatened to drown out the sounds of the night coming alive around him, every thunderous beat driving home a realization that made him all the more impatient to be rid of his rebellious captive.

Kjell had been right about Zora, and if there hadn’t been truth in his bold accusation, Rurik doubted that he would have become so angry. Yet it was much more serious than that.

He didn’t just have an eye for her…he was becoming consumed by her. Clenching his fists, he wondered how long it would take him before he would stop shaking.

Chapter 11

Shortly past noon the following day they reached Smolensk, a fair-sized trading town, but Rurik gave no orders to stop. They continued on for another few hours, abandoning the Dnieper to veer north along a smaller water route, and only then did he command his men to lower the sail.

“You will stay on board.” Rurik’s gruff command was the first words he had spoken to her since the previous evening. “And if I don’t?” Zora glared at him as he turned his attention back to his men, dismissing her. “Maybe I, too, would enjoy a chance to walk on dry land again.”

“Don’t try me, Princess,” Rurik muttered as he moved away.

This new threat echoing dangerously the one he had hurled at her yesterday, Zora knew that she would be a fool to press him further. The last thing she wanted was to encourage another incident like the one in the tent. The very last thing.

After the boat was rowed to the shoreline, she watched disgruntled from her perch on the prow as Rurik and his men jumped overboard. Yet her annoyance became amazement as the thirty-foot vessel was hoisted bodily onto log rollers with much grunting and cursing—Kjell and Arne heaving near the front while Rurik and Leif pushed from the stern— and propelled along the short portage trail until they came to another narrow river.

Marveling grudgingly that the combined strength of her four captors accomplished such a massive task, Zora wondered if they might make camp for the night before moving on. Her mouth watered at the thought of freshly cooked meat. And such a stay might afford her an opportunity to elude them.

But when the boat was shoved without delay back into the water, she was keenly disappointed. From Rurik’s determined expression as he hauled himself over the railing it was clear he aimed to press onward to Novgorod. No doubt he wished to deliver her as quickly as possible to her uncle.

Her time to escape was ebbing away.

Kjell seemed distant, rarely affording her even a sideways glance. He must have taken Arne’s grim warning to heart, and perhaps feared that Rurik might very well raise his sword against him if he took her part again.

In fact, no one seemed to pay her much heed, especially Rurik, although despite his obvious efforts to avoid her, she was convinced from the tense set of his shoulders that he was acutely aware of her presence. He avoided her gaze, too. But whenever their eyes did chance to meet, she never failed to shiver at the forbidding coldness in those vivid blue depths.

He hated her, she was sure of it, which was no less than she felt about him. And when she overheard him talking to Arne that evening about a second portage within another three days journey, she knew it might be her last chance to win her freedom before they reached Novgorod.

She began to make preparations, what few she could. First tearing a strip from her blanket and fashioning a pouch for provisions. Then she started to take all her meals in the tent, eating only a meager third of her dried, salted fish and by now stale bread and stashing the rest.

She would need food once she escaped, enough to last her until she reached the nearest town where she planned to seek refuge at the parish church. Surely the presiding priest would help her return to her father. Tmutorokan was the leading see of the Orthodox faith in Rus, the site of some of the earliest conversions from paganism to Christianity, and Mstislav’s lavish support of the Church was well known among the clergy. She could always argue that for the priest to refuse her aid could bring censure upon him from the patriarch of Constantinople, a threat only a fool would take lightly. So she watched and planned.

When they finally reached the portage by midafternoon three days later, her pouch was full. Again, Rurik wasted no time in ordering his men over the side. Zora was ready, too. When he commanded tersely that she remain aboard, she retreated to the stern and sat obediently upon a rowing bench, in false meekness. Inside she was a raw bundle of nerves, her heart hammering.

Be still and be wary! she chided herself, clasping her hands tightly to contain her nervousness. Watch for the right moment and then seize it!

She averted her gaze as Rurik stripped down to his trousers, focusing instead on the chirping birds fluttering in and out of the dense trees flanking the portage. But Rurik’s bare chest was so bronzed and massive that she couldn’t help peeking at him out of the corner of her eye.

It was a good thing she was soon to escape, considering how attractive she found him. Then, she remembered all too well the pressure of those powerful arms wrapped around her, the sleekness of his skin over hard muscle. She frowned, growing angry with herself.

“Excuse me if I’ve offended your sense of modesty, Princess, but the afternoon sun is warm,” he said sarcastically. Zora swallowed the tart response that flew to her lips. In a concerted effort to appear as amenable as possible, she offered him a smile.

“It is your ship, Lord Rurik. I would suppose that you can do whatever you like upon it.”

Studying her for what seemed an interminable instant, his eyes alight with suspicion, he finally muttered, “So I can.” Then he swung his legs over the railing and joined his men in the shallow water.

Zora exhaled in relief. She was finally alone! She waited until Rurik and his men were absorbed in pushing the vessel from the river and lifting it onto the log rollers before she hurried into the tent and grabbed the pouch, stuffing it down the front of her tunic. The dried fish was pungent and she wrinkled her nose in disgust. She hoped that she reached the church quickly. Surely the priest would feed her well.

Hastening back outside, she was about to retake her seat when the boat suddenly tilted dangerously to one side. She barely caught the railing in time to prevent herself from falling. Rurik’s sharp commands filled the air, and as Leif rushed around to help right the vessel, leaving only Kjell on the starboard side near the bow, Zora knew instinctively she had found her chance. The boat was barely level before she had clambered over the side, her feet landing upon a huge log.

“My lady, what are you doing?” came Kjell’s astonished voice.

Her heart racing, Zora ignored him. She jumped to the ground and ran for the trees. It seemed that within seconds she had reached their safety, but she plunged on, prickly brambles scratching at her, the thick forest before her nearly as dark as twilight.

The brittle sound of branches snapping caused Zora to gasp in fright. Someone was crashing through the woods behind her. Oh, God, Rurik? She began to run faster, her panting breaths tearing at her throat and her legs pumping furiously as she dashed through the trees.

“Princess Zora, stop! It’s not safe out here!”

Relief flooded her that it was only Kjell, but she knew that Rurik might be close behind him and she ran all the harder.

“My father has great influence at Yaroslav’s court, my lady! You don’t have to run away. Come back and I promise that he will help—”

Kjell’s words ended so abruptly that she imagined from his sharp inhalation of breath and the dull thud that followed that he must have tripped and fallen. She even dared to believe when she heard no more heavy footfalls behind her that no one else was even near to catching her. As she came to a small clearing, she paused for the barest instant to catch her breath and she shot a glance over her shoulder.

What she saw made her heart lurch. Kjell was lying facedown upon the ground some thirty feet away, a bearded, disheveled man leaning over him. She almost retched when the stranger yanked a bloodied axe from the middle of Kjell’s back, then he straightened and grinned at her.

“‘Tis a good thing you ran into the forest when you did, Princess,” he called out in a strange, guttural voice. “If you’d stayed with the ship a second longer, you would have been attacked along with the rest.”

Rurik and his warriors…under attack? Was that why he hadn’t come running after her with Kjell? It was then that Zora heard the distant sounds of shouting and the ominous ring of metal against metal echoing through the trees. Her gaze, widening in horror, moved from the stranger’s face to the dripping weapon in his hand.

Holy Mother of Christ, what sort of men attacked passing ships without first determining if they were friend or foe? Could it be that they held no allegiance but to themselves…cared about nothing but their own gain as any ruthless marauders might…?

Zora thought no more, realizing with chilling clarity that she, too, was in grave danger. She spun, only to come face-to-face with four more bedraggled men who had sneaked up behind her. Before she could flee, the closest one grabbed her cruelly by the shoulder and twisted her around in such a way that her back came up hard against his stomach, a knife suddenly at her throat.

“My lady, is it? Princess?” he said in her ear, his breath smelling of rotten eggs. “You’ll have to tell us more about yourself, wench. If it’s true what the Varangian called out to you before Yurik caught him with his blade, we’ll have nabbed a lot more for this day’s work than any gold we find on the ship.”

“Aye, but what I want to know right now,” piped up one of the others, “is why she stinks of fish?”

“It’s my provisions! I—I stuffed them down my tunic.” Her legs weak with fear, Zora tensed when the man holding her began to grope at her chest. “I was running away!” she added hoarsely. “I—I’m a princess, just as you say…Zora of Tmutorokan. The Varangians were taking me against my will to Grand Prince Yaroslav’s court in Novgorod. My father is Mstislav, his brother—”

“Silence, woman! Your bawling is making my head ache!” As her captor held the cold edge of the knife more firmly to her throat, he grabbed the collar of her tunic and ripped downward, her pouch tumbling to the ground. “Aye, that’s what reeks,” he announced. His large, dirty hand slid over the sash binding her breasts. “I’d wager the wench is as sweet-tasting as she looks.”

“No!” Zora cried as the sash was torn from her body, baring her breasts to their hungry eyes. She crossed her arms protectively in front of her. “Please, I told you I was a princess. My father has offered a thousand gold grivna for my safe return!”

“There’ll be plenty of time to talk of rewards later,” growled her captor. His palm was as rough as pine bark as he stroked her, his foul breath hot upon her neck. “After the rest of the band has had a chance to try you. Don’t you agree, Yurik?”

“Aye, indeed.” The man who had murdered Kjell gazed over her greedily. He wiped his bloodstained axe across his tunic, an evil grin stretching his face. “Why don’t we have some fun now, before the others see what we’ve found? They’re busy stripping the ship and those dead Varangians anyway. Aye, let’s have her get down on her knees…”

Horrified tears sprang to Zora’s eyes. She was pushed down to kneel upon the hard ground, the blade still pressed to her throat. She gazed up in shock when the man called Yurik stepped in front of her. He dropped his broadaxe to the grass and began to work at his trousers.

“That’s right, swine! Pull out your puny flesh for all of us to see,” came a grim voice from the trees. “Then kiss it farewell.”

Cursing, Yurik wheeled around at the same moment a spear sailed through the air with deadly force, striking the man holding Zora right through the neck. He teetered lifelessly, blood spurting in a scarlet arc from the wound while his knife fell to the ground. Zora sank back on her heels, so stunned that she couldn’t move even when the dead man toppled like a felled tree behind her.

Her eyes were fixed upon Rurik as he stepped into the sunny clearing, his powerful body drenched with sweat and spattered with the lifeblood of his enemies, his stained sword, Branch-of-Odin, in his right hand. His face was hard, harder than she had ever seen it, and when his bone-chilling battle cry shattered the silence and he rushed at his dumbstruck opponents, she knew that she had never witnessed a more terrifying sight. He was no longer a man but a warrior, brutal, invincible. It made her tremble just to look upon him.

Yurik was the second to die, his axe no sooner in his hand than Rurik’s sword severed his fighting arm from his body. His piercing screams reverberated around the clearing, and sent two of his comrades to flight. The one who remained stood rooted in terror. He fought for no more than a moment before he, too, met his end, his entrails gushing forth pink and glistening from a hacking blow to his stomach.

Zora bent over and retched then, nearly choking on bile. Yet her violent heaving was not enough to drown out the horrible screams of one of her captors who had tripped in his haste to escape only to find Rurik bearing down upon him.

“Stand up and die like a man!” Rurik’s harsh command was an ominous death knell for his by now incoherently babbling opponent.

An eerie silence fell over the clearing, and Zora didn’t need to look to know that the man had been slain. Sickened, numb, and shaking uncontrollably, she clutched her torn tunic to her breasts and waited for Rurik’s terrible wrath to next fall upon her.

It never came. She glanced up to discover that he was leaving the clearing, and without affording her even a backward glance.

“What—what if there are more of them?” she cried in disbelief, looking around her fearfully and growing queasy again at the bloody carnage surrounding her.

Rurik stopped, his chest heaving painfully from exertion, and met her eyes, his blinding battle rage having subsided enough for him to answer through clenched teeth. “The last man fled. He will not return.”

Indeed, if he believed she was still in danger he would never leave her side, but he suspected that the last robber was a coward and would run until exhaustion felled him. Fighting his overwhelming urge to go to Zora and gather her in his arms, Rurik stood his ground and forced his voice to remain hard.

“But I warn you, Princess, you will find other wandering marauders along your way if you persist in your preposterous plan to escape, and then I won’t be there to help you.” Staring at her tear-stained face, he threw out his next words like a challenge. “Decide now what you will do. Either come with me to Novgorod or take your chances on foot.”

“You…you are offering me a choice?”

No, Rurik thought, seeing the amazement in her eyes, but let her think so. If she came with him willingly, fearing for her welfare if she did not, then the remainder of their journey might be peaceful.

He couldn’t afford to keep chasing her down; he had only two men left now, and Leif had suffered a wound across the shoulder. If she decided against him, he would keep her tied up until he dumped her in front of Grand Prince Yaroslav. Either way, he would win.

“You heard me, Zora. Decide!”

Sensing her uncertainty, Rurik wondered if he might very well have a trussed up, indignant, and acid-tongued princess on his hands for the remainder of the journey. But then he saw her delicate shoulders droop in resignation.

As she rose shakily, he stifled again his desire to crush her in his embrace, and disgusted by his waning self-control, he set out through the woods.

“Aren’t you even going to hear my answer?”

“I have other things to do,” he said grimly, thinking ahead to Kjell’s burial. Finding that the fallen warrior’s body was gone, he surmised that Arne must have already carried him to the ship. Anger and regret surged within him again. Kjell had been struck from behind, dying without a sword in his hand; it was the worst fear of every Varangian, Christian or not.

Thor’s blood, he should never have agreed to allow the untested boy on this mission! He had known from the start that Kjell lacked the true instincts of a fighter. His weapon was still in his scabbard when Rurik had found him. His sensitive poet’s nature had killed him.

The besotted fool might still be alive if Zora hadn’t so wantonly misled him, Rurik thought, his resentment flaring. But now was not the time to rail at her for that, not when she was hurrying to catch up with him, branches snapping beneath her feet. When they passed the place where the young warrior had fallen, Rurik saw the black earth stained dark with blood. He heard Zora gasp softly.

“Where is Kjell?”

Her eyes were shining with fresh tears as Rurik turned to look at her.

“So you know that he was killed?”

She nodded, her delicate hand pressed to her lips. “Arne has taken him back to the ship.”

She said nothing for a long moment. Then she whispered brokenly, “I’m…I’m sorry, Lord Rurik.”

Startled by her apology and touched by its heartfelt sincerity, Rurik nonetheless swallowed the catch in his throat.

“Sorry? Don’t tell me that you’re admitting you caused this misfortune.”

She tilted her chin in defiance. “I’m sorry for what happened to Kjell…not for trying to escape.”

By Odin, she could rile him like no other! Rurik thought. “The two events were intertwined, Princess. If Kjell hadn’t run after you, he would have had the ship to protect his back during the attack. I suggest you save your apologies for his father, Thordar the Strong, another member of the grand prince’s senior druzhina.”

This news came like a double blow. Zora wished desperately that she could turn back time and she hadn’t tried to escape, for perhaps this man could somehow have helped her as Kjell had claimed right before he was struck down. If only he had told her sooner! But now there seemed to be nothing she could do but face the wrath of Kjell’s father as she must soon face her uncle.

Using her palm to smudge away the last remnants of her tears, Zora glared resentfully at Rurik. “Never fear, great lord, you’ll hear no more apologies from me,” she said as she brushed past him. “And you can be sure I’ll hold on to my thanks for saving me from those men as well! I doubt you’d think it sincere anyway, so why waste my breath?”

Rurik’s gaze followed Zora’s shapely form as she wended her way through the trees. She seemed not to care if he was coming after her or not. Silently he cursed the strange hold she seemed to have upon him, a hold that was gaining strength despite his every effort to shatter its grip. Yet thankfully it seemed tempered in light of his renewed irritation.

Lengthening his strides to catch up with her, he hoped that she did spite him all the way to Novgorod. As long as he was angry with her, these unwanted feelings could be kept at bay. And if her antics weren’t enough, he had only to think of Kjell and her womanly deceit.

Chapter 12

Half out of breath, Zora attempted in vain to yank her arm away from Rurik. She was humiliated that he was practically dragging her across the paved courtyard leading to Grand Prince Yaroslav’s palace. As they left the imposing timbered gatehouse behind them, she could feel the Varangian warriors who stood sentinel around the fortified compound eyeing her curiously.

“You could have at least allowed me to change into proper clothes first, brush out this braid, wash my face, something!” she gasped out, struggling to keep up with him.

“There wasn’t time.” Rurik gripped her elbow more tightly. “By now your uncle has received news of my return from the guards who met the ship. He is expecting us…that is, expecting me. You, Princess, will be a surprise.”

A surprise for you, too, Lord High-and-Mighty, Zora fumed, wondering what Rurik would think when he discovered he had escorted a mere bastard daughter almost the length of Rus.

“Can’t we slow down just a bit?” She shot him an angry sidelong glance. “You’d think we were running a race—”

“I caution you to curb your temper,” Rurik said, maintaining his pace. By Thor, he would carry her kicking and screaming into Yaroslav’s hall if need be, he was so anxious to be rid of her! “You’re a prisoner, remember? Despite your blood relation to the grand prince, he will not appreciate your insolence. He can be very quick to anger.”

“I could care a whit about what my uncle thinks,” came her blatantly defiant reply. “Or you, for that matter! You can save your advice.”

Frowning, Rurik was tempted to throw her over his shoulder and give her bottom a good whack, if only to teach her a lesson, but he decided not to let her goad him, which she seemed bent upon doing. Her truculent behavior was certainly a change from the uneasy calm of the last few days, but he couldn’t say that he had missed it.

“Suit yourself, Princess, but don’t say that you weren’t forewarned.”

“That’s it? No threat?” Gaining courage from his surprisingly cool response, Zora wished she had more time to tell him exactly what she thought of him and the past two weeks of enduring his company, but they had reached the entrance to the massive stone palace. The fierce-looking guards bowed their heads respectfully and stepped aside so that she and Rurik might pass through the heavy double doors.

Her ruthless captor scarcely deserved such homage, Zora fumed. But she was soon distracted by her surroundings. She could tell at once that her father’s palace, although sumptuous, was not nearly so large as this one.

Many polished weapons hung from the high, three-story walls, their brilliant pattern broken at intervals by colorful tapestries depicting hunting expeditions and victorious battle scenes. Tall, thick candles lit the cavernous space for there were no windows, while at the far end of the hall, logs the height of small trees burned brightly in an immense fireplace. Although it had been sunny and warm outdoors, spring fading into more summerlike weather, the air inside was chill.

Besides the guards standing at silent attention throughout the room, there was a group of men engaged in discourse near the roaring fire. Zora recognized her uncle at once among the somber quartet whom she imagined must be some of his advisers.

Dark of hair and barrel-chested, with large eyes and a ruddy complexion, Yaroslav resembled her father in all ways save for his height. The grand prince was a short man, standing perhaps a few inches higher than herself. Unkindly, Zora reasoned that he had surrounded himself with such a lofty palace to compensate for his lack of stature.

“So you have safely returned, Rurik Sigurdson!” the grand prince said in a great booming voice, startling Zora when he broke away from the group and strode energetically toward them.

She stood uncomfortably to one side while the two men embraced heartily, confirming that Rurik held a very high place in the ruler’s esteem. Then to her surprise they moved away, leaving her standing there alone as if she were invisible. She had never felt so insulted.

“I trust that we’ve much to discuss,” Yaroslav began, his tone sobering as he gestured to the tall chairs placed in a semicircle before the fireplace. “Come, let us sit and—”

“Forgive my interruption, lord prince,” Rurik broke in, feeling Zora’s indignant gaze boring into his back. Despite the grave seriousness of this meeting, her reaction made him want to smile. Yaroslav’s disinterest in her had obviously set her down a notch or two. “There is another matter that first demands our attention.”

“Another matter? What could be more important…?” As Rurik gestured for Zora to come forward, Yaroslav focused upon her as if seeing her for the first time. Then he glanced questioningly at Rurik. “This grubby youth has some bearing upon our discussion? A messenger, perhaps?”

Seeing Zora stiffen, Rurik had to stifle again his urge to smile. “Not a youth, my lord” —he reached out and flipped Zora’s thick braid over her shoulder— “but a wench and my prisoner for almost three weeks now. Your niece, Princess Zora of Tmutorokan.”

Zora jerked away from him. She was not going to stand there while Rurik toyed with her person and talked over her head! Throwing aside all caution, she rounded upon her uncle.

“Yes, I’m Princess Zora and I demand that you release me at once and return me to my father, Prince Mstislav!” she cried, her outraged voice echoing in the hall. “Such a gesture can only begin to compensate for the crimes that this brutal man has committed against me. Before abducting me from Chernigov, he vilely assaulted me and stole my honor, then threatened me at cost of life and limb if I dared to try and escape. He almost suffocated me on one occasion, nearly ravaged me again on another, and has forced me all along to wear this…this man’s garb! I demand justice! I demand—”

“Silence!”

Her heart pounding, Zora clamped her mouth shut in surprise. She stared at her uncle, who appeared unaffected by her outburst despite him just having to shout to quiet her. Yet his eyes now held a cold glint of hardness.

“You will hold your tongue until I ask you to speak,” Yaroslav warned in a low tone. “Do you understand?”

Reluctantly, she nodded.

“Excellent.” He turned to Rurik, whose expression had grown dark and angry. “I can well imagine why you thought it important to bring this woman to Novgorod, but first, before you respond to her many charges, I want to know how you came upon my brother’s bastard daughter.”

Now Rurik looked stunned. Zora felt smug satisfaction at his reaction and smiled tightly when he glanced at her, granting him a slight, mocking bow of her head.

“A bastard?”

Yaroslav uttered a short, humorless laugh. “Born of Velika, Mstislav’s favorite concubine, some seventeen years ago. Am I not correct, young woman?”

Zora was not surprised he knew about her. She had expected as much. “Yes, my mother was Velika.”

“Beautiful woman,” the grand prince said almost to himself. “I met her once when Mstislav brought her with him to Kiev, our father having summoned us for a meeting of his council. We were rivals even then, long years before we would become the bitterest of enemies.” His tone grown cold, he glanced at Zora. “I can see now that you favor your mother…perhaps even surpass her in beauty if you get rid of the dirt. Did you not allow her to bathe, Rurik?”

“She refused, my prince.”

“Hmmm…stubborn and defiant, with a willful tongue to match,” Yaroslav said, studying her so intently that Zora began to feel uncomfortable. “Not the wisest of traits for any captive.” He turned abruptly to Rurik. “You captured her in Chernigov?”

“Not exactly, my lord, but it is a long story—”

“And one I am most eager to hear. Continue.”

Wondering what Yaroslav had meant by his cryptic statement, Zora listened impatiently as Rurik recounted how he had found her in the trading camp, and to her surprise, she learned that the slave merchant Gleb had not been killed, as she had believed. Another lie Rurik had fed her! Then he repeated what little she had told him about Hermione, and at that point the grand prince gave another laugh as dry as the first.

“If this is true, it sounds as if young Hermione has taken on the traits of her Greek mother. I met Canace only once, a year later in Kiev at her wedding to my brother. As lovely to look upon as a vermilion rose, but possessing the prickliest of thorns. Too bad the woman Mstislav married was not the one he loved.”

“My lord?” asked Rurik while Zora stood motionless, hearing a family history she knew only too well.

“He wanted to marry Velika, but our father Vladimir would not hear of it. Only a highborn bride who was cousin to Emperor Basil of Byzantium would do. How it must have vexed Canace to come into a household where a Slavic concubine held the stature of wife.” Yaroslav’s gaze shifted to Zora. “Yet in time, your mother was banished from the palace, was she not?”

“Yes, shortly after my birth,” Zora said softly, feeling Rurik’s eyes upon her. “Lady Canace would no longer stand us under her roof. My father visited us in the country when he could, and six years later, when my mother died, he brought me back to Tmutorokan and accepted me publicly as his daughter despite his wife’s protests.” She raised her chin proudly. “So you see, I may be a bastard, but in my father’s realm I am a princess.”

“Indeed,” was Yaroslav’s terse reply. “Go on with your story, Rurik.”

Already angered by her uncle’s condescending tone, Zora felt her ire mounting as Rurik detailed their short stay in Chernigov and what had happened between them. Just in time Yaroslav threw her a sharp warning glance as if sensing her pique, and she bit back the invectives that had leapt to her tongue. Yet when Rurik finally concluded with their rainswept flight from her father’s city, she felt that she would surely burst if she didn’t give vent to her feelings.

“Whether I submitted to him willingly or not, this man must pay for what he did to me!” She glared at Rurik, so furious that she stamped her foot. “He has ruined me! Lord Ivan may not even want to marry me now when I return to Chernigov—”

“Who said a word about your return?”

Zora gaped at Yaroslav, wondering if she had been wrong about her value to him. Holy Mother of Christ, why had she let her pride get the better of her? She shouldn’t have made so much about her father naming her a princess.

“I—I thought you might send me back…surely a bastard can be of little use—”

“Bastard or not,” Yaroslav cut her off, clearly irritated that she had abandoned her agreement to hold her tongue, “your father offering a reward of one thousand gold grivna proves your worth to him, and can only mean that he must love you dearly. As Velika’s only child, I am not surprised…”

The grand prince began to pace before them, his face somber as if deep in thought. Fearing that he might be planning to use her as a political pawn after all, Zora shot a nervous glance at Rurik only to find him staring straight ahead, his handsome features grim.

Dear God, he would not look so serious if some cold, calculating pronouncement wasn’t soon to fall upon her head! She began to tremble for the terrible suspense, and when Yaroslav abruptly came to a halt in front of Rurik, she felt her knees growing weak.

“I give her to you, Rurik of Novgorod.”

Zora exhaled sharply, staring at Yaroslav in confusion. Rurik seemed just as confounded.

“If it is your wish that I guard her until you decide what you will do—”

“No, I give her to you as your bride.”

Rurik hoped he had heard incorrectly.

Zora felt as if the earth had suddenly been swept from beneath her feet. She was speechless. Surely her uncle must have lost his reason!

“Princess Zora may be my brother’s daughter, but she’s of no use to me,” Yaroslav continued, ignoring her as he addressed Rurik. “Mstislav would never give up his reckless plan of conquest no matter how much he loves her, and I doubt he could offer more than one thousand grivna to ransom her. His coffers must surely be strained to the limit as he prepares for war.”

“But, my lord, couldn’t you find use for such a sum?” Rurik asked, his voice coming out hoarse.

“Gold is always needed, but I’ve no time to deal with the details that such a transaction would require. Besides, when the victory falls to me, everything that belongs to my brother will become mine to do with as I like. I give the princess to you for your many years of loyal service.” Yaroslav clasped Rurik’s arm. “Few have been as faithful as you, Rurik Sigurdson, and you are yet unmarried. Look at her as a well-earned prize captured in time of war but with the blood of my father, Vladimir the Great, in her veins. Someday, that same royal blood will flow through your sons.”

Rurik took a deep breath to steady his racing pulse, noting out of the corner of his eye the ashen pallor of Zora’s face. He had never seen her so pale, and strangely it cut him deep that she would find the grand prince’s proposal so abhorrent. Angrily he shrugged off the odd feeling, and thinking she must be too stunned to make any protest, he decided to spare her any more suffering. He chose his next words carefully so as not to insult his liege lord.

“My prince, you honor me with such an offer, but I must refuse. You know that I have sworn never to marry.”

“Why?” Yaroslav dismissed Rurik’s words with a brusque wave of his hand. “Because some fickle wench married your older brother instead of you? We have all suffered a woman’s deceit at some time or another, Rurik. You are no different from other men. I say it is time you think of heirs for the wealthy estate you have built in Rus!”

“I already have children—”

“You cannot bequeath your entire estate to the bastards you have sired. You may have recognized your illegitimate spawn as your own, but the law limits their inheritance. Will you see much of what you have gained passed back to the state?”

When Rurik did not readily answer, Yaroslav heaved a sigh of frustration. “You were always a stubborn one, Rurik. Very well, if you won’t take the wench for your bride, perhaps Lord Boris might want her. Since his second wife died of sickness a few months ago, he’s been looking for another. I’ll send him a message this very hour—”

“Stop! I’ll endure this no longer!” Zora blurted out, finding her voice at last. Her numb astonishment had become blinding outrage. She was so furious that her uncle had so carelessly offered her to Rurik that she was shaking from head to toe. And her pride had suffered no small offense that the brutish pagan had flatly spurned her! “How dare the two of you speak of me in so callous a manner, as if I weren’t even here…as if I have no say in whom I shall marry? I would rather die than wed some idol-worshiper, and that goes for your Lord Boris as well!”

His ruddy face growing mottled with anger, Yaroslav’s voice was deadly quiet. “Lord Rurik is no pagan. Like my father who ruled before me, I demand that every man sworn to serve under my banner is baptized into the Christian faith.”

Spurred on by her boiling indignation, Zora challenged him. “If that is true, why does Lord Rurik call so often upon his pagan gods? I’ve heard him do so countless times, especially when he’s angry, and his own sword bears the heathen name of Branch-of-Odin—”

“Old beliefs die hard,” Rurik interjected, his resentment at her false charge more than overshadowed by the jealousy ripping him apart. The thought of Boris, a vile, disgusting pig of a man, even casting a sideways glance at Zora was enough to sour his stomach. “If I called upon the gods when angered, it was only because you tried me so sorely, Princess.”

“So you thought I should bear my captivity meekly, is that it?” Zora scoffed. “You are more than a fool, Lord Rurik, if you believed I would not try and thwart you—”

“Cease!” roared Yaroslav. “I will take no more time with this! You”—he jabbed a stubby finger at Zora— “will marry whom I choose and believe me, young woman, you have no leave to say otherwise. And if you don’t submit to my choice for your husband, you may easily find yourself given as a whore to my entire junior druzhina for the insolence you have shown me today. Perhaps that might sway you!”

Zora could only stare at him, wholly astounded by his threat. She couldn’t believe that her uncle would really do such a thing to her, but she’d be insane to tempt him. She had heard enough times from her father that Yaroslav was a hard, ruthless man. Now she was convinced of it.

“Good. It seems you have wisely decided to curb your sharp tongue. Since Rurik doesn’t want you, and God knows I can see why, I’m certain Lord Boris will be more than happy to accept you as his new bride—”

“I will marry her.”

Rurik’s firm pronouncement rang in the hall, the words out before he had made a conscious decision to say them. But now that they were uttered, he meant them.

Yaroslav snorted in disbelief. “Are you sure, Rurik? From the ill temper she has displayed, perhaps she is no prize but a bane to any man who accepts her.”

“A bane only until she is tamed, my lord. It is a challenge that I see now I can no longer refuse.”

She would learn her place within his life soon enough, Rurik vowed grimly as Zora’s cheeks flushed pink with indignation, her beautiful eyes filled with dismay. She would serve his needs and bear his children, but she would mean no more to him than any of his concubines, wife or not. That would be the first thing he would make sure that she understood. In time, he was certain that his overwhelming desire for her would diminish and so, too, would her hold upon him. No doubt it had been his lust consuming him all along.

“Do I hear any objections?” Yaroslav demanded from Zora like a taunt.

Objections? she thought bitterly, refusing to meet Rurik’s gaze. She could raise the roof of this hall with her opposition to this unthinkable match! But with the grand prince’s cruel threat ringing in her mind, she said not a word. For now, she would simply have to endure the outrage that was being forced upon her.

“So be it, then.” Yaroslav signaled for two strapping Varangian guards to come forward and flank Zora. “Escort the princess to the woman’s terem and explain to my wife Ingigerd what you have heard. Tell her to prepare my niece for her wedding. After Lord Rurik and I have finished our business, I will send word to you when I want her brought to the cathedral. Now go, and take special care that she doesn’t elude you.”

Nudged by one of the guards into motion, Zora held her head high as she left the hall. She could feel Rurik watching her, and she wished fervently that he could read her thoughts.

If any man’s life was soon to become a living hell, it was his. She would see to it.

Chapter 13

Zora sighed with pleasure as gently heated water was poured over her head, rinsing the rose-scented suds from her hair.

“One more time, Marta. We want to make sure all the soap is out before she leaves the tub.”

While the slave woman went to refill the bucket, Zora wiped the moisture from her eyes and looked up through spiky lashes at the willowy blond who had just reentered the room. Perhaps ten years older than herself, Lady Ingigerd regarded her with such cool inquisitiveness that Zora decided the haughty Norse beauty was a good match for her ogre of an uncle. She felt like she was being inspected, the woman was staring at her so.

“I’m surprised that Lord Rurik didn’t think to provide you with a brush or comb for your hair,” Ingigerd commented, arching a thin brow as she came closer. “I’ve always known him to be a considerate man, especially when it comes to beautiful women.”

“He did.” Remembering his presents, Zora swatted some suds across the surface of the water.

“Did what?”

“Give me a brush.”

“Then you must not have used it very often. It’s going to take Marta some doing to untangle all those snarls—”

“I never used it. I threw the brush overboard, along with the clean clothes he bought for me.”

“I see.”

Zora screwed her eyes shut as another bucketful of water was poured over her head and she missed Ingigerd’s speculative look. When she opened them, Marta was standing at the ready with a thick towel, and although Zora would have liked to linger in the bath—the warm water felt like heaven—she rose and stepped from the tub.

Soon she was snug and dry, wrapped in a soft woolen robe and seated before the fire. As Marta began to comb her damp hair, to Zora’s surprise, Ingigerd sat down opposite her.

“My seamstresses are altering one of my tunics more to your size. I only wore it once. It’s a rich blue brocade that will look lovely with your eyes. And an extra pair of my slippers are being covered with the leftover fabric.”

Remembering with bitterness her last such gift, the bolt of cream silk Hermione had given her for her wedding gown, Zora drew her lips together tightly and stared at the dancing flames. She knew she must not appear ungrateful, but she didn’t care what she wore to this sham of a marriage ceremony.

“While you were bathing, the guards informed me that Lord Rurik at first refused my husband’s offer of your hand in marriage,” added Ingigerd, apparently undaunted by her silence. “Yet he reconsidered when Yaroslav mentioned giving you to Lord Boris, did he not?”

Zora cast Ingigerd a sharp sidelong glance, wondering what had brought on such a question. Was her aunt thinking that Rurik had agreed to marry her for some other reason than to enhance his own prestige? Surely not.

“If Lord Rurik changed his mind, it was because my uncle’s words finally swayed him,” she replied caustically. “Taking a princess to wife will be quite a coup for a Varangian mercenary who must have started out with nothing but the might of his sword! He’s won a royal brood mare to help him secure his precious estate.”

Zora wanted to finish by saying that she would be gone long before she gave Rurik any heirs, but she prudently held her tongue. She would be a fool to give Ingigerd any hint of her secret plans.

“If Lord Rurik was so concerned for his estate, he would have married long ago,” Ingigerd said almost to herself as if pondering the matter aloud. “He has six beautiful concubines, four of whom have borne him children. Any one of these women would have made a suitable bride, not to mention the daughters of my husband’s retainers who’ve tried for years without success to gain Lord Rurik’s attention.” She glanced at Zora, her gaze probing. “But instead he chose you.”

Wondering again why Ingigerd would be discussing all of this with her, Zora had to admit that she had been surprised to hear Rurik had bastard children, and that he had recognized them as his own. It was a rare man who didn’t relegate such offspring to slavery. Perhaps she should have admitted to him that she was a bastard. He might have deemed her not worth the trouble of escorting to Novgorod and now she wouldn’t be facing this forced marriage—

A sharp tug on a snarl caused Zora to wince, her irritation pricked not at Marta but that she would waste her time in musing over how things might have been. Her only concern should be how to get herself out of this unhappy mess!

“Gently, Marta,” Ingigerd admonished her slave. She rose and stood behind Zora for a moment, then moved gracefully to the carved mantel and faced her.

“Is there anything you want to know about the man my husband has chosen for you?”

Startled, Zora regarded Ingigerd with suspicion. Her aunt’s tone, although cool, had not been unkind. “Why would you ask me such a thing?”

“Only because I, too, once faced much the same situation that you do now, and can imagine how you must feel. My marriage was arranged by my father, the king of Sweden, and even though I loved another man I had no say in whom I wished to wed. Yet I am content here with my husband, and I would wish the same for you. In the end, that is the wisest path.”

Zora looked at the other woman, now wholly astonished. She could not believe that Ingigerd had revealed so much about herself. Up until now, she had hardly been friendly. But if her aunt was implying that she must simply accept what fate had brought to her…

“You wish an impossible thing, my lady,” she retorted, resentment welling inside her. “I could never be content with a man who took advantage of me and stole my virginity when I did not have my wits enough about me to say no. A man who continually lied to me and threatened me despite his promises of protection. And during the journey—”

“If indeed he did those things, I’m certain they were for the good of his mission. You seem an intelligent girl. Did you not think of that? But as for your last charge, Lord Rurik is no despoiler of women. You must have provoked him.”

Ingigerd’s blunt statement took her by surprise. Zora felt her cheeks redden. “I did not!”

“No? You already told me that you dumped the things he had given you into the river. Why else would you have spurned his kindness if not to frustrate him?”

Flushed with indignation, Zora blurted, “All I did was smile at one of his men. Lord Rurik told me I could ask them for their assistance to draw water from the river but the one time I did, he accused me of attempting to turn his men against him. He…he came into my tent and…” Her skin became gooseflesh as vivid memories of their encounter assailed her.

“And?” Ingigerd prodded.

“He called me a wanton,” Zora replied, remembering all too well how Rurik’s blue eyes had blazed into hers and how he had pulled her into his arms. As a stirring warmth raced through her, her gaze fell from Ingigerd to the bright orange flames in the hearth. She knew the disconcerting sensation had nothing to do with the fire. “Then he kissed me.”

A silence filled the room save for the crackling logs and the soft swish of Marta’s comb through her hair until finally Ingigerd said, “I see no ravagement in a kiss.”

Admitting to herself that she might have exaggerated, Zora nonetheless jutted her chin. “Maybe not, but he swore that I would be punished if I ever caused trouble between him and his men again.”

“And what trouble was this?”

Becoming exasperated by Ingigerd’s probing questions and having no wish to open any discussion on what had happened to Kjell, Zora demanded, “What does it matter? That was days ago—”

“It matters in that you have accomplished what many an eligible young woman in Novgorod could only dream,” Ingigerd interrupted, her tone miffed. “It’s an amazing thing that Lord Rurik has finally agreed to wed, given his wont to spurn my every attempt at matchmaking. I would know how it came about.”

Heaving a sigh, Zora decided it was best to humor her.

“Lord Rurik and the young man I asked to help me got into an argument. I couldn’t hear everything through the tent, but I did hear Kjell say something about Lord Rurik caring that I had smiled at him, then Kjell accused Lord Rurik of having an eye for me…of making some kind of claim upon me.” She shrugged, wanting to close the uncomfortable subject. “That’s all.”

Ingigerd again seemed to ponder her words, then she shook her head. “I would never have believed it. Lord Rurik…jealous.”

“Hardly jealous,” Zora scoffed. “He hates me. He couldn’t wait to be rid of me.”

“Hate? I doubt that. Lord Rurik’s a man, isn’t he? You’re an exceedingly beautiful young woman. He had to favor you to take you to his bed. Perhaps his attraction had already grown to such proportions that he couldn’t bear to see you smiling at another man aboard his ship and then today, the thought of seeing you wed to someone else spurred him into accepting you as his bride.”

Stunned, Zora found herself wondering if this astonishing theory might be true. Could that be why Rurik had changed his mind about marrying her? Then just as quickly she dismissed the thought. What did she care if Rurik had been jealous, or if he was even remotely attracted to her? His feelings meant nothing to her.

“It’s clear you’ve seen in Lord Rurik only what you want to see…an enemy, your brutal captor,” Ingigerd continued, ignoring the stubborn set of Zora’s jaw. “But I’ve seen qualities in him over the years that any woman would wish for in a husband…bravery, generosity, and honor. It took me many unhappy months after my own marriage to admit that my husband possessed these traits as well.”

Zora eyed Ingigerd skeptically. “Your husband also said that he would throw me to his junior druzhina if I refused to accept his choice for me. Is that so honorable?”

Ingigerd gave a small laugh. “Yaroslav is not one to be crossed. Yet I do know that he would not have offered you to Lord Rurik unless he believed his warrior was worthy of you. I can see now that you are worthy of him as well…an excellent match, I would say. Perhaps you might be the one to ease his heart of the treachery in his past.”

Zora was tempted to reply that she would rather see a spear through Rurik’s heart, but a firm rap upon the door stayed her. A lump settled in her throat as a female slave entered the room with a garment of shimmering blue draped over one arm, a matching pair of slippers in her hand.

“My seamstresses work very quickly,” said Ingigerd, clearly pleased. “Isn’t the gown a beautiful color? Now come. Let us see how it fits you.”

As Zora rose on wobbly legs, wishing that by some miracle she could be spirited away from this place, this wedding, and, most of all, Rurik Sigurdson, Ingigerd’s gaze surprisingly held a glimmer of sympathy.

“You might consider what we’ve discussed today. Lord Rurik may seem a hard man now, but in time…”

At Ingigerd’s frown, Zora knew that her aunt had seen the renewed defiance in her eyes. She hadn’t needed to say a thing.

The cathedral was empty save for a small group of people waiting at the steps leading to the altar. As Zora walked with Ingigerd into the candlelit interior, she spied Rurik immediately among her uncle and the same four richly clad advisers who had been in the hall earlier that afternoon. How could she not notice him when he stood so tall and straight above everyone else? Her heart began to pound despite her firm resolve to remain aloof, for she had never seen Rurik so magnificently attired.

His jade-green tunic could not have fit his powerful body more snugly, the hem and cuffs of his sleeves edged in brocade, while his matching trousers were tucked into boots of fine black leather. At his neck glinted a heavy gold torque and his belt seemed entirely made of gold, the scabbard holding his sword encrusted with precious many-colored stones. She doubted that many princes possessed anything so fine.

But what made her breath catch and her heartbeat race all the faster was his countenance when he turned to face her, Grand Prince Yaroslav announcing their arrival in his thunderous voice. As she and Ingigerd began to walk down the center aisle, Zora decided that it should be a sin for God to put a man with such looks upon the earth. Freshly shaven, his silvery blond hair swept back from his broad forehead in such a way that his gold earring caught the light, Rurik was truly the most handsome man she had ever seen.

“See how Lord Rurik watches you?” came Ingigerd’s whispered aside as they drew closer to the assembled witnesses. “I believe if the sanctuary was full of beautiful women, he would have eyes only for you. Perhaps one day you will thank my husband for this marriage.”

Zora did not have to be told that Rurik was staring at her as if seeing her for the first time. His open admiration like a blazing heat upon her flesh, she was grateful for the anger Ingigerd’s observation had rekindled in her heart.

How dare he appraise her so in a holy place! Tearing her gaze from his, she walked the rest of the way with her eyes downcast. By the time she and Ingigerd came to a halt at the end of the aisle, she had composed herself sufficiently to face what lay ahead.

At least she thought that she had. When the bishop came forward and placed her hand in Rurik’s warm upturned palm, she started as if burned and began to tremble in earnest. She did not dare to glance up at him, but she knew he was watching her. Rurik was standing so close to her now that his clean, masculine scent overwhelmed her. Not wanting to admit how compelling she found it, out of the corner of her eye she was as easily disconcerted by the movement of his taut abdomen as he slowly breathed in and out.

To her relief, the bishop climbing the steps to the altar in a swirl of white cloth and embroidered vestments offered her a distraction, albeit an unhappy one. Once she had looked forward to the beautiful wedding ceremony as might any young woman soon to be married. Now it had become her humiliation, her husband not Lord Ivan of Tmutorokan, her father’s choice, but a man whom she swore to escape as soon as the opportune moment arose.

“Come, Zora, we must move forward.”

Rurik had all he could do to force his gaze from her. Gone was the grimy-faced urchin in soiled tunic and trousers, his mutinous captive transformed into an ethereal earthbound angel.

She smelled intoxicatingly sweet, like summer roses, and even his wildest imaginings couldn’t have prepared him for the sight of her in a well-cut tunic that clung to her lushly curved form, her breasts high and proud beneath a bodice shot through with gold thread. Upon her lowered head glittered a jeweled gold circlet. A gossamer blue veil provided the barest wisp of covering for the cascade of tawny hair framing her face and tumbling down her back.

Repressing his urge to touch a glossy tendril, Rurik began to move forward toward the steps only to feel her resist him, her slippered feet remaining in the same place as if rooted to the floor. Wondering with sudden irritation if she might be considering a final scene of defiance, he closed his hand around her small one and pulled her with him.

“The bishop is waiting, Princess, and your uncle grows impatient. Come.”

This time she came willingly but Rurik could see from her trembling chin that the decision had cost her. It was almost unfathomable that such a proud, stubborn young woman might be on the verge of tears, but he feared it was so.

As they reached the foot of the steps, two witnesses coming forward to hold the jeweled marriage crowns above their heads, Rurik loosened his hold and stroked her delicate fingers with his thumb, hoping his gesture might calm her. Instead, she seemed to tremble all the more. Two fat tears slid slowly down her cheeks as the bishop began reciting the service in somber, stentorian tones.

Moved more deeply than he thought possible, Rurik’s regret was acute that he was the cause of such unhappiness. Wondering with uncharacteristic emotion if his touch might ever bring a smile to her lips, he whispered, “Is it truly that bad, little one?”

Clearly startled, she met his gaze, her outrage shining through her tears. “So you mock me…even now when you have won,” she said in a small, hoarse voice. “What kind of heartless barbarian are you?”

Cut to the quick by her words, Rurik riveted his attention upon the bishop, not looking at Zora again until after their vows were said—his spoken with restrained anger and hers barely discernible—and the gold rings upon their fingers. Pronounced man and wife, Rurik could not sign the marriage contract held by the bishop’s young assistant fast enough. His jaw clenched all the tighter when after inscribing her name, Zora quickly scrawled three words…“Against my will.”

“Wrong, Princess,” he muttered, taking the pen from the wide-eyed assistant and crossing a bold line through what she had just written. “You had a choice.”

Ignoring her glare, Rurik took her arm as they turned to face their witnesses. Grand Prince Yaroslav’s pleased smile was a sharp contrast to Rurik’s ire. He couldn’t wait to get his rebellious bride home and teach her his first lesson!

“A feast has been prepared in honor of your marriage, Rurik. Allow my wife and I to escort you to the hall.”

“Our thanks, my lord prince”—he turned to Ingigerd, her expression appraising as she regarded first him and then Zora— “Lady Ingigerd, but my new bride is exhausted from our lengthy journey and the hour is growing late. It will be dark when we reach my estate—”

“I feel fine!” Zora blurted. Hoping to delay what she imagined every bridegroom deemed as his marital right, she added, “A feast sounds wonderful, and I’m so hungry—”

“You will have to wait,” Rurik said tightly, steering her past their silent witnesses. She knew that no one would interfere on her behalf. Her humiliation complete, she could only try to keep up with Rurik’s long strides as he hurried her from the cathedral.

She was not surprised to find Arne and Leif waiting outside in the gathering dusk with three horses. Her dread increasing tenfold, she gasped as Rurik seized her around the waist to lift her onto the back of a huge dappled stallion, but he was stayed when his name was roared out from across the courtyard.

“Thordar the Strong, my lord,” came Arne’s low announcement after twisting in his saddle to glance behind him. “Some of his men heard of our arrival and came by the ship asking for Kjell. I told them only that he had been killed in battle. They must have carried the news to his father straightaway.”

Rurik’s expression was grim. He released Zora, and his eyes held a clear warning. “Say nothing while I speak with him, do you understand? Nothing!”

She nodded, growing fearful as the stern-faced warrior approached them. Thick-necked and massive, his scalp shaved but for the graying topknot on the left side of his head and wearing a long bushy mustache, Thordar was one of the most forbidding Varangians she had ever seen. She half hid behind Rurik, wondering what terrible things the man might threaten to do to her once he learned of her role in Kjell’s death.

“I went to the palace but they said you were here,” Thordar said to Rurik as he halted in front of them. So close now that Zora could see the warrior had the same hazel eyes as his son, she was not surprised to find them fierce where Kjell’s had been gentle. “Why did you not send me word at once of my youngest son’s death, Rurik Sigurdson? I learned of it only an hour past from my men.”

“I wanted to speak with you in person, my friend,” Rurik said. “Not send you such news through a messenger. But first I was bound to speak to Grand Prince Yaroslav about my mission, and then there was the matter of my wedding.”

“Your wedding?”

“Yes, to the woman Kjell was defending when he bravely met his end.” Hauling Zora out from behind him, Rurik squeezed her arm to remind her to stay silent. “My wife, Princess Zora of Tmutorokan, daughter of our enemy Mstislav yet niece to our lord.”

It was all Zora could do to face Thordar as he appraised her, then his gaze swerved back to Rurik.

“You say my son fought bravely?”

“And honorably. Our ship was attacked by wandering thieves at our second portage, and when the princess fled in fear, Kjell went after her. He single-handedly fought off her attackers until just before I reached them, when he took a fatal blow that killed him.”

“Then Kjell died with a sword in his hand.”

Stunned by the false story Rurik had spun, Zora glanced up at him when he nodded gravely. Yet she said nothing, her heart thundering. She almost jumped through her skin when the stallion snorted restlessly behind her, breaking the heavy silence that had settled over the courtyard.

Roused from some solitary reflection, Thordar heaved a long, ragged sigh. He reached out his hand and Rurik clasped his wrist, the two huge men facing each other squarely for another interminable moment. Then the warrior turned and strode toward the cathedral without uttering another word.

“Does my uncle know what happened to Kjell?” she asked in a nervous whisper.

“We discussed the matter privately and deemed which course it was wisest to take.”

“But you lied to Kjell’s father!” she said incredulously, yet keeping her voice low. “Why?”

“Because you are my wife now.”

Her cheeks flushing warmly under his intent gaze, Zora could not deny the strange niggling of pleasure his words had aroused deep inside her. But before she could say anything more, Rurik lifted her sideways into the saddle and then mounted behind her, one arm holding her securely around the waist as he gripped the reins with his free hand.

“To tell Thordar the truth might have incurred a vow of blood vengeance against my household,” Rurik continued, drawing her so close against him that she could feel the heat of his body through his clothes. “The last thing the grand prince needs in this time of war is discord between his senior warriors. Thordar will grieve for his son, but I told him what he wanted, and needed, to hear.”

As Rurik kicked his horse into a gallop, Zora felt herself a fool for even thinking he might have lied simply to protect her. His coldly delivered explanation had doused quickly enough any notion that he might be concerned about her welfare now that she was his wife…not that she cared if he was or not. No doubt it had been his six precious concubines who had so concerned him, not her!

With his hand splayed beneath her breasts, her apprehension began to mount again like a fever. The hard set of Rurik’s jaw was enough to tell her that if he wanted her tonight, there might be nothing she could do to sway him.

Chapter 14

Deep twilight had settled around them, and still Rurik urged the lathered stallion on at a breakneck pace, guiding the animal with an expert hand along a road cut between the thickest woods Zora had ever seen. The cool evening air was pungent with the spicy scent of fir and pine. Tall white birch gleamed eerily in the pale wash of light from a half moon just appearing over the highest branches.

The heat of Rurik’s body warmed her as his steely arms hugged her against him, yet she wished that Ingigerd had given her a cloak. Then she might not have been so tormented by the passionate memories their closeness evoked…memories that filled her not only with anxiety but a strange yearning she couldn’t seem to suppress.

As for Rurik, he seemed exhilarated by the night air. Zora imagined that must be because they were drawing nearer to his home, and when he kicked the powerful animal lunging beneath them into an even faster canter, she was forced to cling to Rurik that much more tightly. Her arms flew around his neck and her cheek pressed to his chest as the woods became a frightening blur.

She squeezed her eyes shut, fearing for their lives and certain that at any moment disaster would befall them. All she could hear was the relentless pounding of hooves and Rurik’s strong, steady heartbeat against her ear. She couldn’t have been more astonished when she heard Arne bellow a command to fling open the gates in the name of Rurik Sigurdson. Wide-eyed now, she watched breathlessly as they burst into a torchlit world of sound and commotion.

“Hail, Lord Rurik!” came exuberant cries of welcome as they rode past massive timbered gates into a fortified compound that stretched into the night farther than Zora could see.

To her surprise, Rurik’s estate resembled a settlement not unlike a town. Men, women, and children poured from row after row of longhouses built in the Norse fashion.

Wondering at the great wealth he must possess to support such numbers of retainers, Zora could not help asking Rurik as he slowed the stallion to a trot, “How—how many people are there?”

“In my personal druzhina, three hundred seasoned warriors, many with families. Counting slaves and their children, my concubines who have borne me five sons and three daughters and now a new wife who I hope proves as fruitful…” He shrugged, his tone brusque. “The number is always growing.”

Beset by fresh dread at the import of his statement and wishing that she hadn’t asked, Zora said no more as he rode on through the swell of warriors pressing eagerly around them. At first it appeared Rurik was heading toward a huge longhouse near the center of the compound, the building flanked by what appeared to be an assembly hall. But he swerved their mount to the left and rode to another, and decidedly smaller, dwelling with a half dozen guards posted at the door.

“This will be your home.” Rurik jumped to the ground and hauled Zora from the saddle.

Noting her heightened color and the apprehension in her eyes, he could imagine what she must be thinking. The same image had been burning in his mind since they had left Novgorod, but his was fueled by desire, not fear. It had been torture to hold her so close for so long, the warmed rose scent of her skin intoxicating him. He wanted nothing more than to take her to his own longhouse and disappear with her for days until his lust was satisfied, but he was determined to give her a very important first lesson.

“These men have been assigned to protect you,” he said, practically pushing her toward the wooden structure. “Inside you’ll find female slaves waiting to see to your every need. Do you weave?”

She looked up at him in confusion. “What?”

“Do you weave?”

“No—”

“Then your women can teach you. It will keep you busy and out of trouble.”

Shoving open the door, Rurik didn’t follow Zora over the threshold and he could tell she was surprised when she spun to face him. “Good night, princess.”

“G-good night?”

He nodded, not trusting himself to speak. His throat had tightened just in looking at the ripe fullness of her rose-red lips and her breasts, rising and falling with nervousness, which he ached to caress. Before he could change his mind, he left her and went back to his horse, doing his utmost to keep his resolve firmly in front of him.

Since there were six women he planned to summon to his longhouse before her, Zora would not share his bed for almost a week. It would be a worse torture to wait that long to claim her, yet there was no better way to show her that she held no distinctive place in his life. Just because she was his wife didn’t mean he would put her before the others.

Zora could hardly believe her eyes as Rurik rode away in a swirl of dust without sparing her another glance, his clenched fist raised high in greeting as he gave acknowledgment to the resounding cheers of his men.

Good night? Did that mean, then, that he was not going to force his demands upon her, at least not this evening? Believing it must be so, she was struck by a swamping wave of relief that, unsettlingly enough, held disappointment.

Holy Mother of Christ, what insanity was coming over her? Angered that she would even think she might have wanted Rurik to stay, she grabbed the door and hurled it shut.

“Filthy barbarian!” As shocked gasps sounded behind her, Zora whirled to find two slave women regarding her with widened eyes while another seemed more amused than stunned.

“What are you staring at?” she demanded, although she quickly became distracted by the savory smell of stew bubbling in the iron caldron hanging above the central hearth. It was obvious from the meal cooking that when Rurik had sent for his fine clothes and fancy gold ornaments, he had sent word of her imminent arrival as well. Looking around the large room, she could tell that this longhouse had been prepared for her from the fragrant green rushes strewn upon the floor to the table laid with a white, embroidered cloth.

Her prison, Zora amended, remembering the guards outside her door. Rurik had said they were there for her protection, but she knew better. No doubt he imagined that she might still try to escape, and he was right. But until that blessed day, there was no sense in venting her anger upon the slaves assigned to her service. They had had no hand in her misfortune. Regretting her unkindness, she walked farther into the room.

“Forgive me for snapping at you. It’s been such a long and trying day—”

“Aye, I do the same to my Vasili if I’ve had a bad time of weaving, but he always forgives me,” interrupted the slave who had appeared the least startled by her behavior. The comely, thick-waisted woman with wavy brown hair, green eyes, and an engaging smile chuckled as she patted her stomach, which was clearly rounded beneath her woolen dress. “Sometimes too well, the randy devil.”

“You’re with child?” Realizing she was staring stupidly, Zora lifted her gaze to find only warm humor in the young woman’s eyes.

“Four months gone. But don’t worry that I won’t be able to keep up with my work. My first babe came right on shearing day after I’d helped to herd the sheep.” She gave a hearty laugh, but catching her companions’ frowns, she suddenly sobered. “Aye, well, enough of me. If you’re tired, Princess Zora, I’ll be happy to show you to your bedchamber.”

“You know my name, then.”

“Indeed we do. Word came this afternoon that Lord Rurik was bringing home a royal bride.” The slave woman gestured to her companions, who stepped forward a little. “We’re honored to serve you, my lady. I’m Nellwyn, and this is Greta and Katerin.”

Touched by Nellwyn’s earthy friendliness, Zora took an immediate liking to her. The two older women, although reserved, also smiled a welcome. But Zora had already decided that she would soon send them away. One slave was enough to help her with her modest needs, and the less pairs of eyes she had watching her every moment, the better.

Zora winced in embarrassment when her stomach grumbled loudly. “I’d like to see my room, Nellwyn, but first if I could have a bite to eat…”

“Aye, you’d better from the sound of it, my lady,” came her good-natured response. Suddenly the room was abustle as Zora was led to the table and a steaming bowl of stew placed before her.

Tasting the spiced venison and cabbage, she deemed it far better than an elaborate wedding feast especially since she could enjoy it alone, Rurik not there to plague her. Perhaps he would allow her to eat all of her meals by herself, which would suit her just fine.

It appeared that Ingigerd had been wrong, Zora thought, jabbing her spoon into the bowl. Rurik favor her? Hardly. He had easily and without regret left her alone on their wedding night, proof that he wasn’t in too much of a hurry to beget his legal heirs. She hoped that he would take all the time in the world, and when he finally came to her door, he would find her gone!

Zora awoke deep in the night to the feeling that someone was watching her, but the feather bed was so warm and comfortable and she was so bone-tired that she readily fell asleep again without lifting her head to look.

When she did open her eyes with a start much later that morning, however, she remembered the odd sensation as vividly as if she could still feel it. Yet this time the feeling was almost menacing whereas last night she had not felt threatened.

Was it just a lingering remnant of her bad dream? Trying to recall the nightmare that had so suddenly awakened her, she rolled onto her back and gasped in surprise. A lithe, strikingly lovely young woman with the glossiest black hair she had ever seen stood at the foot of her bed, glaring at her.

“Who are you?” Zora yanked the coverlet to her breasts even though she wore a light linen shift. “What are you doing in my chamber?”

“I am Semirah.” The woman spoke proudly in a husky foreign accent, her agate eyes fixed upon Zora’s face as if studying her every feature. “You are Lord Rurik’s new wife, yes?”

Zora nodded, wondering how this woman had slipped past her guards. Then she noticed that the fur covering at the single window across the room was hanging askew, bright golden sunlight spilling onto the planked floor.

“You climbed in my window,” she said in disbelief. Semirah smiled as if pleased with her cunning.

“Why have you come here?”

“To see you for myself,” snapped the woman, walking around the bed with the sleek litheness of a cat until she stopped even with Zora. Caressing the nearest pillow with slim white fingers, her voice became a throaty purr. “What a pity for you to spend your wedding night alone. Lord Rurik spent his with Semirah, a mere Khazar slave, instead of his most beautiful royal bride.”

Zora gaped at her. So it had been Semirah on his mind when he left her so abruptly last night! Stung by a sharp and wholly unexpected pang, Zora angrily swallowed it down.

“Did Lord Rurik send you to taunt me with this news?” She drew herself up to a sitting position to better face the woman. “If so, you can tell him for me that I couldn’t care one whit if he had spent last night with all six of his women!”

Semirah appeared momentarily flustered. “You…you are not displeased that I share your husband’s bed?”

“Not in the least and why should I be?” Zora’s anger was growing. How dare he allow this woman to come here! “I was forced into this marriage by my uncle, the grand prince. I do not wish to be here but home in Chernigov! Surely as a slave, you can understand—”

The woman tossed her ebony hair. “I rejoiced the day Lord Rurik bought me from slave traders in Kiev and then brought me here. Rejoiced! All was well until now, when a wife has come into our midst.”

“And I’m telling you that you have nothing to fear from me,” Zora insisted. “You and the other concubines are welcome to Lord Rurik. The less I see of him, the better.”

Semirah shook her head then, her dark eyes grown hostile. “No, lovely princess, we have much to fear from you, unless…” The concubine appeared about to say more, but hearing a noise suddenly outside the door, she fled with agile grace to the window and climbed through it just as Nellwyn entered the room.

“So you’re awake,” said the slave woman with a cheery smile. “I was just setting up a loom for you and I heard your voice, so I thought I should come and rouse you. Having a bad dream, were you?”

Wondering how Nellwyn could have known, Zora stared at her in confusion.

“You must have been talking in your sleep. Vasili says I do the same thing—”

“Ah yes, a bad dream,” Zora agreed, catching on. Grateful that Nellwyn had discerned only one voice instead of two, she rubbed her temple. “But I awoke so suddenly…”

“Aye, and just as well. A nightmare is hardly the way to start a bright sunny day like this one. Would you like some breakfast, my lady?”

“Yes, thank you,” Zora replied distractedly, mulling over her strange encounter with Semirah as Nellwyn bustled out the door. What could the Khazar woman have been thinking? One moment she was flaunting that Rurik had slept with her, then the next she had seemed startled when unable to rile Zora. Then she had ended with such a cryptic statement…

Throwing back the covers, Zora decided not to bother trying to decipher anything. What went on between Rurik and his concubines was none of her concern. She had to concentrate on escape and until she got a good look at the compound, she wouldn’t know how best to proceed.

Zora had already changed hastily into the same blue tunic she had worn at the wedding—Rurik had obviously not given any thought yet to her wardrobe—by the time Nellwyn came back bearing a tray.

“I’m going for a walk,” Zora announced. Helping herself to a roll drizzled with amber honey, she took a bite as Nellwyn settled the tray on a table.

“A walk? Now there’s a fine idea. I’m sure the guards will be happy to accompany you wherever—”

“Without the guards.” Pushing aside the fur at the window as the slave woman spun in surprise, Zora peered outside. Seeing no one near, she hoisted herself onto the narrow sill. “Don’t look so worried, Nellwyn, I’ll be back soon.”

“Aye, I certainly hope so, my lady. What shall I tell Lord Rurik if he comes by to ask for you? I’ve a feeling he might, especially since he stopped here last night.”

“My husband was here?” Zora asked, startled.

“Indeed he was, long after you went to bed. He came into your room, but you mustn’t have heard him. I scarcely heard him come in the door myself, I was so busy stoking the fire. He near scared the wits from me.”

Remembering the sensation of someone watching her in the dark, Zora shivered. Why would Rurik have done such a thing? And had he then summoned Semirah to his longhouse, or had he already partaken of his carnal pleasure?

“If Lord Rurik should ask for me, tell him that I’m still sleeping,” Zora said tightly, then she jumped to the ground.

“But I can’t do that, my lady! I’d be lying and no one crosses Lord Rurik if they’ve any sense…”

Nellwyn’s protests faded as Zora hurried to the rear of the longhouse to elude her guards, then she set off at a brisk pace between two more buildings. Licking the sticky honey from her fingertips after finishing her roll, she smiled to herself. It felt so wonderful to walk at will and without Rurik hounding her every step.

She drew stares from those she passed but she had expected as much. Ignoring the Varangian warriors and slaves alike, she set her sights on the impressive timber fortifications that ringed the compound.

She was determined to find a way out. There might be only one or two sets of gates through which to enter, but surely Rurik had created several secret exits for use in times of danger. Her father had them in his palace in Tmutorokan, and in these times of strife, Rurik would be a fool not to. If she kept her eyes open, she might spot one.

Undaunted by the armed men both on the ground and standing sentry on sturdy scaffolding built against the two-story palisade, she pressed on, amazed anew by the compound’s size. Occasionally she noticed hints of smiles on warriors’ faces, and she wondered at their lack of discipline. Surely they must know that she was their commander’s new wife. How dare any of them look at her so! Then an older, thickset warrior wearing an eye patch came toward her as if about to speak but instead of stopping, he walked right past her.

“I take it, my lord, that you’ll wish to resume overseeing the men’s training now that you’re back?”

Zora whirled, her face hot with indignation as she met Rurik’s amused gaze. He had been following her, the rogue! With him standing only some eight feet behind her, no wonder his men had been hard-pressed not to smile. How ridiculous she must have looked to have him dogging her so closely, and without her being aware of it!

“Tomorrow will be soon enough, Nils. Until then, you’re still in charge. I expect to see a lively demonstration of my druzhina’s battle skills this afternoon before the feast.”

“Their prowess will please you, Lord Rurik. If we marched today against the usurper, his men would fall like chaff before our swords.”

Braggards! Zora seethed. Did they not know that no amount of training would save them from her father’s fierce warriors?

She set out again, imagining that Rurik was following her but determined not to give him a second glance. To her dismay, he caught up with her in only a few strides and began walking uncomfortably close to her…so close that his hand brushed hers and she started, struck by an undeniable rush of excitement. Damn him! Crossing her arms tightly in front of her, she trod on.

“Are you enjoying your walk?”

“I was until I discovered I had two shadows,” Zora muttered, still refusing to look at him. She could not believe it when she heard him chuckle. He may find his treatment of her amusing, but she did not!

“You know, Princess, you could have used the door instead of climbing from your window. The guards are there to protect you and escort you whenever you go outside, not to prevent you from leaving.”

“Protect me from what?” she retorted, irritated all the more that he must have been stalking her since she left her dwelling. “Sometimes you’re not a very good liar, Rurik. You’ve put guards at my door because you don’t trust me. I’m not an idiot.”

Rurik sobered. “You’re right, I don’t trust you.” Amazed that she had addressed him by his given name, yet not wanting to dwell upon how much it had pleased him or how beautiful she looked with her leonine hair still wild and tousled from sleep, he added, “Have you found what you’re looking for?”

She stopped to glare at him. “I don’t know what you mean. Must there be some motive behind everything I do?”

He sighed, gesturing to the palisade. “You won’t find the secret exits you seek, Zora, they’re too well hidden. And you’d never come upon one without someone noticing what you were doing anyway. I suggest you abandon your plans for escape and accept your new life here as my wife. It will make things easier for you.”

“I care not if my time here with you is easy or hard,” she countered, her eyes flashing brilliant blue fire. “All I care is that it is mercifully short.”

“It will be hard, then, that I promise you,” said Rurik, exasperated by her stubbornness. When she gave no reply and tramped on without him, he stared after her, shaking his head.

Loki take him, how could a woman who appeared so innocent and vulnerable in sleep vex him so completely when awake? And how could this one woman have captivated him to the point where his most exotic concubine had failed to tempt him?

Even the ale he had consumed last night in the hall with his men had failed to spark his desire when he finally summoned Semirah to his longhouse. Never before had he held a warm, seductive woman in his arms only to be consumed with thoughts of another whose lips seemed so much redder, breasts so much more exquisite, and skin so much softer.

Thank Odin that Semirah was proud. He doubted that she would reveal to anyone his lack of interest. And if the same thing happened again tonight with Radinka, his Bulgarian beauty, or tomorrow night with Kerstin, the Finnish mother of three of his sons, he might very well have to change his plan. Perhaps only when he had his fill of Zora would life here settle back to normal. His concubines might be willing to bear his indifference for a time if they believed that he would then welcome them lustily back to his bed…

It was an idea, by Thor, and a damn good one! Rurik decided as he strode to catch up with Zora. But he wasn’t ready to abandon his most important lesson yet. His imperious princess would know that another woman had lain in his arms last night, and would tomorrow and the next day. Whether he made love to his concubines or not wasn’t important. All that mattered was that Zora learn her place. She was just another woman to warm his bed.

“Hold!” he demanded, not surprised when she refused to stop.

Her heart pounding, Zora sensed that Rurik was closing the distance between them but she couldn’t have been more surprised when she was suddenly swept up into his arms. His taunting smile astonished her all the more. She had hoped her defiance would have angered him. She had sworn to make his life a hell and she would, too, doubly now that he had just promised to make her life as difficult as possible. But she hadn’t expected such a reaction—

“I told you to hold, woman,” he said huskily, gripping her hard against his massive chest. “I expect my commands to be obeyed without question.”

Flustered by the heat in his eyes, Zora began to wriggle in his arms.

“I’m not one of your warriors who you can just order about, nor one of your concubines who worships the ground you walk on! Do not forget I am here against my will and I plan to act accordingly!”

“Then perhaps if I sling you over my shoulder and walk with you around the compound so everyone can see my new bride with her pretty bottom to the sky, you will come to understand that I will not tolerate such defiance. I had thought the feast tonight a good time to introduce you to my retainers, but this method might make a more lasting impression—”

“Do what you wish,” Zora flung at him, thinking that he wouldn’t dare to so humiliate her. She was Grand Prince Yaroslav’s niece, after all. “I don’t care in the least what your people think of me!”

“Very well.”

To her horror, Zora suddenly found herself in the position Rurik had described, pitched over his broad shoulder. Unable to speak for a moment while she gasped for breath, she heard hearty laughter coming from the scaffolding and her face burned with embarrassment.

“Comfortable?” Rurik asked amiably as he set out with her along the palisade.

Zora could barely sputter a reply, she was so outraged, one of his hands splayed upon her bottom while the other caressed her upper thigh. “Put…put me down!” she demanded, striking his back with her fists. To her frustration, he seemed unaffected by her pummeling.

“Tell me, wife,” he began conversationally. “How did you come by making such an observation about my concubines? Or did you simply assume they were content with their lot, as you should be.”

“You’re mad if you think I’ll ever be content with the likes of you,” Zora said through clenched teeth, giving up her futile pounding. “Your Semirah may believe that she found paradise when she was sold into your arms, but I never will!”

Rurik slowed his pace, some of his good humor fading. “You spoke with Semirah? When?”

“This morning. You weren’t the only one to sneak into my room, though I doubt you came in through the window. Your guards would have given me no protection at all if your Khazar beauty had wanted to smother me with a pillow. She may have spent the night in your bed, as she so gloatingly informed me, but she isn’t very happy that you’ve taken a wife.”

Feeling a knot of anger in his stomach, Rurik decided that he would have to speak with Semirah. He would tolerate no trouble between his women. Yet he was relieved to hear that she hadn’t divulged the truth about last night.

“So you know—”

“Yes, I know how you spent your wedding night and I don’t care!” Zora cut him off heatedly. “I told Semirah the same thing, too. If you’re thinking to taunt me with your concubines, Rurik, you only deceive yourself. It doesn’t matter to me in the least what you do with your women!”

Rurik lifted her from his shoulder so quickly that he heard her gasp, yet when he set her down hard in front of him, her eyes shone with indignation, not fear.

“Whether you care or not about what I do and with whom isn’t my aim, Princess,” he said tightly, his earlier humor vanished. “You can see now that I decide who shares my bed and when. You hold no special status here. The only difference between yourself and my concubines is that you bear the legal title of wife. Aside from that, they are your equals.”

How hollow his words sounded to him, Rurik thought as Zora’s eyes filled with angry tears. He felt like he was trying to convince himself that they were true by saying them aloud, while in his innermost heart, he knew that the more he told himself she meant nothing to him, the more he realized that she did.

Lying to Thordar at the cathedral had proved to him that he would do anything to protect her, for Zora would have been the target of a call for blood vengeance and not his entire household as he had led her to believe. True, Grand Prince Yaroslav deplored strife between his warriors, but Rurik had been thinking of her alone.

Then standing in her chamber last night after he had left a disgruntled Semirah in his bed, he had almost believed that he might even be falling in love. But, by Odin, that was impossible! He trusted Zora the least of any woman he had ever known. She may be his wife but her allegiance lay with her father, his sworn enemy.

“Come.” Rurik took her arm, inwardly cursing the effect her furious, teary-eyed silence had upon him. If she had believed him to be a ruthless brute before, he could just imagine what she must think of him now. “I’ve sent seamstresses to fit you for some new clothes. They will be waiting for you—”

“Damn my new clothes and damn you to hell!” Zora shouted, his touch igniting like a red-hot spark to tinder the outrage boiling inside her. “I never asked to be your wife!” She swiped at her eyes, refusing to cry again in front of him. “I remember you telling my uncle that you had sworn never to marry and I wish to God you had kept your vow! I’ve never known a man as hard and unfeeling as you! How could I be cursed with such a husband?”

Jerking away from him, her emotion almost choking her, Zora gave no thought to why Rurik didn’t stop her nor did she hear his ragged, half-whispered reply as she fled toward her longhouse.

“Because I want you, Princess. The gods may spite me for a fool, but I want you.”

Chapter 15

Zora would have avoided Rurik the rest of the day, but he didn’t grant her a choice. Dressed in a new lavender silk tunic sewn by one of five busy seamstresses, she was escorted from the longhouse by two forbidding warriors.

She could hear the clang of weapons well before they reached their destination, a large barren field on the opposite side of the compound, and she surmised that the men in Rurik’s druzhina were practicing their battle skills. It made little sense to her that he would wish her to witness such a display. Did he think he might convince her that his warriors could best her father’s elite troops? Impossible.

The field was lined by a two-deep throng of men wearing padded leather jerkins and helmets, wives dressed in their finest tunics, and excited, rosy-cheeked children. As soon as Zora approached with her escort, a path opened up for them that led right to the front. Again ignoring the curious stares, she spied Rurik at once, surrounded by three towheaded little boys who were tugging at his mail-shirt.

“Play a game with us, Papa,” demanded the tallest boy who appeared about six years old. “We’ve been practicing!”

“Yes, yes, Papa, a game!” chimed in the two littler ones, each holding a blunt-ended wooden sword.

Laughter rippled through the crowd as Rurik obliged his eager sons by crouching low and parrying their awkward thrusts with his round, gold-painted shield. His delight at their efforts was obvious; he was smiling broadly and laughing, the rich, resonant sound echoed by the boys’ happy squeals.

Zora watched him in amazement. So he had some feelings after all. Clearly he loved his children.

Suddenly a little girl with bright red curls came running toward him, and asking his sons to stay their swords, Rurik rose and swept the child high into the air, her chubby arms flying around his neck to hug him tight. Their embrace reminded Zora of how she had used to race to greet her father in those happy times before her mother had died.

Sighing, Zora broke from her reverie. Rurik was studying her, his pretty daughter’s flushed cheek pressed to his. Her own face growing warm under his appraisal, she could see that his expression had changed, becoming guarded where a moment ago it had been boyishly open. He had feelings, but they clearly did not extend to her. Squaring her shoulders, she watched as he kissed his child and then set her down, the little girl skipping over to a comely, russet-haired woman.

Another concubine, Zora thought, assailed by that same perplexing pang of resentment. It was then that she noticed for the first time Semirah standing close to Rurik, her chin tilted haughtily, as well as several other richly dressed women with babes in arms or fair-haired tots at their skirts. Strange that she hadn’t noticed them earlier.

Was it his plan now to publicly humiliate her by having all of his women and their children around him? Zora wondered as she walked toward him, her head held high. He seemed to be going to great lengths to prove she meant nothing to him. She had never been more convinced of anything in her life.

“You sent for me, my lord?” As he regarded her, she could not help becoming a bit flustered. His eyes were so blue, his intent gaze holding hers captive.

“It is far too beautiful an afternoon for anyone to stay indoors,” said Rurik, finding himself more entranced than he wanted to be by the way the sunlight glinted off her hair and how her eyes seemed to catch the light. “I thought you might enjoy the fresh air.”

“In different company, perhaps I might. But as I don’t care to watch any display of arms, especially enemy forces, I would like to return—”

“You will stay here,” Rurik broke in. “You will also accompany me later to the hall for a feast prepared in honor of our marriage.”

“Oh, will I sit, then, at a table with your concubines or will I have the honor of a place at your side?” she asked innocently. Glancing around her, she added, “I see that you like keeping your women in packs… Not quite the way we do things.”

“You will find yourself sitting in my lap for the entire meal if you don’t curb your tongue.” Rurik smiled just to taunt her. “And don’t think I wouldn’t enjoy it.”

Giving her no chance to reply, he turned to Arne who stood nearby, and taking his helmet from the burly warrior, he donned it as he joined his men in the field. He could feel Zora glaring at him, her indignant gaze boring into his back, but he had other things to occupy him.

Tomorrow he would again oversee his druzhina’s training, yet this afternoon he wanted to experience firsthand how some of his newest recruits’ skills had improved during his absence. Due to his information about the traitorous Severians joining Mstislav’s forces, Grand Prince Yaroslav had decided not to march against his brother until additional Varangian mercenaries arrived from his northern allies. That might take another month, which gave Rurik time to hone his men’s skills.

“Wield your weapons as if your life depended upon it, men!” came the bellowed command of Nils Ulfsson, his senior warrior, as Rurik slid his sword from its sheath. “Soon it will!”

Zora covered her ears as bloodcurdling war cries split the air, but the din didn’t seem to bother the rest of the onlookers. The shrieks and howls of the crowd’s approval combined with the wild melee. Barbarians! They loved the sights and sounds of battle…not just the men, but the women and children, too!

As broadaxes and spears thudded against crude wooden targets shaped like warriors, Zora’s gaze moved instinctively to Rurik. He forged across the field, taking on one opponent after another, but this time thankfully it was only in practice.

With a shudder she recalled the blood-soaked bodies strewn across that grassy field at the portage. And she felt fear for her father. If Yaroslav’s forces were made up of such powerful men as Rurik, what would be her father’s fate? Rurik looked invincible in his silver mail-shirt, which shone brightly in the sun, and a helmet she could only describe as a fearsome mask, the metal nose and cheek guards shielding his face. The ease with which he swung his sword amazed her; she recalled all too well how heavy it had been when she had lifted it against him.

The cheers became even louder when a spear-throwing contest began, and Rurik’s exhilarated laughter carried to her as it came down to a match between him and three other warriors who at first appeared equally accomplished. How he was enjoying himself! She couldn’t have been more astonished when he grabbed a long spear in each hand and cast them together. And both struck the target, dead center.

Victorious, Rurik gestured to a spear-carrying warrior standing at some distance from him. “Throw it at me,” he commanded.

A charged hush fell over the field.

What madness had possessed him to do such a thing? Zora wondered. Surely the man would not obey. Yet suddenly the weapon came hurtling through space, aimed at his heart.

“Oh, God…” She gasped as Rurik dodged to one side and catching the spear in midair with a backhanded movement, he swung his arm around in a backward circle and brought the spear up again as if with a single motion. Then he flung it at the warrior who barely had time to duck before it sailed over his head.

Everyone burst again into deafening cheers, the warriors who stood on the sidelines banging their swords upon their wooden shields. “Aye, Lord Rurik’s done that since he was a boy!” Arne boasted proudly.

To her amazement, Zora felt herself smiling, but she grew sober when Rurik glanced toward her. Why, he was showing off! she realized, looking over her shoulder at his concubines who were broadly smiling. Then she noticed Semirah was standing right behind her, frowning. The Khazar woman leaned forward and whispered, “We must talk!”

Confused, Zora pretended not to hear her. “You want to return to your home, yes?” Her voice was all but indiscernible for the shouting around them.

Zora glanced sharply behind her, but fearing that someone might think her conversing with Semirah suspicious, she turned face front and said in a low aside, “Of course I—”

“Then watch for my signal at the feast. When I stand, you follow a few moments later. Look for me outside the hall.”

“But what will I say to Rurik—”

“Think of something, Princess.”

An instant later, Semirah slipped away. Hardly able to believe their brief exchange, Zora’s tense excitement became nervousness as Rurik strode from the field toward her. Holy Mother of God, had he seen them…?

To her relief, he was smiling at her as he pulled off his helmet and her stomach did a strange flip-flop. Even with sweat trickling down his tanned face, his blond hair damp and flattened against his head, he looked handsome enough to catch any woman’s eye. Semirah ran up to him and laughingly caught his arm. The concubine said something to him that Zora couldn’t hear, but it must have pleased Rurik for he laughed, too.

Yes, she wanted to leave this place, Zora thought unhappily, swallowing down the sudden lump in her throat. It bothered her more than she cared to admit to see another woman clinging so possessively to Rurik, the same one he had taken to his bed only last night, although why she might feel this way…

Oh, it was too absurd even to consider!

The torchlit hall was enormous and richly appointed, the array of spiced food more varied and plentiful than Zora would have imagined, but she was too distracted to notice much else about either. Rurik’s hard, muscled thigh pressed against hers under the table was making it difficult to think, and Semirah’s every movement at an opposite table, whether to sample a morsel from her plate or to drink from her pewter cup, was only heightening Zora’s nervousness. She hoped the woman would not leave too early, arousing suspicion.

“You’re not hungry?”

She glanced at Rurik, surprised to see a hint of concern in his eyes.

“No, not really—”

“You’ve never lacked for an appetite before, Princess.” He regarded her untouched plate, then his blue eyes met hers. Did she see distrust there?

“You seem agitated tonight…ever since we left the training field. Something is troubling you. What?” He gave a dry laugh. “Other than what you’ve already expressed to me, of course.”

“Nothing would be troubling me if you would kindly shift your leg away from mine.” She hoped that a fit of temper would divert his sharp questioning. He had read her mood too well for comfort. “I’m practically in your lap for how close we are sitting and since I’ve held my tongue to prevent just such a thing, I’d appreciate it if you would move over!”

“So my nearness is distressing you?” he asked with a roguish smile, stubbornly refusing to budge. “Why?”

Growing exasperated, Zora wished that she could simply scoot away from him but already her hip was hard against the carved end of the high seat that they shared. “Because…because it’s unseemly!”

“Now there I must disagree with you,” he said in a teasing tone that proved he was enjoying their bantering. “No one in this hall would think it inappropriate for a newly married husband and wife to sit so close together. It’s expected—”

“Even if they know the bride is unwilling?” she broke in, pleased when she saw him frown. Yet it quickly disappeared as if Rurik wasn’t going to allow himself to become riled by anything that she said, and he placed his hand all too possessively upon her thigh. As she sharply inhaled, his gaze grew taunting.

“Perhaps you are not so unwilling, Zora, if it only takes the pressure of my leg against yours to upset you…or should I say, excite you? Don’t forget that I know how it feels to have you melt in my arms and with little provocation on my part. A true wanton at heart like you is one easily aroused.”

It was all Zora could do not to slap him for his arrogance, but she kept her hands clasped tightly in her lap, certain that such a response might unleash what the burning look in his eyes seemed to threaten. She shifted her gaze from his face as disdainfully as possible to glance in Semirah’s direction.

When in heaven’s name was that woman going to give her the signal? Semirah must know some way for her to escape, for surely that was what she had implied when asking if Zora wanted to go home. Please may it be tonight! Rurik had made no mention yet of his plans for after the feast, but she feared now that she might be the one next summoned to his bed if only for him to prove his point. Bastard!

“A toast for Lord Rurik and his lady!” someone shouted, which caused her to jump.

“May Frey the Fruitful bless them with many children!”

“Aye, happiness and long life together!”

As the hall resounded with similar toasts, slaves rushing between tables with buckets of wine and ale to refill silver-rimmed drinking horns and wooden cups just as quickly drained, Zora refused to meet Rurik’s gaze even though she knew he was still watching her. Nor did she drink, for she would not celebrate a marriage that to her was a sham. She sat there silently, her eyes never straying too far from Semirah, and she had to be nudged when Rurik rose to his feet.

“What…?” She stared up at him, confused. His face was somber, an imported goblet of sapphire-blue glass in his hand. In his eyes shone a challenge.

“Stand up.”

She did so shakily, wondering what this meant.

“It is customary that we toast each other,” he said in a low voice, clearly a cue for her to pick up her own goblet. Despite her trembling hands, somehow she managed it.

First acknowledging his retainers, Rurik raised his goblet to them and then faced her. “I drink to Zora, princess of the Tmutorokan Rus, that she may come to accept her life among us and find contentment.”

He took a long draft of wine, his eyes never leaving hers, and Zora felt her cheeks flush hotly. How dare he presume to think that she would ever accept this life?

“It is your turn, wife,” he said in a voice grown ominously quiet when she simply stood there, glaring at him.

“Very well.” An insult burning upon her lips, Zora looked out across the crowded hall and for an instant her gaze locked with Semirah’s. The concubine almost imperceptibly shook her head in warning, and Zora realized like a much needed slap in the face that to humiliate Rurik now might jeopardize her chance to escape. Reluctantly swallowing her retort, she met his eyes and raised her goblet.

“I drink to my husband, Lord Rurik of Novgorod.”

She knew at once that she had acted wisely when he seemed to relax. As more good wishes rang out, she took a sip of wine, grateful when several senior warriors seated farther down their table drew Rurik’s attention away from her with a hearty toast. At that moment, too, Semirah rose and hurried from the hall, leaving Zora almost breathless with anxiety and wondering how she was ever going to be able to follow her. Surely it was too early to make her excuses and retire for the evening. What could she do?

A male slave coming up beside her to refill her goblet gave her a sudden idea. She turned sharply into the startled man, cracking her thick glass vessel against the brimming wooden ladle in his hand. As vermilion wine splashed over them both, most of it soaking the front of her tunic, Zora gasped aloud and purposely fell back against Rurik, who wheeled around just in time to catch her from falling.

“By the gods, man, how could you be so clumsy?” he railed at the slave, whose face had gone chalk-white.

“It—it was an accident,” Zora stammered, her heart racing from how tightly Rurik’s fingers grasped her waist. “Please don’t blame him. I didn’t see him standing next to me and I turned…” She looked down at her tunic in mock dismay. “The stains won’t set if the gown is soaked quickly, but I can do nothing here—”

“Then go change into another.” Struck again by her agitation, Rurik added quietly, “But know this, Princess. If you and your escort fail to return soon, I will come personally to see what is delaying you.”

She didn’t answer but simply nodded, then she hastened from the hall with the two guards he had gestured forward to accompany her.

Rurik sat heavily and took another draft of wine. “Vixen,” he muttered, thinking how empty the high seat felt with her gone. Too empty. Having her so close to him had heightened his frustrated desire, but by Thor, he would not give in to it yet!

He fixed his gaze upon Radinka, the shapely, dark-haired beauty who would share his bed tonight. She smiled at him, a blatantly seductive invitation that only weeks ago would have set his blood afire, but he felt nothing, not even a stir—

“Shall I call for more wine, my lord?”

Rurik glanced with a start at Arne, who was seated just to his left. The look in the graying warrior’s eyes told him that Arne sensed his growing torment as few others could. Yet so far he had held his tongue, and for that Rurik was grateful. He did not need to hear that his life was being turned upside down by a woman. He already knew it.

“A barrelful, old friend.”

Chapter 16

To Zora’s dismay, Semirah was not waiting outside the hall. Trying not to panic, she walked between her two escorts to the longhouse. Had she simply missed Semirah or had the sight of her guards frightened the concubine away?

She began to fear the latter while dressing hastily after sending Nellwyn with the soiled gown from her bedchamber, the slave woman clucking her tongue that the fine fabric might be beyond repair. Zora’s frustration intensified when a quick look outside confirmed that a guard now stood sentinel to prevent Semirah from appearing at her window, and for that, she could only blame herself. If she hadn’t told Rurik about Semirah’s unexpected visit, such an avenue might still be open to her.

Zora’s step was heavy as she set out again for the hall; her ploy had been for naught. Then she spied Semirah standing outside a low outbuilding that she had been told housed the privies. Of course! Why hadn’t she thought of it earlier? What a perfect way to elude her guards! Feeling a strong resurgence of hope, Zora cleared her throat delicately.

“Could you give me another moment?” Zora gestured to the structure into which Semirah had just disappeared and without waiting for a reply, she hurried to the small building and ducked inside the foul-smelling, dimly lit interior. As she had expected, her escorts didn’t follow her but took up positions just outside the door.

“This way!” came an urgent whisper off to her right. Zora moved quickly past several wooden partitions—the spaces between them thankfully empty—to the last one where Semirah was waiting for her.

“I’m sorry…I didn’t see you when I left the hall and then I had to change my gown,” Zora began.

The concubine hissed impatiently, “Sshh, there is no time for much talk! You must listen well to Semirah.” Taking Zora’s arm, the concubine pulled her deeper into the shadows. “I know a way out, a secret tunnel, but you cannot go until the time is right—”

“When?” Zora broke in excitedly.

“Two days, maybe three. First I must make preparations. There are free workers who come and go who can be bribed to help you. You will need a horse outside the tunnel, a guide to show you through the forest, and gold to hire a boat in Novgorod.”

“I have my ring.” Zora nervously twisted the wedding band that Rurik had placed upon her finger only yesterday. “And a jeweled circlet.”

“Good, but you must have coin as well. I can get you at least ten gold grivna. When all is ready, then I will come for you in the night. Now we must return to the feast, but you go first—”

“How can you come for me?” Zora interrupted, her excitement tempered by her restrictions. “My longhouse is surrounded by guards…the windows, too!”

“There are ways,” Semirah said cryptically, her expression unreadable in the dark. “Do not fear, beautiful princess. Soon you will be free.”

“But what of you?” Zora couldn’t resist asking. “What if Rurik discovers that you helped me?”

“He will not. He will think you very clever to have found a way out of the compound, nothing more.”

Hoping that that would be true, Zora added, “Yet even so, you risk much—”

“It is not for you that I do this!” the concubine cut her off in a bitter rush. “Until you are gone, Lord Rurik will have eyes for no other woman, desire for no other woman—” She stopped abruptly as if she had said too much and shoved Zora from their dark corner. “Go now before your guards grow anxious!”

Zora wondered about the concubine’s explanation as she hurried to the entrance, for it had made little sense. Since Rurik had admitted that the lovely Khazarian had spent last night in his bed, how could Semirah say that he had no desire for her?

Zora pretended to straighten her tunic as she stepped outside to find a half-dozen men and a few women waiting to use the privy. It was clear her escorts had refused to let anyone else in. As she smiled an apology, she was immediately flanked by her guards and from the way in which they hustled her toward the hall, one of them even going so far as to grip her elbow, she could tell that the two warriors had grown impatient to get her back to Rurik.

Yet it seemed that they need not have rushed. Rurik’s attention was focused upon the laughing, mahogany-haired woman ensconced upon his lap who had one arm settled atop his shoulder, her fingers caressing the back of his neck. Other than to cast a brief glance in their direction as Zora and her escorts approached the high seat, he paid them no heed.

Watching Rurik bring his goblet to the woman’s lips, his answering laughter husky and deep, Zora felt a strange tightness in her breast. She almost screamed in outrage, but she caught herself. She was the princess! She would not be treated lightly.

Aware that every eye was upon her even though the noisy carousing in the hall had not abated, she stopped in front of the head table and stubbornly waited for Rurik to acknowledge her. She’d be damned if she was going to announce her presence. He knew that she was standing there.

It wasn’t Rurik who spoke first but Arne, whose light blue eyes surprisingly held the barest glimmer of sympathy.

“If you’d like, my lady, you may have my seat—”

“Thank you, Arne, but I’ve had enough revelry for one night. With my husband’s permission, I would like to retire.”

“Granted.” Rurik’s gruff answer came so swiftly that she started, meeting his eyes. For a man who had just appeared to be having such a pleasant time, why then did his voice have that strange edge to it and his expression seem almost…haunted? “Sleep well, wife.”

She knew then that she would not be the one sharing his bed that night, and she turned away without saying a word. Now that her chance for escape was so close at hand, she would have to be careful not to rile him. Even though she longed to fling curses at him and sarcastically bid him to sleep well, too, if and when he slept at all.

At the huge carved doors she met Semirah returning, and the concubine haughtily refused to look at her. How Zora wanted to tell her that she was wrong about Rurik not having eyes for other women! Against her better judgment, she decided to glance over her shoulder. Why, just look at him sitting there like some god with women at his beck and

“What? Where did she…?” To Zora’s astonishment, Rurik was alone in the high seat and watching her from across the smoky room as a slave poured him another goblet of wine. Feeling a shiver of apprehension mixed with some emotion she could not name, she could not leave fast enough with her guards, praying that Semirah would come for her tonight. Holy Mother Mary, she could hope!

But Semirah didn’t come either that night or the next, and thankfully, neither did Rurik.

Nor did Zora see him during the day whenever she ventured outside to enjoy the sunny June weather and take a break from Nellwyn’s good-humored attempts to teach her how to use a loom, an activity Zora had originally planned to avoid. Yet she found that the lessons helped take her mind from her troubles. She imagined that Rurik must be on the training field with his men for the air was always ringing with the ominous sound of swordplay punctuated by loud thwacks as weapons struck violently against wooden shields.

Preferring to avoid him, Zora never walked to that side of the compound. The following afternoon, when she did spy him riding toward the main gate with twenty odd warriors, she moved swiftly behind a wagon so he wouldn’t see her despite her guards standing in full view.

Attributing her thundering pulse to nerves, she did not resume her stroll until she was sure that Rurik and his men had left the compound, a settling cloud of dust the only evidence of their passing.

“Do you know where my husband is bound?” she asked one of her guards, a lean, lanky warrior who seemed surprised that she had addressed him.

“Novgorod, my lady, to meet with the grand prince.”

“But it’s so late in the day. Surely he will not return before dark.”

The warrior shrugged, his eyes suddenly wary. “I cannot say, my lady.”

Deciding it was best not to press him further, Zora wondered if Semirah knew that Rurik might be gone for hours. She wished that she could somehow contact her, but that, too, would be unwise. Instead she returned to her longhouse, resigning herself to another long sleepless night of agonizing over whether the concubine would ever come for her.

“Nellwyn?” she called out when she found the main room empty, the standing loom where the slave woman had been working to unravel the mess Zora had made of her last lesson abandoned. She had gotten so used to having Nellwyn around, enjoying her company and her quips about her husband Vasili, a caretaker in Rurik’s stables, that it felt strange not to see her busy at some task. “Nellwyn?”

“Aye, in here, my lady.”

Following the familiar voice into her bedchamber, Zora was surprised to find the slave woman laying out a shimmering white garment on the mattress that was far too sheer for a tunic.

“One of the seamstresses just brought this for you. Isn’t it lovely? I’ve never seen a sleeping gown so fine.” As Nellwyn straightened, she lifted a delicate sleeve and rubbed it between her fingers. “Hmmm, so silky soft. And just look at how the fabric catches the light! I know Lord Rurik will be pleased when he sees you wearing it tonight.”

“Tonight?” Zora croaked, her voice gone hoarse.

Nellwyn turned, her eyes lit with sudden understanding. “Your husband’s summons came while you were out, my lady. You’ll be sharing supper with him when he returns from Novgorod. I’m to see that you are bathed and dressed, then your guards will escort you to Lord Rurik’s longhouse where you will await him.”

“No…” Zora murmured, barely able to comprehend what Nellwyn had just told her. “He has other women to please him…beautiful, willing women—”

“From what I have heard, my lady,” Nellwyn interrupted, lowering her voice as if to share a secret, “though it’s only the talk of slaves, Lord Rurik has found no pleasure in his concubines and is sending them untouched and unhappy from his bed. Even that haughty desert witch, Semirah, has failed to please him. If you ask me, I believe he thinks only of you.”

“No, he thinks only of himself!” Zora countered, even as Semirah’s bitter words of two nights ago came flying back at her to echo what Nellwyn had just said. Dear God, could it be true? Was it possible that Rurik hadn’t made love to any of his women because of her? Didn’t desire his other women because of her?

Swept by sudden elation, Zora was just as quickly shocked at herself. She could care less about why Rurik might be spurning his concubines! This news changed nothing, but it might explain why Semirah was willing to risk everything to be rid of her. No wonder the concubine resented her.

Yet if all this was so, why had Rurik gone out of his way to flaunt his women in front of her since she had arrived? He had made it very clear that she meant nothing to him

A sharp knock sounding upon the outer door caused Zora to start.

“Easy now, my lady. It’s only the hot water for your bath,” said Nellwyn, taking a moment to pat Zora’s arm reassuringly before hurrying past her. “I’ll have them set the tub near the hearth where it will be nice and warm.”

Struck anew by what such preparations portended, Zora could only nod numbly. Walking over to the bed, she sank down upon it, her fingers brushing against the sleeping gown.

As if the gossamer fabric had burned her, she snatched her hand away, remembering all too well how miserable she had felt when another garment prepared especially for her had been settled over her head. Her wedding gown, compliments of Lady Ingigerd, who had tried to convince her that Rurik had accepted her for his bride for no other reason than that he wanted her…

“Princess Zora, come quickly!”

“Semirah?” Zora vaulted from the bed and after shutting the door against the commotion of slaves preparing her bath in the next room, she rushed to the window and yanked aside the fur covering to find the concubine gripping the sill. “What are you doing? Where’s the guard?”

“Talking with the others! Now hear me! I will come for you at dusk. Be ready!”

Semirah was gone before Zora could reply and she whirled from the window, her heart in her throat, as Nellwyn rapped upon the door.

“Shall I help you disrobe, my lady? Your bath is waiting.”

Zora had to fight to keep her voice calm. “No, thank you, Nellwyn, I can manage. I’ll be out in a moment.” Her hands were icy as she brought them to her burning face, her legs weak with relief. Rurik wouldn’t see her in that damnable sleeping gown after all!

Suddenly she gasped in horror. Oh, no! Nellwyn had said she was to be escorted to Rurik’s longhouse after she was bathed and dressed, which would be long before Semirah came for her at dusk. What was she going to do? Would the concubine know where to find her? Mother of Christ, why hadn’t she thought to say something before Semirah had fled?

Caught up in her quandary and pacing the room, Zora didn’t hear the second rap at her door. She only looked up when Nellwyn entered, the slave woman’s eyes filled with concern.

“Are you all right, my lady? Your cheeks are so flushed.”

“I’m fine,” Zora began, then she heaved a ragged sigh as an idea suddenly came to her. “No, Nellwyn, I’m not fine. I feel terrible…dizzy. I think I should lie down before–”

“Now don’t be fainting on the floor!” cried the slave woman, rushing forward to take her arm. She swept aside the filmy gown as Zora sank upon the bed. “You’re just overanxious about tonight, aye, I’d swear to it. I was like that myself when I first went to my Vasili’s bed, a quaking virgin if ever there was one. He’s a good man, but so big that he struck the fear of God in me. Yet he couldn’t have been more gentle, and so Lord Rurik will surely be with you.”

Rurik, gentle? Willing away all too compelling memories of his steely embrace, Zora said shakily, “Perhaps you’re right, Nellwyn.” She disliked that she must deceive someone who had been so kind to her, but she had no choice. “Perhaps I’ll feel better if I rest for a while. I’m sorry about the bath.”

“Don’t trouble yourself, my lady. We can heat up the water quick enough when you’re ready. Now close your eyes and if you need anything, I’ll be right outside.”

Zora waited until the door thudded shut behind Nellwyn before she allowed herself to breathe a sigh of relief. It was no more than a few hours before dusk. Surely she could feign her malady at least that long. She must!

“You’re going to find a cold empty bed when you return tonight, my lord husband,” she whispered, imagining the look on Rurik’s face when he realized that she was gone. It was not hard to do. The image she conjured was so grave and menacing, she shuddered and quickly chased it from her mind.

Chapter 17

Zora had to be shaken awake, and when she opened her eyes to find Nellwyn leaning over her, she could not believe that she had actually fallen asleep when there was so much at stake. Yet after two sleepless nights, she was not surprised that exhaustion had overcome her.

“You look to be feeling better, my lady. I let you rest a good long time, but it’s growing dark—”

“Yes, yes, I feel much better.” Zora raised herself on one elbow, trying to shake the cobwebs from her brain. “You said it’s dusk?”

“Aye, and according to Lord Rurik’s summons, he said he’d be back not long after sunset. We’ll have to hurry if you’re to be ready in time—”

“Then prepare my bath, Nellwyn.”

“I already have, my lady. The water’s steaming and I’ve poured in an extra measure of rose oil just to please you.”

Seized by desperation, Zora had to think of some way to get the slave woman to leave her chamber. If it was almost night, Semirah would arrive soon. Zora didn’t even want to consider that she might have missed her. “Please, Nellwyn, I need a few more moments alone…so I can gather my thoughts. Surely you understand.”

Sighing, Nellwyn nodded. “Very well, my lady, but no longer than that. Lord Rurik’s not one to have his orders disobeyed.” She began to close the door, then paused. “If you think it would help, I could fetch you some wine. A half goblet or so might relax you and I’m sure Lord Rurik wouldn’t mind.”

“Thank you, Nellwyn, that sounds lovely. But there’s no need to bring it in here. I’ll enjoy it with my bath.”

Finally alone, Zora waited an interminable moment just to make sure that the slave woman wouldn’t return. Then she rose and flew to the chest that held her new clothes.

Throwing back the lid, she pulled out a cloak and whisked it around her shoulders, then she snatched up a small embroidered bag that held the gold circlet she had worn at her wedding. Now all she had to do was watch for Semirah. She was barely to the window when she heard men shouting outside and a woman screaming shrilly, then frantic shouts of “Fire! Fire!” split the air.

“Holy Mother, protect us,” Zora prayed aloud, wondering if the compound might be under attack. As she flung aside the fur covering she got her first acrid whiff of smoke, carried to her on a strong breeze that whipped her hair about her face. Fearing that her own longhouse might be aflame, she was tempted to jump out the window right then and there.

To her relief, she saw that it wasn’t her dwelling but the roof of a distant longhouse that had become a bright orange inferno, thick black smoke boiling into the darkening sky. As warriors began to run toward the building from all directions with buckets of water, she realized at the same moment that she spied a cloaked figure hurrying toward her window that her guards had joined the fray.

“Come! Now!”

Semirah’s urgent voice shocked Zora into action. With a racing heart she climbed onto the sill and jumped to the ground, and after covering her head with the hood of her cloak, she clasped the concubine’s outstretched hand and dashed with her alongside the building. Men, women, and children seemed to be running everywhere, the confusion and noise like a swirl of chaos around them. Then Zora saw that another roof was burning, the gusty wind having swept the soaring flames onto a neighboring longhouse that was ominously close to the assembly hall.

“You…you started the fire, didn’t you?” Zora rasped as she and Semirah darted between buildings, keeping close to the walls and well into the shadows.

“How else could I come for you without anyone noticing? Faster now, we’re almost there!”

Zora was gasping for breath by the time they ducked into a small storehouse. The musty-smelling interior, its walls lined with barrels, would have been pitch-black if Semirah had not kept the door slightly ajar.

“Over here.” Dropping to her hands and knees, the concubine began to claw at the dry rushes strewn upon the planked floor until she had uncovered three heavy-looking iron bolts. One by one she drew them back, grunting with exertion as she then pulled up a trapdoor. “Go! It will be dark, so you must feel your way. You will find a horse and guide waiting for you when you leave the tunnel.”

Zora looked from the gaping black hole to Semirah. “How will I get out?”

“When you reach the other side, feel for a latch, then push up hard.” The concubine thrust a small, heavy bag into her hand. “Here is the gold! Go! By now the flames may have gone out!”

Only too eager to oblige her, Zora plopped down at the edge of the opening. She had barely swung her legs into the hole when Semirah shoved her from behind.

“Farewell, Princess.”

“Oh…!”

Zora had never known such a terrible fright as plunging feet first into blackness, the wind knocked from her body when she landed hard on her backside. It hadn’t been a long drop, perhaps only five feet, and she realized as Semirah slammed the trapdoor shut above her and secured the three bolts that she would have to crouch when she stood or risk bumping her head. Yet the walls were farther apart than her outstretched arms, which made sense if the tunnel had been built to accommodate men the size of Rurik.

“Farewell to you, too, Semirah, but you didn’t have to push me,” Zora muttered. She could just imagine the bruises she would bear from her fall.

All alone now, she took a moment to catch her breath. She tried not to dwell upon the fact that there were probably rats down here and spiders and God only knew what else, telling herself to think instead about how she was finally going to be free of Rurik. She would never see him again!

Zora was stunned that her excitement could suddenly be dampened by regret. Furious with herself, she focused on getting out of the tunnel. Grimacing as she groped around the clammy dirt floor for the bags holding her circlet and the gold, she was glad when she found them quickly. She rose to her feet, remembering to keep her head low as she made her way down the passage.

It was strange to keep walking forward when she couldn’t see where she was headed, the tunnel eerily silent but for the sound of her breathing. Yet she could tell that she was moving in a winding direction and not a straight line, the air growing more stuffy as she moved along. Soon her neck began to ache from hunching over.

As the moments dragged on, she walked faster, one hand extended in front of her so that she wouldn’t go slamming into a wall. When was this damned tunnel going to end? She would never have guessed that it could be so long, but then again, the shaft was an escape route.

Although she hadn’t seen it for herself, she imagined a wide strip of forest had been cleared around the compound for defense. The tunnel couldn’t end out in the open, which would leave one at risk of emerging among enemies who might have encircled the fortifications, but farther away in the trees where those fleeing could exit safely and without fear of being seen.

Telling herself to take deep, slow breaths as she tramped on and the air seemed to become that much thinner, Zora willed herself not to panic. She would be there soon. She had to be there soon…

Rurik spurred on his stallion, every lunge of the powerful animal bringing him that much closer to Zora. By Thor, it had been a torment sitting through the council of war at the kreml, the gravity of events scarcely able to divert him from thoughts of his unwilling bride!

He could well imagine in what mood he would find her, no doubt inspired by his unexpected summons, and it only heightened his anticipation. His frustrating encounters with Radinka and Kerstin had finally convinced him that he could torture himself no longer. He had made his point. Zora knew her place. It was time he quenched this desire that was close to driving him mad.

“My lord, look to the north!”

Arne’s cry was almost lost to the wind, the intensity of which had been mounting since they left Novgorod, a summer storm brewing. At first Rurik thought the warrior was referring to the veined lightning crisscrossing the sky, but then he saw an ominous orange haze in the distance that made his heart seem to stop.

“By the blood of Odin, men, ride hard!” he roared, digging his heels into the stallion’s heaving sides. He had seen such a glow rising above towns and cities during many a battle and it meant only one thing: fire.

As they approached the compound, the gates yawning open, Rurik could hear the crackling of flames and the resounding crash of timber collapsing. Yet nothing could have prepared him for the sight of an entire row of longhouses ablaze, sparks exploding heavenward as another roof caved in with a mighty roar.

Rurik reined in his horse and was on his feet running toward the worst of the fire before the rest of his men had dismounted. The heat, fanned by the gusting wind, was so intense that he could feel it like a hot blast upon his face twenty yards away. Immediately he took charge, directing his warriors’ effort to the assembly hall and commanding that they douse the three-story wall that was closest to the fire.

“What happened?” he demanded of Leif, whose soot-darkened face was streaked with sweat as he came running over to Rurik.

“The first longhouse went up a short time ago, we think from a hearth fire,” the warrior shouted above the din. “The wind has done the rest.”

Scanning the overcast night sky, Rurik could smell rain through the smoke that was burning his throat, but he couldn’t tell if it would come fast enough to save the hall. Right next door was his longhouse, which would have to be doused with water as well.

“Has anyone been hurt?”

“No, my lord, in that the gods have been merciful. Yet I’ve news that will not please you.”

Rurik’s gut instincts spoke to him before Leif could say another word. “My wife?”

“Aye, my lord. She is missing. Her slave Nellwyn found her bedchamber empty when she went to tell her of the fire.”

“Damn!”

“Thirty men are searching for her, including her guards—”

“Double it! There will be men enough to battle the blaze.” As Rurik glanced over his shoulder to the gates that were still wide open, Leif seemed to read his mind.

“There’s no chance she could have escaped that way, my lord. The guards have been watching for her.”

Then she had to be hiding somewhere inside the compound, Rurik thought as his warrior left him to rejoin those fighting the flames. Surely Zora couldn’t have found one of the secret exits…though she had been taking enough walks of late to make him wonder. She was so keen-witted…

“My lord!” came a shout, one of the men whom he had assigned to guard Zora running up to him.

“You found her?”

“Not yet, but we did come upon this hanging from the door to one of the storehouses…the one with the tunnel.” The warrior held out a jagged strip of gray linen. “It was caught upon a nail. We checked the trapdoor inside but it doesn’t appear to have been disturbed. The bolts were drawn and the rushes upon the floor looked untouched, yet…” The man shrugged, falling silent as Rurik studied the torn fragment.

“It could belong to anyone,” he said almost to himself. “A tunic, a mantle…of whoever was there last.” He brought the linen closer to inspect it further. “This tells me noth—”

Rurik stopped, suddenly catching the unmistakable citrusy fragrance of bergamot and cedar emanating from the cloth. He knew only one woman who wore such a perfume. Semirah. And there would have been no reason for her to be in that storehouse unless…

“Take another man with you and find Semirah, then bring her to me,” ordered Rurik, clenching the linen in his fist. “Go!”

As the warrior hastened away, Rurik focused his attention upon the fire, anything to temper the rage that was building inside him. A few drops of rain hit his face, a clap of thunder booming overhead. He looked up to the sky as the low-hanging clouds seemed to open and a steady downpour began in earnest.

Shouts of thanks erupted as with one resounding voice. Rurik knew that the hall and his longhouse were saved. But what of Zora, by God? Was she still in the compound or somewhere in the surrounding forest? The vast tracts of woodland were dangerous at best to even those who knew the terrain, but to a young woman raised in a palace with no knowledge of the wild and its creatures?

Seized by impatience, Rurik could not wait for his warriors to bring Semirah to him. As the rain became a deluge, soon soaking him to the skin, he strode past blackened, smoldering ruins in the direction of his concubine’s longhouse only to spy her resisting the men he had sent to fetch her. Yet when Semirah saw him approaching, she stopped her struggles and drew herself up, her gaze unwavering and her chin held high despite the rain lashing at her face.

“This was found at a storehouse known by only a few to have a tunnel.” Rurik thrust the telltale fragment of linen toward her. “It belongs to you, woman, and my wife is missing! What say you? Did you have a hand in her escape?”

She shook her head. “I know nothing of your precious wife.”

Hearing the bitterness in Semirah’s voice, Rurik said simply, “You lie.”

“And you are a fool to choose that blue-eyed, sallow-faced cow over Semirah!”

Rurik had never thought to strike a woman but at that moment he came very close. Yet his fury was restrained by pity, for he knew that it was his own disinterest that had provoked the woman. He knew, too, that he would have to pass judgment upon her for her treachery, but for now that would have to wait. He didn’t want to think what he might do to her if anything happened to Zora.

“The fire, Semirah. Was that a diversion for your actions?” he demanded.

Her resentful glare was answer enough.

“Escort this woman back to her dwelling and guard her well,” he ordered. “Don’t let her out of your sight.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Rurik barely heard the reply, for he was already racing back to his steed. Roaring out names of men to join him, warriors who knew the surrounding forest well, he had mounted by the time they had assembled around him.

“My wife has fled the compound through the tunnel. We will ride to where it ends and, if need be, branch out. She can’t have gone far.”

Wheeling his stallion around in a spray of mud, Rurik didn’t wait for them to mount their horses. They knew the way. His only thought was to find Zora, before something else did.

Chapter 18

Zora gasped as her outstretched palm hit a planked wall, and laughing with nervous relief, she fumbled along the low ceiling for a latch. It took some doing but she finally found it and with all her strength she pushed up. The trapdoor was heavier than she had imagined, but refreshed by the rain pelting her face and a stiff breeze whistling into the tunnel, she was able to shove it backward.

“Hello?”

No greeting came. And there was no horse or guide in sight, at least not from what she could tell standing in the tunnel. Thinking that the man must be waiting for her farther back in the trees, she tossed out her bags and then hoisted herself up.

“Is anyone there?” The steady plunk of rain hitting the earth and branches creaking in the strong wind was her only answer.

Sighing, Zora lowered the trapdoor and re-covered it with wet clumps of moss and pine needles. Then she bent to pick up her bags. Straightening, she winced as something hard landed upon her foot. “Ouch!”

When she heard several more thuds, she realized that the bag Semirah had given her must have come open for it was lighter in her hand. Kneeling to retrieve her gold, Zora found nothing but small rocks at her feet.

“What? Why…she lied to me!”

Hugging her damp cloak to her body, Zora looked around her nervously, the dense forest suddenly grown menacing in the dark. No gold grivna…no horse and no guide. Damn that Khazar woman! How did Semirah expect her to find her way to Novgorod? The tunnel had been so long, Zora had no idea in which direction lay Rurik’s compound, let alone her uncle’s city.

Hearing a branch snap somewhere behind her, Zora gasped and spun. Might there be marauding thieves in these woods like there had been at the portage? And surely wild beasts had to abound in this vast northern forest, bears and wolves…

“Oh, no, that’s it,” Zora breathed in horror. Semirah had never intended for her to make it back safely to Chernigov; she wanted something terrible to happen to her out here! Then she would be rid of her forever.

No, I mustn’t panic, Zora told herself firmly, clutching the remaining bag to her breast. She still had the jeweled circlet and her wedding ring, and she had made it this far. She could still escape.

All she had to do was find her way back to the compound and then skirt along the clearing to the road. Then once she was in Novgorod, she would find some shrewd merchant willing to risk the perils of a journey to Chernigov not only for the gold she would give him but for the vast reward that would be his upon her safe return—

A sudden rustling too near for comfort caused Zora to jump, but before she had a chance to run, she was collared roughly from behind.

“What have we here?” came a harsh guttural voice as Zora gasped in terror. Her captor held her so tightly around the neck that she couldn’t even turn her head to catch a glimpse of him. “I’m out hunting for a little supper and snare a pretty forest sprite instead. You’re a tempting one, wench. Wait till the rest of the lads get a look at you.”

“Let…let me go!” Zora rasped, scarcely able to breathe for the pressure of her captor’s arm against her windpipe. Clawing frantically at his sodden sleeve, she fought the swamping fear that was threatening to overwhelm her. “My husband is Lord Rurik of Novgorod! He will kill you if you hurt me!”

“Nay, wench, the wife to a great lord would never be alone in these woods,” he scoffed. To Zora’s horror, his hand strayed beneath her cloak to squeeze her breast. “She would know that thieves and cutthroats abound, along with hungry beasts on the prowl for a tender bit of flesh—”

“No! Stop!” Tears smarted Zora’s eyes as she struggled against him with all her might. “I have a gold circlet I could give you if you would just leave me alone…and…and my wedding ring! I dropped the bag when you grabbed me, but I know we could find it—”

“Aye, let’s get down on our hands and knees, wench, and see what we can find.”

As he began to push her to the ground, Zora began to scream wildly, blindly, kicking her legs and twisting in her captor’s grip so desperately that she was hardly aware of it when she was swept up into his arms.

“Let this be a lesson to you, wife, when next you think of fleeing from your home and husband. If such a man as I pretended to be had found you, no amount of kicking or screaming would have saved you.”

“Rurik!” Zora had never thought that she could be so glad to see him, and she almost threw her arms around his neck. Yet she was just as swiftly shaken by outrage that he would frighten her so cruelly, and on purpose. She was about to let him know exactly what she thought of him when a host of warriors suddenly came riding through the trees, their smoking torches lighting up the surrounding forest.

“Lord Rurik, we heard screaming—”

“My wife is well, men, just startled.”

Startled? Bristling again, Zora nonetheless decided to hold her tongue when she met Rurik’s eyes. His gaze was hard, his expression even harder.

“Come, wife. It is time you see the damage you have caused from this night’s work.”

Realizing that Rurik was referring to the fire, Zora felt a lump of apprehension in her throat as he strode with her to his horse, which had come trotting from the trees at his low whistle.

“I…I didn’t set it—”

“You might as well have. Semirah wouldn’t have committed such an act if you hadn’t given her encouragement.”

No wonder Rurik had known where to find her! Zora thought, astonished. “How did you learn that it was Semirah…?”

“Her own carelessness,” he answered in a grim voice. “And if you haven’t discerned it already, wife, there was treachery behind her willingness to help you. She knew the dangers you would face. It is my belief that she hoped you would become food for wolves, and for that I cannot forgive her.”

Rurik said no more as he lifted her to the saddle and from the tight clenching of his jaw when he mounted behind her, Zora could tell that his mood was black indeed.

As they set off with his men at a thundering pace through the woods, the rain becoming a cold drizzle, she wondered what Rurik had meant from his ominous statement. Yet she didn’t dare to think that he might have said it because he cared about her, no matter how fiercely he held her, his cheek against her wet hair.

As they rode through the gates, Zora had never known such guilt when she saw the damage, a row of still smoldering ruins, all that was left of ten longhouses.

“I never intended…” she began, but one look at Rurik’s dark expression was enough to silence her.

“Fortunately no one was hurt,” he informed her as he slowed their mount to a walk, “but there are families tonight without their homes and belongings. The hall and my own longhouse would have been next if the rain hadn’t come.”

Zora wisely held her tongue, the strong smell of charred timber making her stomach twist. What could she say? That she was sorry about the fire? She doubted Rurik would accept her apology. Yet at least she could offer part of her own dwelling as temporary quarters for one of those unlucky families. It might help to make amends and soothe her sense of blame.

“The main room of my longhouse is large, Rurik. I’m sure that it could sleep six people—”

“And what of your bedchamber?” His arm tightened like a vise around her waist. “Perhaps four more?”

“I…I suppose, but where will I…” She swallowed uncomfortably, recalling all too well his unwanted summons. “I mean, you must have a lot to do tonight because of the fire—”

“No more than a few orders will handle,” he cut in harshly. “The first one will be that all of your things be brought to my longhouse. Until new housing is built for the people your actions so callously displaced, you’ll be staying with me.”

Zora was stunned. “But…but what of your other women? Surely such an arrangement will only displease—”

“They have no say in the matter, nor do you. The decision has been made.”

This last statement was delivered so resolutely that Zora knew no amount of argument would sway him. As Rurik deposited her in front of his longhouse, he gave commands to some of his warriors who reined in their exhausted steeds behind him.

“See that my wife is well guarded and remember, men, she likes to stray, especially through windows. I will return shortly.” Then to Zora he said, “Go inside, Princess, and make yourself comfortable. I will send Nellwyn to attend to you needs.”

Zora stared at him, trapped. Rurik had told her that outside the compound lurked every manner of danger, yet at this moment, from the look in his eyes that appeared black and glittering in the hazy torchlight, she feared him more. She had the most unsettling notion that he was soon to devour her more hungrily than any beast.

“I said go inside, Zora. Or shall I dismount and carry you myself over the threshold?”

She didn’t hesitate but turned and hastened through the door held open for her by a somber-faced warrior. Grateful when it closed behind her, blocking Rurik from her sight, she leaned against the intricately carved doorjamb and pressed her hand over her heart. It couldn’t have been beating any faster, like a rabbit’s in a snare.

“Is there anything else you’ll be needing, my lady?”

Seated at the foot of the huge bed, Zora nervously fingered the embroidered edge of her sleeve. She was tempted to ask Nellwyn for the impossible, that somehow the slave woman might whisk her magically away from what she knew now was inevitable, but instead she shook her head. Bathed, perfumed, and dressed in the sleeping gown she had hoped never to wear, Zora supposed she was ready, if only outwardly, for whatever was to come.

“No, Nellwyn, nothing.”

“Then I’ll leave you,” came the stiff response. “Good night, my lady.”

As Zora watched Nellwyn hurry out, she was not surprised that the slave woman hadn’t offered any words of reassurance as she had earlier that day. Nellwyn was clearly upset that Zora had deceived her.

Sighing, Zora imagined that everyone must despise her now for her part in the fire, but then again, any other woman in her predicament might have done the same thing! Telling herself defiantly that she didn’t care what Rurik’s retainers thought about her, she rose from the bed and went over to the chest that held her things.

It had been an awful moment when male slaves had borne it into the room and set it down with an all too final thud right next to Rurik’s. Hoping that these Varangians were fast builders so she might soon be able to retreat to her own long-house, Zora pulled a lightweight cloak from the chest and whirled it around her shoulders. She felt naked in this sleeping gown, the apricot color of her nipples plain to see through the filmy fabric, and she’d be damned if that was the first thing Rurik saw when he returned.

When was he going to return? Zora wondered. Beset again by apprehension, she began to pace the room.

Would he take her at once and have done with it? Glancing at the bed that seemed to dominate the room, the thick headboard carved with grinning beasts and coiled serpents that to her appeared decidedly heathen, she felt a nervous rush of warmth in her stomach. It was too easy to conjure an image of them lying amid the soft furs mounded upon the mattress. She paced even faster.

Perhaps Rurik had found that there was more to be done than he had anticipated, she considered, clutching the ends of her cloak with trembling fingers. He had said he would return shortly, but he had left her hours ago. She imagined the supper that had been set up for them near the hearth had grown cold by now, which made no difference to her. She certainly had no appetite—

A sharp scraping sound from the main room caused her to gasp and she whirled, staring wide-eyed at the door. All the slaves had gone. It had to be Rurik.

Zora waited, her breath caught in her throat. But he did not enter. She wondered if she had only imagined the noise. Then she heard a dull thunk, and another. Her curiosity pricked, she hurried almost on tiptoe to the doorway and peeked outside.

Rurik was just rising from a bench, his boots lying at his feet. He must have sensed her standing there for he looked over at her and smiled. Smiled!

Chapter 19

“Good evening, wife.”

“H-hello.” Flustered by the husky warmth in his voice that matched the heat in his eyes, Zora’s cheeks reddened.

What in heaven’s name was the matter with him? She had expected him to be angry, gruff, hostile. When Rurik continued to smile at her, his appreciative gaze wandering over her lazily as he unfastened his sword belt and lay it upon the bench, she grew all the more bewildered, her blush creeping up to her scalp.

“Your…your supper has grown cold.” Then she rolled her eyes. How inane she must sound, and what did she care if his food was no longer edible! To her surprise, he chuckled.

“I suppose it has.” He began to pull his tunic over his head, his voice muffled through the fabric. “Forgive my delay, but I thought it good for morale to share some ale with my men, especially after what happened tonight.”

“So that’s it,” muttered Zora, her suspicion confirmed when Rurik swayed slightly while freeing his arms from the sleeves. She could not help noticing how boyish he looked with his silvery blond hair rumpled about his handsome face, but there was nothing boyish about the powerful span of his chest now bared to her gaze, or the muscular definition of his abdomen…

“What?”

Zora started, embarrassed that she had been staring at him so blatantly. “You’re drunk.”

Rurik smiled at her again, and this time it held a taunting edge.

“Only a little, Princess, and for that, you might count yourself fortunate.”

His hands moved to the drawstring at his trousers, and Zora’s heart began to thump…hard. Thinking desperately that she might be able to distract him with some conversation, she left the doorway, and averting her eyes from him as he undid the knot at his waist, she went to stand by the table where their supper was waiting.

“Fortunate?” she queried lightly, although her fingers were shaking as she fussed with a linen napkin. Hearing movement and the sound of something being tossed to the floor, she didn’t dare look up. Yet she could sense that he no longer wore a stitch. “How so?”

Rurik knew exactly what she was doing, trying to delay what had tortured his dreams for weeks. He decided to humor her for a moment, if only because he could see from her flushed cheeks and her trembling hands just how nervous she was.

“Because I haven’t come to you angry, Zora, as I might have earlier this night. Ale is a most curious drink. It can either drive a man already pressed to his limit into acting recklessly, and perhaps ruthlessly, or it can calm him. Tonight for me, it seems the latter.”

When she still did not look at him, remaining silent as she anxiously chewed her lower lip, Rurik walked toward her.

His impatience to enfold her in his arms was mounting inside him like a fire burning ever hotter, just as his desire for her had been escalating since the first time he had felt her writhe in ecstasy beneath him. Yet unlike that night, tonight he would savor every tantalizing inch of her. Reaching out, he stroked the silken curve of her cheek, her musky rose scent inflaming his senses.

“Come, wife.”

Zora jumped and met his eyes, acutely aware that he was naked and fearing to glance down for what she might see. He was so close now that his smell of smoke and sweat made her nostrils flare, but she did not think it unpleasant. Far from it.

“What…what of your supper?”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Wine, then,” she said distractedly as if she hadn’t heard the finality in his voice. “Let me pour you—”

“I have drunk enough .

“But—”

Within the blink of an eye he had taken her in his arms and swept her from her feet, startling Zora so completely that she could find no voice to protest as he carried her into the bedchamber. But when he lay her down upon the soft furs and covered her with his massive body, she came alive and began to struggle beneath him, striking his broad back with her balled fists.

“No, damn you! Stop! I don’t want you! I don’t want…this!”

“I think that you do.” He caught her wrists easily with one hand and drew her arms over her head. Touching his lips to hers, his warm breath scented with ale, he whispered, “Probably as much as I.”

“No, you’re wrong!” Zora jerked her head to one side, even as she shivered at the ticklish pressure of his mouth upon her throat. When he turned her chin back to face him, his fingers caressing the stubborn line of her jaw, she cried, “You may not have attacked me in Chernigov, but tonight that is what it will surely—”

His lips came down upon hers before she could finish, not a feather-light kiss this time but not rough, either…somewhere all too disconcertingly in between. His mouth seemed to mold to hers, and as he kissed her like he had all the time in the world, not rushing to force her lips open, Zora felt herself responding despite herself, the tension melting from her body.

It felt so wonderful…she could not deny it, and she soon found herself craving more. She heard him chuckle from deep in his throat when she parted her lips beneath his, but to her amazement, she didn’t care. All she wanted was an answer to the yearning that was building in some mysterious place inside her, and he gave it to her when his tongue delved into her mouth, his kiss growing possessive and increasingly demanding as if he could not get enough of the taste of her.

How long she was lost to the wet swirling wonder of his kiss she could not say, but when Rurik lifted his mouth from hers, she felt flushed all over and light-headed and grateful that she was lying down. Surely if she had been standing her legs would have collapsed beneath her! She sighed, awash in delicious chills as he first nibbled gently upon her bottom lip, then laved it with his tongue.

“You see, Zora?” he teased in a half whisper, not taunting or holding triumph but in a playful tone that secretly thrilled her. “It’s no terrible thing to surrender to desire. I promise that before I take you tonight, you will want me a hundred, no, a thousand times more. You will beg me to end your torment.”

“And you, Rurik,” Zora said softly when he lifted his head to stare into her eyes, his gaze darkened with passion in the golden lamplight. She did not understand why it was suddenly so important for her to know but she felt that she must ask. “Is that what you are doing tonight, surrendering at last to a desire that has caused you to send three concubines untouched from your bed?”

The change in him was lightning swift.

“Who told you that I sent them away?” he demanded, releasing her wrists to rest his weight on his forearms. “Semirah?”

Seeing the ire in Rurik’s eyes, Zora sensed he had wanted to hide this from her. But why? Could it really be as simple as what Nellwyn had said…that Rurik thought only of her? Perhaps she meant something to him after all. It could explain so much

“Answer me, Zora!”

“I…I chanced to overhear some slaves talking about Semirah and two other concubines during my walk this afternoon,” she lied, not wanting to bring any trouble down upon Nellwyn’s head. “But when they saw me, they grew quiet and hastened away.”

Rurik studied her face for what seemed the longest moment before muttering more to himself than her, “It doesn’t matter what you heard.” Then he rose from the bed and grabbing her by the forearms, he pulled her up so roughly to stand in front of him that Zora gasped.

“If you believe that you hold some sway over me, Princess, think again.” His voice was harsh as he wrenched the cloak from her shoulders and tossed it away. “Lust can blind a man for a time but once it is satisfied,everything will return to what it was before.”

Zora was easily convinced of his words for next he ripped the sleeping gown from her body with such force that it fell in gossamer shreds to the floor. Before she could cover herself, he yanked her hard against him, his hands almost cruel in their caress, but when he forced her chin up to face him, she saw in his eyes the same haunting turmoil she had glimpsed there only moments ago. Like a jolt it struck her that if anything, he was trying to convince himself.

His mouth found hers before she could draw another breath, his kiss savage and punishing as if he wanted to hurt her. His powerful arms held her so tightly that she feared he might crush her ribs…until she heard him groan raggedly and his embrace became not brutal but undeniably possessive.

His kiss changed, too, his lips still hard upon hers but no longer bruising, and soon she was completely lost in the wild passion of it, her arms winding around his neck to hold him tight. Time no longer held meaning, and when he tore his mouth from hers and knelt before her, she was so dazed she scarcely knew that he had done so until she felt him bury his face between her breasts, his breath a scorching flame over her heart.

“Woman…woman!” Rurik whispered fiercely, his fury at his weakness over Zora, at her for taunting him, vanished in the blazing heat of his desire.

Holding her like this, the woman he wanted above all others in his arms, he could not fight the feelings crashing in upon him and he wasn’t going to try. Afterward, Odin help him, he would regain his resolve, but for now, let him pretend that she hadn’t been taunting him. That she might care…

As Rurik groaned again and pulled her even closer, his hands worshiping in their caress, Zora felt her skin growing warmer beneath his wide, callused palms. Yet no sensation could have been sweeter or more exciting than his mouth seizing upon a nipple. Inhaling brokenly, she clutched his immense shoulders when he circled the swollen nub with his tongue.

“I told you I would make you want me,” she heard him say above her soft moans, his mouth first playing at one nipple, then hungrily searching out the other.

Nor did he neglect the scented valley between her breasts, his tongue tracing molten trails down one full curve and up another until she was trembling. Her moans grew louder when he began to suckle in earnest, his splayed hands gripping her bare bottom to hold her close, and she gasped in pleasure when he nipped her lightly.

“You like that?” came his pleased whisper.

“Yes…” Zora entwined her fingers in his hair as Rurik renewed his sensual onslaught, but this time he did so with a heart-stopping difference. With each slow twirl of his tongue at her breast, one of his hands slipped higher along the sensitive inside of her thigh…higher…higher…until at last he found what he was seeking.

Her breath snagging, Zora thought her knees were going to buckle as he slid his fingers gently inside her, and easily for the wetness he found there. Then he withdrew them only to repeat the exquisite torture again and again until she was shaking uncontrollably.

“I…I think I should lie down—”

Within an instant she was, for Rurik had pushed her back upon the furs before her words were barely spoken. Yet he didn’t join her on the bed. Instead, he remained kneeling beside the mattress and after pulling her hips toward him and spreading her legs, he lifted one of her feet and kissed the delicately raised arch.

“Now, my beautiful wife, do you know what I’m going to do?”

Shivering at the warm huskiness of his voice, Zora could only shake her head. He was so beautiful himself, so broad-shouldered, so bronzed, so handsome, so overwhelmingly masculine, that she could not stop staring at him.

“Fulfill my promise.”

With a roguish smile that set her heart to pounding, Rurik slipped his hands beneath her bottom and lifting her to him, he blew softly upon her woman’s hair, a deliciously erotic sensation unlike anything she had ever known. But it was nothing compared to when his mouth came down upon her, his tongue slipping into her where his fingers had been only moments before.

“Rurik…oh, no!”

She struggled at once, the sensation so intense that she was certain that she had had enough before he really began. But he held her tightly and if she had hoped to sway him by her outcry, she was mistaken for it seemed only to spur him on. If she had trembled before, now she was quaking, her body arching against him, against the hot wetness of his mouth and the sensual weapon that his darting tongue had become even as she cried out for him to stop.

“Please…Rurik, no more!”

Again his response was only to heighten his carnal assault, his focus now upon one point so achingly sensitive that Zora no longer thought to protest for the wondrous pressure that was mounting inside her. Where it had come from she didn’t know, but it took over her completely and she found she had no voice left but to whimper.

“Rurik…oh, please…”

“Tell me, Zora,” came Rurik’s taunting whisper. “Tell me what you want!”

“I want…I want…oh!”

The bright burst of ecstasy came upon her so suddenly that Zora grew rigid, her head falling back and her hands clawing at the furs as a pulse of red-hot fire shot through her, radiating to the ends of her toes and the tips of her fingers. She could not say how long she was lost in that searing flush of delirium, but when it had passed she collapsed onto the mattress like a limp doll.

“Sometimes we get what we wish for,” Rurik said as from a great distance, lifting her although she could give him no help at all. When she finally opened her eyes, her senses somewhat regained, she was lying on top of him, his flesh, rock hard and insistent, pressing against that still tingling place between her thighs.

“And sometimes, little one,” he added, his gaze burning like darkened coals into hers, “it comes to us twice.”

Rurik pulled her to him and captured her lips before she could reply, his mouth tasting of rose musk and her sex, his impassioned kiss more possessive than any that had gone before. As his tongue swept into her mouth, she felt him lift her hips and then settle her upon that thick, silken part of him that stood rigid and ready, impaling her when he thrust upward as if he could no longer contain himself.

Zora cried out, not in pain but in surprise, for he was so huge that she could not believe she had accommodated the full-grown length of him. Then he was moving within her, faster and deeper, and so fiercely that she marveled at the fury of his passion. Soon she found herself bearing down upon him to meet his powerful thrusts, and to her amazement, she felt that pressure flaring up inside her like a wildfire sparked once again to flames.

“Rurik…” she moaned, their mouths meeting and parting with each lunging motion of their bodies until he plunged his fingers through her hair, fusing his lips with hers.

She didn’t have to hear his groans to know that rapture had suddenly found him, for his body throbbed like a thing alive inside her, the hard, rhythmic pulsing keeping time with the waves of ecstasy spreading through her.

For one blinding, eternal moment his panting breath was hers, her ragged breath was his, their heartbeats clamoring together in unison. Then she fell in utter exhaustion upon him as his arms came around to hug her tightly.

It was Rurik who finally spoke moments later, his labored breathing back to normal as if their lovemaking had scarcely taxed him. That alone should have given Zora a clue that the night for them was not over.

“You cannot go to sleep yet, little one,” he whispered, sliding his hand along the side of her body until he found the soft curve of a breast.

Zora shivered at the sensation of his fingernails lightly grazing her flesh. “No?”

Her answer came when he rolled onto his side, taking her with him. As he hitched her leg over his hip, she realized to her astonishment that he had grown hard again inside her.

“Rurik…! How—”

He silenced her with a finger to her lips, a rogue’s smile spreading over his face as he teased her with a slow, tantalizing thrust. “Sometimes it comes to us twice. Remember?” He lowered his head and barely touching his lips to hers, his whisper thrilled her. “And sometimes, Princess, even that is not enough…”

Chapter 20

Muddled from sleep, Zora opened her eyes to bright sunlight streaming through the high, narrow windows. How odd. The bedchamber in her longhouse had only one window…

It only took her a quick look around the richly furnished room to remember exactly where she was, and her head fell back upon the pillow as a blush fired her cheeks.

She and Rurik had spent the night together in this huge bed. Holy Mother Mary, she would never have imagined there were so many ways for a man and a woman to—

“Isn’t it enough that you’ve done all those things without thinking about them, too?” she chided herself, trying without success to force the passionate images from her mind. Glancing at the empty space beside her, she wondered how long ago Rurik might have risen. She guessed it was already well into the morning, perhaps even midday, but then they hadn’t gone to sleep until almost dawn…

“Stop,” Zora muttered in exasperation, besieged not only with rousing memories of their lovemaking but by words that had passed between them. Words Rurik had hurled at her earlier in the night that she could not forget…

“Lust can blind a man for a time but once it is satisfied, everything will return to what it was before.”

Sighing, Zora rolled onto her side and folded her arm beneath her head.

After last night, she wasn’t so sure that Rurik merely lusted for her. She had seen the torment in his eyes. Was it possible he might have some feelings for her that went so much deeper, feelings he was fighting because of the deceit he had suffered at another woman’s hands’? Could he be falling in love with her?

Oh, what did it matter? she fumed, becoming angered by a sudden rush of butterflies in her stomach. If she hadn’t asked Rurik about his spurning his concubines in the first place, now she wouldn’t be concerning herself with whether or not he cared about her. And even if he did, it wouldn’t change anything!

She and Rurik were enemies. All she wanted was to be free of him and home in Chernigov with her father and Ivan, and where she could repay her half sister for the misery she had suffered. It was as simple as that.

Nothing’s that simple, came a niggling inner voice but Zora stubbornly ignored it and shifted onto her back in frustration.

What was she supposed to do now? she wondered, staring at the timbered ceiling. Her last escape attempt had failed miserably and until she managed to find some other way to leave, she was stuck here. She would have to be married to a man whose estate was so remote that wild beasts lurked just outside the gates!

Her open defiance of Rurik had also gotten her nowhere; in fact, he seemed to enjoy it. No, there had to be another way…

A nervous warmth sluiced through her body at the sudden idea that came to her, one that would perhaps have never occurred to her if not for what had passed between them last night.

Rurik had to know that he had pleased her. She shivered to think of how much. Why not take it further by leading him to believe that she was beginning to accept her marriage? That had been his toast to her after all at their wedding feast. It was what he wanted. Why not make it appear as if she were finding contentment as his wife? Surely then he would let down his guard around her, which could open up any number of opportunities…

Seized by tense excitement, Zora drew the heavy fur spread with her as she raised herself to a sitting position.

It was so perfect, made all the more so by the possibility that she meant more to Rurik than he wanted her to believe. Perhaps she could further seduce him into trusting her if she seemed to care for him as well—

“I was hoping I’d find you awake.”

Zora’s heart leapt into her throat, those same butterflies fluttering like mad inside her stomach as her gaze darted to the doorway where Rurik stood watching her. How could she have been so lost in her thoughts that she hadn’t heard him enter? Then again, what had she just been thinking about? All of a sudden, she felt so scattered…

“G-good morning,” she stammered. Her cheeks grew warm as he took in every aspect of her appearance, her pulse pounding at the air of intimacy that now charged the room.

“Good afternoon, you mean,” he corrected her. “It’s well past midday.”

“Oh.” The hard edge to Rurik’s voice broke the befuddled spell. Why did he look so grim? Surely there was no crime in sleeping late, especially after what they…Remembering all too well the arousing sensation of his hands upon her, she added distractedly, “I didn’t hear you leave this morning. When did you—”

“Not long after sunrise.” Rurik moved farther into the room but stopped several feet from the bed as if he did not want to come too close. “A journey was required to an estate east of Novgorod…that’s why I’ve come to speak with you. I didn’t want you to hear the news from any slaves and perhaps create false stories.”

Zora was stung by his sarcasm. His present mood contrasted sharply with how he had earlier tenderly kissed the tip of her nose and her eyelids and then bade her in a whisper to go to sleep. Yet she supposed if he was trying to fight his feelings for her—

“News?” she said with feigned lightness, thinking again of her plan. Zora was surprised by the strong sense of guilt that accompanied it.

“About Semirah. I’ve given her to Lord Boris and he seemed quite pleased with her. She’ll trouble you no more.”

Zora could not have been more shocked. For a moment she didn’t know what to say. She had thought Rurik might somehow punish the concubine, especially after his hard words in the forest about not being able to forgive her, but to rid himself of her by giving her to another man?

“The same Lord Boris who my uncle…?”

Zora was answered with a brusque nod. She stared at Rurik, incredulous.

“Did…did Semirah go willingly? I can only believe that what she did to me was because she held feelings for you—”

“Affection had nothing to do with her treachery,” he broke in coldly, although his gaze held a piercing warmth that belied the harshness of his voice. “Would you rather I had allowed her to remain here, Princess, where she would be a threat to the mother of my heirs? Aside from endangering your life, the crime of setting fire to my property was enough to warrant my selling her back into slavery, but I spared her that horror by giving her to Boris. He has the coarse manners of a pig, but he’s unmarried and rich enough to satisfy Semirah’s ambition. I have no doubt she’ll have better luck with him.”

Stung twice as sharply by Rurik’s dispassionate reference to her maternal use to him, Zora had to remind herself to keep calm. But what he had said about Semirah made little sense.

“Ambition?”

“Exactly. I had sensed from the moment I brought her here that she wanted to become my wife because she craved the rank it would give her. Yet when you arrived, she believed that unless she got rid of you, she would always remain a concubine. Her confession led me to think of Boris, for until that moment I was undecided as to what I was going to do with her. Semirah was pleased at my offer to take her to him.”

Absorbing this startling news, Zora thought of what Lady Ingigerd had said to her about seeing so much more in Rurik than a brutal captor if she would only give him a chance. It was obvious that he had compassion, even though it would have been well within his rights to deal harshly with Semirah. How swiftly it seemed Zora was learning that Rurik wasn’t the coldhearted barbarian she had always perceived him to be!

Suddenly another thought struck her, a troubling one.

“What of your other concubines, Rurik? Perhaps one or two might share a like ambition with Semirah. Must I watch my every step for fear I’ll find a knife in my back or poison in my food?”

“My other women have been with me long enough to know their place,” came his swift reply, his tone grown no warmer. “They expect no more than I can give them, a comfortable home, safety, recognition for any children they might bear me—”

“No love?” The question was out before Zora could stop it. From Rurik’s darkening expression, she almost wished that she could snatch it back.

“That word holds no meaning for me, Princess, and never will.” Tight-lipped, he abruptly changed the subject. “My men await me at the training field. Tonight you and I will dine again in the hall so that all can see harmony is restored.”

“As you wish, husband.”

Her soft response seemed to startle him, his arresting blue eyes alight with sudden suspicion. But if he was going to say something else he thought better of it and strode from the room, slamming the outer door a moment later.

Zora stared at the place where he had stood, stunned that she could miss him when he had just left. Holy Mother Mary, if she wasn’t careful, she might find herself fighting some feelings of her own—

Liar, you already are! came that insistent inner voice and this time, Zora could not ignore it.

“Is this to be the way of things, my lord? You come to the training field to vent your anger upon your men? To work them hard is one thing, but to push them beyond exhaustion—”

“I ask no more from them than I demand from myself,” Rurik cut Arne off irritably. His lungs hurting with his every breath from the fury of his exertions, he wiped the stinging sweat from his eyes. “If they cannot fight past exhaustion, they are as good as dead men and of no use to Grand Prince Yaroslav in the battle to come.”

“Yet this afternoon you were not thinking of that battle,” Arne countered bluntly, “but of the woman you have finally taken to your bed. Training your men and yourself into exhaustion is not the answer if you’re seeking to rid her from your heart and mind.”

“No?” Rurik shot back, vexed that Arne always managed to read him so well. “What then, my friend, is the answer?”

To his surprise, the grizzled warrior who usually had copious advice on every subject, merely shrugged.

“No, Arne, I cannot believe you have nothing to say,” Rurik goaded him. “You started this and you will finish it. Speak your piece and have done.”

Sighing, Arne met Rurik’s eyes squarely. “Perhaps it is an impossible thing and there is no answer, my lord. Perhaps you must simply accept that the gods have thrust a woman in your path who you cannot ignore. I’ve never seen you so consumed by a wench since Astrid and even though you believed at the time that she was the love of your life, her betrayal thus made all the harder for you to bear, she cannot have meant more to you than your new bride does now.”

“And how do you know this?” Rurik demanded unkindly. “You who are such an expert in matters of the heart? You’ve never married, never loved—”

“Aye, never married you can well say,” Arne interrupted vehemently. “But as for never loved, the mother who bore you won my heart the day she came to wed your father as a blushing girl of fifteen! Eva never knew and with my loyalty sworn to your father, I would have died before I dishonored myself. But it was me holding her hand when she finally let go of life, broken and alone and with that Welsh whore Gwyneth on the high seat beside your father! If he hadn’t sent me to Rus with you, I tell you now, Rurik Sigurdson, though you may be tempted to strike me down for saying so, I would have killed him!”

Breathing hard, Arne glanced to the sword Rurik still held and then back to his face. “By the blood of Odin, are you going to do it or not? You’ve finally found your chance to silence my meddling tongue forever.”

“How could I strike you, friend, when that is why I left Norway as well?” Rurik said quietly, thinking of how terribly Arne must have suffered to see his mother so abandoned, as had he. His throat tight with remembered pain, he sheathed the weapon and then reached out and clasped the warrior’s arm, never having felt a closer bond between them. “Forgive me. I had no right to say what I did.”

“Aye, you have the right when I presume to know what you’re feeling.” Arne laughed gruffly as if embarrassed by their display of emotion, yet he quickly sobered. “I only said as much about Astrid because she didn’t have to face the barriers you’ve built inside yourself…long held barriers your Rus princess has managed to shatter in a few short weeks time. That alone should tell you something, my lord. And though I’m no good judge of women’s hearts, I’d say your comely bride is struggling with herself much the same as you.”

Rurik’s heart seemed to skip a beat, Arne’s unexpected observation triggering the memory of his exchange last night with Zora that he had tried his damnedest all afternoon to dispel. Add to that her unsettling query about love and her soft-spoken words of acquiescence just before he came to the field, and suddenly it was very hard to think rationally. Yet he made himself, all the same.

“How can you say this? Zora may have given in to desire but she despises me.”

“Perhaps she did at first,” Arne countered, “but I would have had to be a blind man to miss the hurt in her eyes the other night when she spied your dark-haired wench Radinka sitting on your lap. I was tempted to tell you then, my lord, that you were acting the fool…” The warrior shook his head. “I’d never have believed after all the trouble she caused us that I would feel sorry for her, but I did.”

“Trouble she is still causing,” said Rurik with no small amount of sarcasm. “What say you of her escape attempt yesterday? That wasn’t the act of a woman who might be falling in love with the husband she was forced to marry.”

There, he had finally said it aloud, Rurik thought as Arne heaved another sigh. Falling in love. But he wouldn’t go so far as to believe that it might be true. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“Maybe it was,” Arne said heavily as if striking too close again to a painful subject. “After you made it so clear that she meant nothing to you, flaunting your other wenches in front of her, can you blame her for wanting to leave? From what I have seen, wives do not suffer well the concubines of their husbands.”

Arne was making so much sense that Rurik was stunned he hadn’t thought of this before, or perhaps he had simply refused to see it. Yet if what Zora had told him yesterday was true, she had learned about him sending his women from his bed before she had tried to escape

“Remember, too, my lord, her allegiance to her father. The struggle she wages within herself cannot be an easy one.”

Believing now that Arne could read his mind, Rurik was about to say as much when the warrior added, “There’s the princess now, over by the main storehouse.”

Glancing over his shoulder, Rurik was surprised to see Zora engaged in conversation with Yakov, the Slav steward in charge of overseeing the details of his estate. Waiting for her off to one side were Nellwyn and the half-dozen guards he had assigned to escort Zora wherever she went. Suddenly suspicious, he could not help wondering what she might be up to, his anger pricked just in considering the endless possibilities.

“So we’re back to where we started from, aye, my lord?” Startled, Rurik turned to find Arne frowning at him. “What?”

“You’ve distrust written all over your face. Already you’re thinking she must be scheming against you. Well, maybe she is and maybe she isn’t, but you’ll never have any hope of swaying her loyalty—or her heart—if you storm over there and demand an explanation. Use a lighter hand and a little patience with your new wife. You just might turn the wind to your favor…and that’s what you truly want, isn’t it?”

With that, Arne stomped off, leaving Rurik standing alone on the training field.

But not for long. With her small entourage in tow, Zora made her way toward him. The smile on her face, albeit a nervous one, set his heart racing.

“You win, old bear,” Rurik said to himself, aware that the burly warrior had stopped and turned around as if curious to see whether or not Rurik would follow his advice.

Loki take him, he could very well be opening himself up for some treachery, but he was willing to temper his behavior on the chance that what Arne had said was true. Could he dare to hope that Zora hadn’t simply been taunting him with talk of love? By Odin, what he would give…

“My lord!” came Yakov’s high nasal voice as the steward brushed past Zora at the last moment, almost tripping over his own feet in his haste to reach Rurik first. Clearly agitated, the spare, middle-aged man shook a piece of paper at him. “My lord, you must see this! It’s a list of things she wants me to buy at the market—”

“If you’re referring to my wife, Yakov, then address her properly,” said Rurik, sternly rebuking the steward who appeared just as startled as Zora that he had done so.

Taking the paper, Rurik perused the list and saw that it was made up of common household items such as woolen cloth, needles, thread, and so on. Certainly nothing threatening. He lifted his gaze to find Zora watching him, her expression grown anxious, but he turned his attention back to the steward.

“I see nothing here that should cause such alarm.”

“Then…then I am to do what she says…forgive me, what your wife has requested of me?” asked Yakov, his pallid face flushed with indignation. “I thought I should seek your counsel first…it’s so irregular…I mean, I’ve always been the one to see to what is needed without any interference from—”

“Do you want these things, Zora?” Rurik interrupted him, finally understanding just what the steward perceived his problem to be, a case of someone encroaching upon his duties.

“Yes I do, but not for myself,” she answered, her beautiful eyes very wide as if she couldn’t believe that he would ask her opinion. “Those items are for the people who lost their homes in the fire. I—I’ve been around to all of them to apologize and to ask if there was anything I could do to help. The women told me that there wasn’t enough extra cloth to be found to make a change of clothes for their families, so I thought perhaps we could buy enough to see them through until more can be woven.”

“And you are protesting this?” demanded Rurik, glaring at the steward who gaped back at him round-eyed as if he didn’t know quite what to say.

“Not…not that the cloth isn’t needed, my lord, but that this woman—”

“For the last time, this woman is my wife, Yakov, whose wishes will be obeyed. If she requests something from the market in Novgorod, you need not come to me first. I trust that she is well trained in the workings of a household, however large, and I expect you to respect her judgment in such matters. Are we understood?”

“Yes, yes of course, my lord,” the steward said in a nervous rush, his hands shaking as he took back the list.

Rurik turned to Zora, finding that it had given him a great deal of pleasure to speak out on her behalf. “Does this satisfy you, wife?”

Chapter 21

Zora couldn’t have been more astounded. After how coldly Rurik had treated her earlier this afternoon, she would never have expected him to be so solicitous. Suspicious, yes. Brusque, yes, but to champion her as the mistress of his household?

“Y-yes, thank you. I am well satisfied.” Staring into his eyes, she knew that she was genuinely smiling at him as perhaps she had never done before, but she couldn’t help it. That Rurik had publicly stated his faith in her, at least as far as domestic matters were concerned, gave her a powerful surge of pleasure that had nothing to do with her plan. Perhaps that was the most startling thing of all.

“Is there any other way I can assist you, then, my lady?” Yakov’s eager-to-please tone now lacked the resentment it had held earlier.

It was hard for Zora to tear her gaze from Rurik’s, for he seemed just as content to be staring at her as she was at him. Yet the steward’s question was a sobering reminder that she must think again of her plan, especially now that she feared her growing feelings for Rurik were battling against her. This latest reaction to him proved it! The sooner she took up her duties within the compound, making it appear to all that she was accepting her marriage, the better.

“Yes, Yakov, there is something.” Zora hoped Rurik would miss the tinge of desperation in her voice. “I’d like to visit the weaving house if I may, to see if anything else should be ordered from the market, then the cooking house and the storehouses where the foodstuffs are kept, the brewery, the dairy—”

“It pleases me that you’ve taken an interest in the welfare of my retainers and the needs of my household but it grows late, wife,” Rurik interjected, trying to contain the mistrust that had leapt into his mind at this new request. His better judgment was telling him that she had to be nursing some plot, but he was determined to honor Arne’s advice. Anything if Zora would smile at him again as she had been a moment ago. “Tomorrow Yakov can show you all of those places, but for now we must ready ourselves for supper. Everyone will be gathered in the hall by dusk.”

“But I am ready,” she insisted. As if to illustrate her point, she glanced down at the rose-colored tunic that she wore, the shimmering fabric cut to accentuate the lush curves of her body, and then met his eyes. “Does this gown not please you?”

“More than I can say,” said Rurik, noting her deep blush, which thrilled him as much as the thought that she might have dressed with his pleasure in mind. “But I have no wish to go to supper with the stink of battle upon me.” He held out his hand. “Come. I’d like you to accompany me to the bathhouse.”

“I can’t go there!” she said, shocked.

Rurik frowned. “Why not?”

She stared at him in confusion. “You…you would want other men to see me…?”

Suddenly realizing why she was so flustered, Rurik almost laughed aloud.

“Not the main bathhouse, Zora. True enough, it’s probably filled with my warriors. No, I have my own.” He took her small hand firmly in his, and drew her toward him. He lowered his voice so only she could hear. “Do not think that I would ever allow another man to glimpse your beauty. It is for me alone. Now come.”

Zora could tell from Rurik’s husky command that he would not be swayed, and disconcerted all the more by the heat in his eyes, she felt her urgency about her plan melt away. As they left Nellwyn, Yakov, and her guards staring after them, Zora had to walk quickly to keep up with Rurik’s powerful strides, but they hadn’t gone far before he chuckled and purposely slowed his pace.

“Forgive me, little one. I forget that your legs are shorter than mine.”

Little one, Zora thought, undeniably warmed by the way in which he had said it, like an endearment.

Suddenly she recalled another time when he had held her hand, at their wedding only a few days ago. He had stroked her fingers and asked her if it was truly that bad…she supposed that he had meant their marriage. She had called him a heartless barbarian, believing he was mocking her, but maybe he hadn’t been after all. Maybe he had been touched by her tears. Maybe even then he had cared…

Sighing to herself, Zora could hardly believe how much had happened since she had come to Novgorod. Nor could she believe how Rurik’s mood had changed from when first she had seen him that afternoon, going as if from night to day.

It seemed that already he was relaxing around her and she had barely set her plan into motion. Was it possible that her simple apology to his people had moved him? Or was it because she had greeted him earlier, not with defiance and sharp words as he might have expected, but in a softer manner? Maybe he had decided he no longer wanted to fight his emotions—

“You know, Princess, you surprise me.”

Her heart pitching crazily, Zora glanced up at him. “I do?”

Rurik nodded. “I would never have expected you to call upon the families who lost their homes and tell them you were sorry, and then ask if you could help.”

“I would have done more if I could,” she said honestly, for in truth her actions this afternoon—other than choosing her gown with an eye toward pleasing him—had been only partially spurred by her plan, but mostly because she felt badly about her role in the fire. “I never intended for such a terrible thing to happen.” When he didn’t readily reply, she added, “I’m not a callous ogre, Rurik. I have feelings, too.”

“I never said you didn’t.”

Distracted all over again by how intently he seemed to be studying her, Zora looked away.

“I must admit your sudden interest in my household has also come as a surprise.”

She kept her gaze trained straight ahead, her heart suddenly pounding. Holy Mother Mary, did he suspect…?

“I don’t see why,” she answered as steadily as she could. “Surely it is a normal thing for a wife to wish to please her husband—”

Rurik stopped and faced her so abruptly that Zora gasped. “Is that what you’re trying to do?” His demand was strained as he searched her eyes. “Please me?”

Seeing the same turmoil in his gaze, Zora was shaken by the intensity of her guilt. Damn him, why could he make her feel like she was betraying him? The line she was trying so desperately to preserve between what she wanted him to believe and the emotions tugging at her heart was becoming more blurred with their every encounter, a realization both frightening and thrilling.

“Zora?”

She knew that he wanted an answer, but she didn’t know what to say, fearing that if she spoke at all she would reveal too much. Then just as suddenly Rurik seemed to change his mind as if he sensed he was pushing her too hard. Squeezing her hand, he set out with her toward a small wooden building that adjoined his longhouse, not speaking again until they were almost there.

“The stones should be red-hot by now,” he said, all trace of tension gone from his voice. “I sent word an hour ago that I wanted the bathhouse made ready.”

“Stones?” she asked, still unsettled.

“You’ll see.”

Zora was greeted by a hot blast of air as Rurik opened the door and pushed her gently inside the lamplit, windowless building. She heard him draw the bolt behind her, then he brushed past her to a large open hearth in the center of the room that was piled with smooth rocks.

“You’ve never been in one of these before, have you?” Watching as he dipped a ladle into a bucket of water, Zora shook her head.

“Steam baths are a common thing in the north,” he explained, smiling at her over his shoulder. “Every house has one. We Varangians swear by them.” He gave a short laugh. “Your uncle has a steam bath in his palace big enough to seat his entire senior druzhina.”

Zora started when Rurik threw water on the hissing stones, steam filling the room. He emptied the ladle again and again until it looked like a dense fog had enveloped them, and only then did he unbuckle his sword belt and begin to strip off his clothes.

“Join me,” he said in a low, teasing voice that sent chills racing through her. “I think you’ll like it.”

It seemed Zora had joined him, for already her silk tunic was damp and clinging to her skin, sweat tickling down her back. Yet she grew flustered at the thought of undressing in front of him, despite the intimacy they had shared. Turning around modestly, she gathered the garment to her hips and began to draw it up over her torso.

“Let me help you, Princess.”

“Oh!”

Rurik had come up so silently that she hadn’t even heard him behind her. She sucked in her breath as he took charge, his splayed hands caressing the tunic from her body. Within the blink of an eye she was standing naked in his arms, even her thin linen underdrawers cast onto a bench near the door.

“Thor’s blood, woman, you’re so beautiful,” he whispered in her ear. He stroked her worshipfully, the curve of her hips, her belly, then his hands glided upward to the soft undersides of her breasts where he gently cupped her. “So beautiful.”

Her head lolling back against him, Zora moaned as his thumbs lightly grazed her tightened nipples, circling around and around. Yet the wondrous sensation had no sooner begun when he released her, and she heard him chuckle.

“Not yet, Princess. First the steam bath must be enjoyed. Come and sit with me.”

As Rurik took her hand and led her through the billowing steam to a platform set around the walls, Zora could see that his sun-gilded skin already glistened with sweat. Her eyes drifted down his muscled back to the curve of his taut buttocks, her face firing with a warmth that had nothing to do with the peat fire in the hearth. He was so magnificent, his hard masculine body made all the more fascinating in her eyes by the nicks and scars he bore from countless battles.

“Are you pleased with what you see?”

Embarrassed that Rurik had caught her staring at him so brazenly, she could only nod as he turned her around and drew her down to sit upon his lap, her back nestled against his chest.

“Lean your head against my shoulder and close your eyes,” he bade her and she did so, sighing within the security of his arms. “That’s it…now relax and let the steam wash over you.” He lightly kissed her temple. “It feels wonderful, doesn’t it? So warm, wetting your hair, your skin…”

It is wonderful, Zora thought dreamily, but no more so than the sensation of his steady heartbeat drumming against her back, the added warmth of his breath fanning her cheek, and the way his fingers were toying with the damp hair that streaked her breasts and shoulders. At one point she even felt herself sliding from his lap, the moisture of their bodies a slippery sheen between them, but he only drew her back with a husky laugh and held her that much more closely.

She couldn’t have said how many moments had passed, the engulfing steam and the incredible heat of Rurik’s body like a cocoon shielding her from all sense of time or place, when suddenly she felt him lift her and stand her upon her feet.

“It was not my intent for you to fall asleep, Zora, but I’m sure this will wake you,” he said with amusement in his voice. Supporting her with one arm, he drew something from a basket set near the hearth.

“I’m not sleepy,” was all she managed to say just before she felt a stinging sensation cut right across her bottom. “Ouch! That hurt! What are you…?” Now fully alert, she stared in horror from the telltale birch branches he held to the innocent smile on his face.

“It’s part of the steam bath,” Rurik tried to explain through the laughter threatening to erupt from his throat, Zora’s indignant outrage truly a sight to behold. “To get the blood moving. You scarcely feel it after the first few—”

“Blood moving be damned! You will not strike me with those…those branches again!” She broke free of his grasp and skittered to the other side of the room. “If you want to lash yourself to ribbons, go right ahead, Rurik Sigurdson, but you’ll not have me participating in your strange Varangian custom!”

Her eyes were sparking such fire, Rurik could suppress his mirth no longer.

“It’s not funny!” she cried, although he could see that she was fighting hard not to join him, her lips twitching and her dimples beginning to show. “You could have at least warned me!”

“And ruin the surprise?” he asked, actually wiping tears from his eyes. By Thor, he didn’t think he had laughed so hard in years. His stomach hurt!

“Some surprise.” She swiped irritably at the steam. “I want out of here. I’ve had enough! From now on, you can enjoy your steam baths and I’ll keep my tub, thank you.”

“Oh, but we’re not through yet, Princess.”

Zora glanced at Rurik warily, not liking the enigmatic smile that he now wore on his face.

“Whipping me isn’t enough?” she demanded, a giddy excitement fast overwhelming her vexation as he began to stalk her around the hearth. The rogue! She glanced at the door they had entered, but that one led outside and she’d never have enough time to wriggle into her tunic before he caught up with her.

She threw a glance at the opposite door. Surely it led into the longhouse…and if she went right now—

Zora screamed as she dashed for the door for at that same moment, Rurik lunged for her. Yet he wasn’t quite fast enough for she had it open before he reached her and she rushed inside another room, only to stop right up against a huge wooden tub that was blocking her path.

“What…?” She gasped as Rurik grabbed her from behind and lifting her kicking and squirming into his arms, he stepped with her into the tub.

“It will feel good, Zora, I promise you,” she heard him say just before he knelt and then dunked her under the coldest water she had ever felt in her life.

“You’re mad!” she sputtered a split second later when she came up for air, her shivering body one giant goose bump and her teeth chattering uncontrollably. Her fingers were so cold that she could barely shove her hair out of her eyes. “Mad, I tell you!”

“Exhilarating, isn’t it?” Rurik said as if he hadn’t heard her, and letting go of her suddenly, he disappeared for a long moment under the water, so long in fact that Zora began to grow anxious. Yet she needn’t have worried for he exploded above the surface with a mighty splash that sent shimmering droplets flying through the room, extinguishing an oil lamp on a table near the tub. His delighted roar shook the rafters.

“By Odin, you can’t come any closer to rolling in snow than this! Fresh water from a stream still ice-cold with the spring thaw!”

Zora stared at him incredulously, thinking herself a sorry contrast to Rurik’s vigor. He looked like an invincible Norse god rising up from the water, his wet blond hair slicked back from his forehead, his skin sleek and tanned and his face flushed healthily, while she must appear a drowned rat.

“You roll in snow?”

“From October to May, if we’re lucky.” His broad smile warmed Zora more than she could have imagined possible. “Where do you think we Varangians gain our strength?” Then he sobered a little, beckoning to her. “Come here, Princess.”

Inching over to him, Zora wondered what he might be plotting to do to her next in this damnable steam bath of his and she stopped just shy of his reach. “You’re not going to dunk me again, are you?” she asked suspiciously, although the water didn’t feel half so cold to her now that she had been in it for a while.

“Hardly, wife,” came his low reply, but he didn’t wait for her to come to him, he came to her. In a single splash, he captured her in his arms, and finding her mouth, his lips were as hot as firebrands upon hers.

Zora was certain she had never felt a kiss more passionate or more incredibly powerful, and within seconds, she no longer felt the cold at all for the seductive weight of his hands upon her body and the wet possession of his tongue as he led hers in a heady dance. Then she felt him cup her bottom and lift her and she was sinking onto fire and steel, the water churning around them.

He took her fast and hard and she let him, her thrusts as relentless and demanding as his own, but never once did their mouths lift from each other’s as if neither could bear to breathe alone. And when their climax burst upon them, they shared it wildly, ecstatically, clutching each other as if all joy and life depended upon it for in that moment, it did.

Chapter 22

Zora’s hair was still damp when she and Rurik took their places at the high seat. She couldn’t believe that they were at supper just a little past the appointed hour.

Rurik’s hunger for her had not abated after they left the tub, and only the fierce growling of his stomach had been a pointed reminder to him that he should seek some food. Yet he had laughingly hidden his need for nourishment under the guise of building his strength for later that evening, a thought that had filled Zora with dizzying expectation before they had even set foot from his longhouse.

“Good evening, my lady! My lord!” came Arne’s boisterous greeting from Rurik’s left, the warrior waving a foaming cup of mead. “We were about to give up on you, but it seems the old saying rings true, man cannot live by pleasure alone!”

Was it so obvious what she and Rurik had been doing? Zora wondered, a blush creeping over her face. She touched her hair, wishing it wasn’t so thick so she could have dried it faster.

“Don’t let him fluster you, Princess,” Rurik said in a low aside as if he had known her thoughts. “You’ll find that Arne says exactly what leaps onto his tongue. As we’ve known each other for years, it allows him liberties he deems as his right, I suppose, for putting up with me for so long.”

She smiled, appreciating that Rurik had thought to reassure her, then seeing the warmth kindling in his night-blue eyes, she looked away, overwhelmed.

For weeks she hadn’t allowed herself to recognize any good qualities in Rurik, and now she seemed to be noticing them all at once. His gentleness, his attentiveness, his humor.

She loved the wonderful richness of his laughter and how exuberant and unrestrained he had been in the bathhouse, giving her a glimpse of the playful boy inside the man. She loved the way he looked at her and the way he touched her. She loved the way he kissed her. Oh, she loved--

Take care, Zora warned herself just in time, her thoughts skirting dangerously close to a precipice she was trying so hard to avoid. She would never have imagined that Rurik letting down his guard around her could make her feel as if she didn’t know which direction to turn, but it had! It was all she could do now to remember her plan, and with a start, she realized that she had scarcely thought of it for hours.

“Is anything wrong, Zora? You look troubled.”

“No, no, I’m fine,” she said, touched by the concern in Rurik’s eyes that he made no effort to hide. Suddenly it was twice as hard to think clearly, but she forced herself by finding a matter to which she could turn her hand. “I…I was only wondering why the food has not yet been served. You must be so hungry and—”

“Perhaps the preparation has taken longer than the cooks anticipated.” He laughed, holding up his brimming goblet. “At least we have fine Burgundian wine to soothe our stomachs. Don’t fear, Princess. I will not starve.”

“But it’s wrong, just the same,” she insisted, “and I plan to speak with them in the morning. I had the chance to oversee several feasts for my father, and this is not proper. I was taught a great lord and his guests should never be kept waiting.”

“Ah, is that what I am to you now?” Rurik’s voice was full of teasing that did not reach his eyes. “A great lord? I thought I was just the husband with whom you’ve been cursed.” As if he didn’t want her to answer, he swiftly changed the subject. “What else did they teach you in Tmutorokan? It has occurred to me that I know very little about you other than some family history and that you don’t like steam baths.”

Zora was relieved to see him smiling again. She remembered all too well the angry words she had thrown at him the morning after their wedding, words that she now found herself wishing she had never said.

“I suppose I learned things that any girl brought up in a palace would,” she replied, warmed that he would want to know about her life. “How to embroider… Lady Canace never seemed to think we made enough vestments for the Church. How to take care of a household for the day when I would marry” —suddenly thinking of Ivan, Zora was surprised at how easily she could dismiss him from her mind— “and how to make perfume.”

“Perfume?”

“Yes, Lady Canace had a passion for concocting fragrance. She learned it at the emperor’s palace in Constantinople before her marriage, and when Hermione and I were old enough, she taught us her skills, except Hermione had no desire to learn. She would rather soak in a tubful of rose petals than boil them, so she always insisted that I make her share.”

“And did you?” Rurik asked gently.

Zora sighed. “If I wanted to live peacefully. But I enjoyed the work, so I didn’t mind.”

“It must have been hard for you, living in that terem. From Grand Prince Yaroslav’s description, Lady Canace and her daughter weren’t the most gracious of creatures.”

“No, they weren’t,” Zora agreed, recalling the slights and insults she had suffered at their hands and the worst indignity of all that Hermione had wrought upon her. Yet this time the memory of the trading camp was noticeably tempered, for it was that incident after all that had brought her to Rurik—

Stunned by her reasoning, Zora dropped her gaze to stare blindly at her hands. Yet she had no sooner done so than Rurik lifted her chin so he could look into her eyes.

“But you survived…beautifully, which proves your perseverance and courage.” He chuckled, caressing the line of her jaw. “Your stubbornness must have helped, too, Princess. I’ve known few more headstrong than you.”

Zora had to remind herself to breathe. Rurik’s gaze was so intent that she feared he could see right into her heart. “My—my mother was stubborn,” she said, her words tumbling forth in a nervous rush as she sought to divert the topic from herself. “And proud. My father must have asked her a thousand times to come back with him to the palace, but she always refused. She had been banished once while he was gone from the city and she vowed never to endure the indignity again. We were happy in the country…until she became ill.”

“What happened?”

“A fever. The climate could be very damp and she liked the out-of-doors so much. She had grown up in a small village before my father found her…” Realizing that she was running on and on, Zora sighed softly. “Forgive me. I must be boring you.”

“You could never bore me,” came Rurik’s startling answer, his eyes burning into hers.

Zora found she could not swallow, let alone tear away her gaze even if she had wanted to. Her cheeks glowing, she heard herself stammer, “B-but what of you, Rurik? I know as little about you—”

“What would you like to know?” he asked, although his expression had tightened, his eyes becoming guarded.

Wondering at this change, Zora hoped her question would not upset him further. “Why do you still invoke your pagan gods? I find it a curious thing, considering you are Christian…”

Rurik seemed to visibly relax as if this was a topic he did not mind discussing, a small smile coming to his lips.

“To me, the gods are like familiar old friends who linger at the table long after the feast is done, telling long-winded yet fantastic tales that so astound and amaze that all who listen are reluctant to leave the hall even for the warmth of their beds.”

“Like Odin?” Zora asked, entranced.

Rurik nodded. “The High One. All-knowing, all-powerful, the lord of battles and god of wisdom. To gaze deep into the well of knowledge, he paid for the privilege with one of his eyes. But he is a fickle god, giving victory to his favorites until he casts them aside for new champions. The fallen become his warriors in death’s kingdom, Valhalla.”

“Yet I have heard you call out to Thor more often,” said Zora when Rurik paused for a draft of wine.

“Fighting men look to the giant god of thunder for strength, for every warrior strives to be like Thor, bold and invincible in battle. Yet as protector of the world, governing the sun and wind and rains, Thor is called upon to give bounty, not only in the fields, but for new brides to be made fruitful.”

Zora started as Rurik reached out to caress her cheek.

“Which brings us to Frey, who understands well the needs and desires of men…and his sister, Freyja, the voluptuous goddess of plenty who embodies the sensual mysteries of women.” Rurik slowly traced his finger over Zora’s lips. “She has blessed few with such beauty and passion as you possess—”

“Would you care to wash your hands, my lady? My lord?”

As Rurik frowned at the interruption, Zora looked up in surprise at the young female slave bearing a large copper bowl. Nodding, she was so disconcerted by what Rurik had just said that her fingers were trembling as she dipped them into the water.

“Is the meal soon to be served?” she asked, her voice strangely breathless as she accepted a soft towel and dried her hands.

“I believe so, my lady,” said the slave woman, although she really didn’t look quite sure.

“This waiting cannot go on,” Zora murmured in agitation due not so much to the meal but to the way Rurik was still looking at her. Eager for a reprieve, if only long enough to gather her fraying emotions, she added, “If I may, husband, I’d like to see what is causing the delay.”

Rurik’s first impulse was to say no, her sudden disquiet reminding him of her suspicious behavior at their wedding feast, but Arne’s none-too-subtle jab to the ribs swayed him. Damn if that old Varangian hadn’t been listening to their entire conversation!

“You need not request my permission to see to the things that rest in your domain,” said Rurik, noting the pink color appearing upon Zora’s cheeks. He hoped her blush meant his answer had pleased her. “All I ask, Princess, is that you do not rail overmuch at the cooks. They’re a temperamental lot and may choose to retaliate by overseasoning the food.”

“I promise to be diplomatic,” she replied, granting him a smile as she arose that made him all the more loathe to allow her to leave his side for how much he would miss her. Yet knowing that this would be a good test of trust for them both, however uneasy it made him, Rurik nodded to an entranceway across the hall.

“The cooking house is just beyond those doors.”

As she began to wend her way gracefully through the tables, Rurik was about to gesture for her guards to follow but he changed his mind. Sighing, he leaned back in his chair and twirled his goblet restlessly before taking a long draught.

“She’ll be back, my lord.”

He turned to Arne, who was raising his cup of mead to him as if in salute.

“Maybe this time, friend, but the battle is far from won.”

The warrior snorted, yet not unkindly. “I never said it would be in a day, or two, or even twenty. But at least now you have a chance, whereas before you would have chased her from your arms with your anger.”

Rurik didn’t answer but took another draft of wine, his eyes fixed upon the doors through which Zora had disappeared.

He could not deny that with her gone the very air seemed to be lacking in excitement, the torchlight grown dim, the buzzing conversation of his retainers grating upon his nerves, and the imported vintage flat and tasteless upon his tongue. He wanted her beside him, in this high seat with him where she belonged, just as surely as he knew now that he loved her.

Loki take him, he had been a fool to deny it to himself for so long, perhaps since the first moment she had looked into his eyes at the trading camp, pleading for his help. But that didn’t make him fool enough to admit how he felt about her! Not yet. Not until he was sure that she might feel the same for him.

Call him a coward, but he had been burned once from rushing headlong into the flame and scarred for life by the misery of others to whom love had not been kind. This time, he would wait and watch and though he wasn’t the most patient of men—evidenced by the reckless things he had already said to Zora—he would hope that the warmth he had seen shining in her eyes today would one day blaze into a fire.

“You see, my lord, your Rus bride did not run away. Already she comes and look, she has eyes only for you.”

It was true, Rurik thought, leaning forward as Zora walked into the hall with a pleased smile upon her face, her gaze meeting his across the vast room as if to assure him that yes, supper was on its way. An instant later, a long line of slaves bearing steaming platters of food began to troop through the doors, only to fan out among the tables of hungry, cheering diners.

“Did the cooks threaten a revolt?” Rurik asked as Zora retook her seat beside him. He knew that his smile was as broad as any green youth’s at his sweetheart, but he didn’t care.

“Not at all,” she answered lightly. Her cobalt-blue eyes sparkled with mischief, her earlier agitation all but vanished. “The food was ready. They only needed a few words of encouragement to load everything onto the platters.”

“Dare I ask?”

Smiling, she shrugged. “I told them that great lords deserved great cooks who didn’t keep them waiting…or else greater cooks could easily be found.”

“Very diplomatic.”

“I thought so.”

As she turned from him to survey the goings on in the hall, Rurik could tell from the heightened rose of her cheeks that she knew he was watching her. And he liked her to be aware of him. He wanted her to be aware of him all the time!

Suddenly an idea came to him, something he had not thought to ask her until now.

“Zora?”

She met his eyes and for a fleeting moment he forgot what he was going to say, she was so beautiful.

“Yes?”

He cleared his throat, yet even then his voice was slightly hoarse. He was not used to tripping over himself when it came to women, yet Zora wasn’t just any woman. “Did you have a favorite perfume among those you made?”

“White jasmine,” she murmured softly. “But in Tmutorokan, the flowers were very rare. They had to be brought all the way from Persia.”

No more rare than you, Rurik thought. He was determined that if there was a gift he could give her, it would be one that he hoped would remind her of him whenever she wore it.

Chapter 23

“Aye, the threads are much straighter, my lady,” Nellwyn said encouragingly as she surveyed the crooked piece of blue cloth hanging from the standing loom. “As I told you when we first started your lessons, it takes a fair amount of practice to learn to wield the weaving sword properly. But I’m sure you’ll have it mastered in another week or so.”

“You’re not a very good liar, Nellwyn,” Zora replied with a small laugh. She sank onto a stool set to one side of the loom. “A whole year of practice would make little difference, let alone a few weeks. It’s plain that weaving is not one of my strengths.”

“I don’t know, mayhaps if I took this cloth down and you started all over on a new one—”

“No, no, leave it.” Sighing, Zora rubbed the nubbly fabric between her thumb and forefinger. She knew that it didn’t look like much, but this length of woolen cloth meant something to her all the same.

During the past two weeks it was to this loom that she had always come to think, every lopsided row, every thread recalling the struggle she had waged in her heart. A struggle that she had finally admitted to herself had been won before it was even begun…love having proved the victor.

“I’d like to finish this piece,” she added quietly, not surprised to find when she looked up that Nellwyn’s expression held familiar empathy.

“As you wish, my lady. Would you like me to fetch you something to eat? It’s almost midday and I’ve need of a bite or two myself.” The slave woman grinned as she spread her hands over her growing stomach. “My Vasili swears the babe will be a brawny boy for how much I’ve been eating of late.”

“Yes, that would be nice, Nellwyn, then I should meet Yakov at the main storehouse. He wants to go over our lists one last time. We’ll be leaving early for the market.” Zora smiled, grateful for the bond of friendship that had grown between them. Nellwyn had forgiven her deceit the day of the fire. “Are you sure there isn’t something I could bring you? Some ribbon? A bit of lace? You’ve been so good to me.”

“For the last time, you don’t have to buy me any presents,” Nellwyn insisted, sobering. “I’ve thanks enough in seeing that you took my words about Lord Rurik to heart. I’ve never seen him so happy in all my years here, and you’ve made him so.”

“Do you really think he’s happy?” asked Zora, niggling doubts crowding in upon her. “He hasn’t said a word to me yet about how he feels…” She shook her head. “What if it’s as he told me that first night, Nellwyn, when he said all would go back to what it had been after he has his fill of me? What if I’ve misread everything?”

“That cannot be, my lady. The new longhouses were finished days ago, but you still sleep in Lord Rurik’s bed. He hasn’t sent you away. And though I wasn’t going to say anything until I knew more, I did hear talk this morning that he visited each of his concubines yesterday, yet I see this as a good thing—”

“He went to visit them?” Zora had never known her heart could ache so painfully.

“Only to speak to them for a few moments, don’t fear. I wish to God I could tell you what was said, but he swore each of his women and their slaves to silence and no one has dared break it.”

His women, Zora thought unhappily. She hated those words! She wanted to be the woman in Rurik’s life, the only woman.

“How can this be a good thing, Nellwyn?” Zora rose from the stool to pace the floor in distraction. “To visit his…his women without saying a word to me, then to swear them to silence…?”

“Perhaps he has come to some decision about them that he wants you to hear from his lips alone, my lady. Something that may please you.”

Stunned, Zora stopped to stare at the slave woman. “You mean that he might be planning to give up his concubines? How can he when some of those women have borne him children? I cannot believe that he would ever separate mothers from their babes and I wouldn’t want him to!”

Now Nellwyn looked nonplussed as if she hadn’t considered that issue, while Zora began to pace again.

“No, if my husband went to see his concubines, it had nothing to do with me and why would it? If he hasn’t yet said anything to me about whether he cares—”

“Give Lord Rurik some time, my lady,” interrupted Nellwyn, a hint of exasperation in her voice. “I’m sure all your questions will find an answer and as for why he hasn’t shared his feelings with you, perhaps he is yet shielding his heart. I don’t know what he suffered in his past, but it is well known that he swore never to marry. Yet you changed that, my lady, and I have no doubt that one day you will free him of that shield.” Nellwyn fell silent for a moment, then asked gently, “Have you told him what lies hidden in your heart?”

Almost to the window, Zora came to a halt but she didn’t turn around.

“No, not yet,” she admitted, a sudden raw tightness in her throat. “I…I don’t know if he would believe me. I don’t know if he fully trusts me—”

“Aye, but that will change tomorrow. By your going into Novgorod without him, Lord Rurik has given you a chance to show that he can trust you…and for you to prove your love. Just think of the joy you’ll both share when all the barriers have fallen between you, my lady. After tomorrow, one more will be gone.”

“Yes, the joy,” Zora said softly to herself as Nellwyn left to fetch her meal. But it was hard to think of such happiness when those barriers sometimes seemed so high.

Faith and trust were precious things not so easily won. She had already done everything she knew these past weeks to prove to Rurik that she could be trusted, that he had no reason to doubt her, but obviously it wasn’t enough. She supposed she couldn’t blame him after her attempts to thwart him in the past, and he probably still held Kjell’s death against her. But if he cared, wouldn’t he have forgiven her?

Sighing as she moved to the window, Zora leaned upon the sill and turned her face upward to the warm, soothing sunlight.

Funny. If she chose to crawl out of this window right now, she wouldn’t be greeted by a guard as she would have when she first came to the compound. Since the night she had gone to chastise Rurik’s cooks, he had allowed her to walk about freely with no escort at all.

She would never forget her elation when she realized that he had not sent guards after her, another good sign that he was willing to trust her. She could come and go as she pleased, and tomorrow she would be journeying to Novgorod with Yakov and a handful of warriors sent along not to watch her but to carry her purchases.

Nor had Rurik ever questioned her again about her interest in his household. It was as if he had simply accepted it, taking almost as much delight in how smoothly everything was running, especially the evening meals, as she derived in pleasing him.

And she wanted to please him! It was amazing how quickly her plan had fallen by the wayside—practically as soon as she had conceived it!—but all she had to do was look in Rurik’s eyes to know that she could no more betray him than leave him. Not now. Not when she knew that she loved him as she had never thought possible.

“Yet you betray your father,” Zora whispered, unable to make that sharp pang of guilt fade. What would Mstislav say if he knew she had fallen in love with one of his enemies and wished to remain here in Novgorod? One of his hated brother’s most famed warriors, the very man she had been forced to wed?

No, don’t think of it! she told herself firmly, rubbing her aching temples. Nor did she want to think about the battle that was looming ever closer, although that specter was much more difficult to chase from her mind.

The air seemed forever to be ringing with the ominous sounds of Rurik and his men hard at their training, from dawn to dusk, every day no matter the weather. He had already told her that they would be sailing for Chernigov as soon as Varangian reinforcements arrived from the north, surprising her that he would trust her with such information. And three nights out of the last seven he had spent at the kreml in Novgorod, summoned by her uncle to councils of war.

Those were the worst times. Lying alone in that huge bed, her fears seemed to run away with her, the same awful questions tumbling over and over in her mind.

What was the future going to bring? Would her father win, or Yaroslav? She felt herself a traitor for even thinking that her father might lose, but what if he didn’t? What if Rurik was captured and taken prisoner, or, even worse, killed during the battle?

“No, no, no!” Zora spun from the window, her heart slamming like a battering ram against her breast. Suddenly she was breathing so hard, she thought she might faint.

Groping for a nearby chair, she sat down and dropped her head to her hands, waiting dazedly for the sensation to pass. She thought she heard a door open but she couldn’t be sure, and she felt too dizzy to raise her head.

“Nellwyn?”

Now she heard footsteps rushing toward her, but they weren’t those of a woman. She did not have to look up to know it was Rurik who sank to his haunches beside her.

“Zora, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing…I’m fine,” she murmured, daring to lift her head and meet his eyes that were filled with as much concern as his voice. To her relief, the sensation of dizziness was rapidly fading. “I felt a little light-headed…but it’s almost gone.”

“By Thor, woman, you’ve been working yourself too hard!” said Rurik with more vehemence than he had intended, but unable to help himself for how pale she was. His reaction to this alone only reinforced the depth of his love for her. To see her so was like a sword thrust to his heart. “I was thinking only this morn that you’ve taken on too many duties, too fast. Usually you wake when I leave the bed but today you slept on as if one dead.”

“Perhaps that was due more to how late you kept me awake with your demands, husband,” she said softly, sitting up straight in the chair as if to show him that she was feeling better. “I would swear you possess the appetite of ten men, or at least five very greedy ones.”

Reassured as much by the sparkle returning to her eyes as her teasing tone, Rurik felt a swell of emotion in his chest that was very difficult to contain. It was all he could do to tell himself that he had only to wait one more day, just one more day, before he could allow himself to believe that she harbored no desire to escape.

“I heard no complaints last night, Princess,” he countered huskily, thinking that if not for his wretched past, he might have already surrendered to the heated emotion he had glimpsed time and again in those stunning blue depths. Yet some small part of himself still had to be convinced. He had refused for so long to put faith in any woman that his fear of betrayal was almost as strong as the love he carried in his heart.

“In fact if memory serves,” he added, reassured further by the saucy tilt of her chin, “I think it was you who coerced me into another—”

“Coerced?” Zora broke in, grateful to be feeling more like herself with each passing moment. Nor was it hard to push all troubling thoughts to the furthest recesses of her mind with Rurik now smiling at her so roguishly. “I only kissed you where you told me you liked to be kissed…oh!”

Rurik had risen to his feet and pulled her into his arms so suddenly that her head spun all over again. Yet this time it was wonderfully different.

“If our conversation continues on its present course, lady, I may forget why I came here and seek some other diversion than the one I had intended.”

“Why did you come here?” asked Zora, delighting in the sheer strength of his arms as he held her close and the masculine smell of him. “You’re usually with your men at this hour.”

“I decided to leave Nils in charge for the rest of the afternoon. It’s a beautiful day, the warmest one yet, and I thought you might enjoy a swim. I know I’d like one.”

“A swim?” Zora pulled back a bit to eye him suspiciously. “If you’re planning to get me into that tub of yours again—”

His resonant laughter silenced her and she stared at him in confusion, wondering what he might be plotting.

“Not the tub, Princess. I’ve a favorite place I’d like to show you outside the compound, especially now after finding you as I did. Fresh air and a break from your labors will do you good.”

“But I don’t know how to swim,” she said, a niggling of fear pressing in upon her. “The one time I tried, Hermione held me under by the hair…” She shuddered. “If I hadn’t scratched her legs, I wouldn’t be here today.”

“By Odin, if I ever meet that woman,” swore Rurik, having heard enough tales of Hermione’s jealous abuses in the last two weeks to turn his stomach at the slightest mention of her name. Sensing Zora’s apprehension, he hugged her more tightly.

“You may not agree with me, but I think that’s all the more reason you should learn. I’m an excellent swimmer, Zora, so you have nothing to fear. I’d be with you every moment.” Feeling her stiffen despite his assurances, he gently stroked her cheek. “It’s a lovely spot, Princess. I know you would like it. Let me show it to you.”

“But Nellwyn is bringing me some dinner, and then I promised Yakov that we’d go over our lists again—”

“Yakov can check the lists without you,” Rurik said firmly, although he was encouraged by Zora’s concern for the details of her trip to Novgorod…a promising sign that sent his pulse racing. “I already spoke to Nellwyn on my way over here from the cooking house, where I picked up some food to eat after our swim. Now what do you say?”

Staring into Rurik’s eyes, Zora felt her reservations fading in the sudden wave of hope that swept over her.

He was being so insistent. Surely it must be for some special reason, for he had never before left the training field early to spend time with her. Dear God, please may it be so! If she at least had some words of love to reassure her before he left, maybe his absence wouldn’t seem so bad…

“Very well,” she murmured, suddenly both excited and nervous. “But if I decide when we get there that I don’t want to swim—”

“I would never force you, Zora.” He kissed her then so tenderly that it took her breath away, her hope flaring all the brighter.

The winding stream they had followed was beautiful, Zora couldn’t deny it, but no more so than the spot where Rurik finally halted their mount. At its narrowest point, much of the tumbling water had been dammed by huge craggy boulders that looked as if they had been strewn there by some giant’s hand, forming a glistening pool that was framed by deep green firs of majestic beauty.

“I call this place Thor’s Grove. Do you like it?”

“It’s lovely,” she said as Rurik slid from the saddle and lifted her to the ground.

“I haven’t been here since early April, right before I left on my mission.” Still clasping her waist, Rurik looked around him. “The snow was thick then…almost as high as that small pine.”

Following his gaze, Zora couldn’t help asking, “Who came out here with you that time?”

He met her eyes, a curious smile upon his lips. “No one, Princess. I’ve never brought anyone here before.”

Her breath suddenly jammed in her throat, Zora had no idea how she should respond but Rurik solved her dilemma by taking her hand and leading her to the mossy bank. Bending on one knee, he glided his hand across the sparkling, sunlit surface.

“Hmmm, it may not be warm enough for you. Why don’t you try it and tell me what you think?”

Zora kicked off her slipper and stuck her toe tentatively in the water. “It’s not that cold,” she pronounced. Then startled to see some small, silvery blue fish dart by, she grew doubtful. “It looks deep.”

“No more than a few inches above my head near the middle—”

“Then a good foot and a half above mine.” Zora backed away. “I don’t know, Rurik…”

“If it will make you feel better,” he said, grabbing her hands to stay her retreat, “I’ll make sure your head stays above water. You must trust me, Zora. I would never let anything happen to you.”

Here he was telling her to trust him! Zora wished that she had the courage to demand of him the same thing. Yet his promise had done much to sway her reluctance. Her nod was greeted by a broad grin, and he released her to begin stripping off his clothes.

“Are you sure no one will see us?” she asked uncertainly, glancing behind her. To reach the stream, they had ridden past tilled fields being tended by slaves and, farther out, cleared pasture where cattle and sheep were grazing under the watchful eyes of armed shepherds ever alert for thieves. She still remembered her surprise when she had found out from Yakov during her tour of the domestic buildings that the compound wasn’t wholly surrounded by forest.

“We’re out too far,” said Rurik as he pulled off his boots. “I told you before I would never risk another man glimpsing your beauty, Zora.” In moments, he had yanked off his trousers to stand naked before her but for his gold earring, his battle-hardened body a burnished golden brown in the bright sunlight.

Her heart suddenly beating faster, Zora found she could not stop staring at him, and still she hadn’t made a move to take off her own clothing.

“This happens so often, Princess, my undressing before you do, that I’m beginning to think you like for me to help you.

“Perhaps I do,” she said playfully, breaking her gaze from his formidable physique to look into his eyes. “You’ve quite a knack with women’s clothing, husband.”

With a low growl he drew her roughly toward him, his hands expert as he divested her of every stitch. Then he enfolded her in his arms, not to hug her as she had thought but to sweep her from her feet.

“It will be easier this way,” he said as he began to walk into the pool, the water quickly rising from his knees to his hips. Zora gasped, feeling the cold upon her bare bottom, but she shrieked when he suddenly seemed to step off a ledge, the water now covering her to her chin.

“I—it’s freezing!” she cried, her teeth chattering.

“But not as ice-cold as the tub.”

“N-no,” she agreed, wondering how far into the pool Rurik planned to go. He seemed to be drawing ominously close to the middle. “S-should you w-walk out any m-more? It—it might g-get too deep.”

“I doubt it. The water seems shallower this year—”

Suddenly Rurik slipped as if the bottom had plummeted from beneath his feet. Zora flung her arms around his neck, terrified.

“Easy, Princess,” he soothed her, swimming effortlessly with her back the way they had come. “It’s not as shallow as I had thought, but at least I know where the drop-off is.” Finding his footing, he stood again, his broad shoulders above the water, his tanned skin beaded with moisture. “Now I want you to hold my hands like this”—tugging her arms gently from his neck, he interlaced his fingers with hers— “and I’m going to push you out just a little—”

“Rurik…”

“Trust me, Zora, I’m right here with you. Now kick your legs.”

In her panic, she kicked so vigorously that water flew high into the air and all around them. Rurik began to laugh.

“Easy, Princess, or we won’t have enough water in this pool to swim back to shore.”

Gradually Zora was able to relax and encouraged by Rurik’s patient coaching, teasing, and coaxing, she grew braver and even let go of his hands a few times to attempt swimming on her own. It was a bit embarrassing, for she must hardly appear graceful flailing her arms and legs about. But if Rurik thought her ungainly he said not a word.

He didn’t let her rest until she had tried swimming not only on her stomach but her back, then as if sensing her limbs were growing tired, which they were, he drew her back to shallower water that came only as high as her breasts. Staring at her lingeringly, he nonetheless released her and moved backward a few steps.

“My turn,” he said with a smile. Before she could answer, he dived away from her so cleanly that he left scarcely a ripple behind him.

“Rurik?”

She rolled her eyes at herself. Of course he couldn’t hear her, yet when was he going to come up for air? It felt so strange to be standing there with no other sounds around her than the breeze whooshing through the trees and the water rumbling between the gap in the boulders…

He must have read her anxious thoughts for he burst above the mirrorlike surface at that moment and began to swim with long, powerful strokes from one end of the pool to the other. Wondering how many of Rurik’s lessons it would take before she might be able to swim so expertly, Zora felt a pall drift over her enjoyment. Would there be many more lessons before he left with his men? Would she ever come here with him again?

Heartsick, Zora watched as Rurik dived once more, but this time the sun was so bright upon the water she couldn’t see where he had gone. Standing in place, she began to circle slowly, looking for him and feeling so terribly alone

“Oh…!”

Zora couldn’t have been more surprised when he suddenly broke through the surface right in front of her, and grabbing her around the waist, he lifted her high from the water, his laughter resounding all around them.

“By Odin, a river nymph!” Rurik exulted, lowering Zora back down to face him. Expecting to find her smiling, he couldn’t have been more startled to find that she had burst into tears.

Chapter 24

“Zora? By God, little one, I didn’t mean to frighten you…”

Hugging her close, Rurik was totally at a loss. Her slender body was shaking with sobs, and feeling her beginning to shiver, he lifted her in his arms and made his way to the bank, where he set her down upon the soft moss. He left her for only an instant to grab the leather bag hanging from the saddle and then he was back at her side, gathering her close again as he pulled out a blanket and whipped it around her quaking shoulders.

“Forgive me, Princess.” Rurik stroked her damp hair as her tears soon soaked his chest. I wasn’t thinking. I should have known I might alarm you, but it never occurred to me.”

He hadn’t frightened her, Zora wanted so desperately to tell him as she sobbed harder than she could remember ever having done before. But if she said that, he would want to know what had brought on this bout of tears and she wasn’t ready to tell him that either! Not when she still wasn’t sure if he would even want to hear how she felt…if it even mattered to him how much she loved him, how much she feared for him…how much she didn’t want him to leave her…

“Easy, Zora, it can’t be that bad,” he said, holding her slightly away from him and tilting up her face. Tenderly, he stroked her tearstained cheek with his thumb. “Sshh, now, everything’s fine. We’re out of the water and you’re here safe with me. Sshh…”

Staring into his eyes, her vision blurred from crying, Zora felt herself soothed by his words despite the ache in her heart, and she shuddered in his arms, her sobs gradually lessening. She did feel safe and warm and protected and, with each passing moment, more in control of herself. Shuddering one last time, her hiccup brought a smile to Rurik’s face.

“That’s it, little one. It was only a small scare. Nothing to cause so many tears.”

Zora softly drew in her breath as Rurik bent his head and pressed his lips to hers, the warm pressure of his mouth lulling her more than anything he could have said. Then she hiccupped again, and to her amazement, she found herself giggling when he chuckled against her mouth.

“How quickly the fair lady’s feeling better,” he teased, his breath warming her lips. “Perhaps another kiss and she’ll forget what so upset her.”

Rurik’s lips this time were not so gentle, his tightening embrace swamping Zora with excitement. Yet she knew nothing that he did could make her forget the anguish lying hidden inside her.

And she didn’t want to forget! She would share with him just how she felt but not in words, for she couldn’t bring herself to voice what she held in her heart. Yet there were other ways, ways perhaps more expressive than anything she could say…

It was Zora who deepened their kiss, her wandering tongue surprising his as she wantonly tasted the inside of his mouth, her hands gliding up Rurik’s chest to his immense shoulders where she caressed muscles that were wonderfully hard beneath her palms. If at first he had seemed startled, he soon groaned with pleasure, yet he did not allow her to keep the upper hand for long.

His tongue sought to ravage her mouth as wildly as she had just done, their kiss becoming a passionate dueling that made Zora feel as if she were on fire. Wrenching off the blanket that was only fettering her, she pressed herself that much closer to Rurik’s body, for his was the heat she craved. His was the kiss she wanted, and as she slid her hands up the back of his neck, her fingers funneling along his scalp and entwining in his hair, she cried out to him in her mind.

I love you!

She felt herself falling backward as Rurik pushed her to the spongy, moss-covered ground, his mouth burning a blistering path down her throat and across her shoulder while his masterful hands stoked the flames building inside her. She caressed him in kind, his powerful back, his upper arms so thick with muscle, the massive breadth of his chest and the crisp golden curls upon it, delighting in the smooth texture of his skin and the sun-warmed scent of his body.

Then she strayed even lower, wrapping her fingers around silken steel and muscle, exulting when Rurik groaned and called out her name. But she didn’t stop, squeezing and stroking him until his body was shaking and he rolled onto his back as if he feared he might collapse upon her. Zora was astride him before he could reach out to her, her lips branding the spot above his racing heart.

I love you!

She moved lower, her hands splayed upon his taut abdomen as she kissed the glistening blond hair trailing to his navel. Then she teased the sensitive hollow with her tongue while Rurik cried out again.

“Woman…!”

He tried to pull her up to him but she deftly eluded his hands and found what she had been seeking, his turgid flesh leaping against her mouth as she kissed him and began to stroke the thick length of him with her tongue. Already he was tossing beneath her but she didn’t stop, torturing him relentlessly as she drew him with a swirling caress into her mouth.

She tasted a wetness and knew he was very close to release, but she wanted to tease him to the brink of endurance. Her fingers enmeshed for a brief instant in the thatch of blond curls she found so arousing before she drifted lower and cupped him in her hand, squeezing gently.

“Zora, enough!”

Rurik’s voice was so hoarse with passion that she knew she could not sway him and she didn’t resist when he pulled her up beside him and pushed her once more on her back. Before she could blink he was poised between her legs, his midnight-blue eyes sweeping her with a look of fire.

“Where did you learn such wicked things, Princess?”

Zora gasped as he easily slid his fingers inside her before she could answer and teased her legs wider apart as she arched beneath his carnal caress. She already wanted him so badly, she was trembling from head to toe, and she cried out when he buried himself deep inside her with a ragged groan.

“Hold me, Zora…hold me!” came his wild plea and she gripped him with all her strength, her arms flying around his neck and her legs locking at his back.

She felt him stiffen, heard his breath snag in his chest…then her own climax came upon her so suddenly that she felt hot tears burn her eyes, but this time they were tears of sweet fulfillment. When she at last opened her eyes heart-pounding moments later, she was staring up into the clear blue sky, Rurik’s damp head resting upon her shoulder, his breath warm upon her cheek.

It was so wonderful holding him like this that she wished it could go on forever and she hugged him tightly, willing him to stay. Yet she knew that soon he would roll from her, fearing as always that he might crush her even though she had insisted time and again that she was stronger than she may appear.

Just as she had thought, he shifted and rose onto his forearms but instead of lifting himself from her, he smiled into her eyes. She smiled back, hoping that he could read what she could not yet tell him… I love you, Rurik Sigurdson.

“You know, wife, you never cease to amaze me,” Rurik said gently, struck as ever by her tawny beauty but even more so by the softness in her gaze. By the gods, surely she would not be looking at him like that if…

“How so?” she replied, the warmth in her voice only fueling a gut intuition that he wanted so badly to believe. Tempted as never before to admit what lay in his heart, he nonetheless forced himself to think rationally, his fear of betrayal rearing its ugly head like a thing he could not control.

“Tears one moment, passion the next.” He shrugged. “You’re a hard one to understand.”

“Not so hard as you may think, Rurik,” said Zora, wondering why he had grown so somber when he had been smiling at her an instant before. “I could say the same about you…although I believe there are things you haven’t shared with me yet that could explain so much.” To her amazement, he suddenly seemed irritated, and rolling to one side, he lay next to her on his back, stone silent as he stared up at the sky.

She had never seen him quite like this before, sensing in him an agitation that was palpable enough to touch.

Usually after their lovemaking, he was open and willing to talk, and so they had, about his childhood and his life since he had left Norway for Rus, his quick rise within her uncle’s ranks. About his trading ventures to far-off Byzantium, and even how he had come to be called Beast-Slayer, a story that had convinced her if any wild creatures had come after her in the woods the night of her escape, Rurik would have had no trouble bringing them down.

The only thing they hadn’t talked about was the woman who had betrayed him, and she couldn’t help thinking that perhaps that was what he feared she was going to ask him now. Well, why shouldn’t she? She could hardly ease the treachery from his heart as Lady Ingigerd had said if she didn’t know the full story behind it.

Taking a deep breath, Zora raised herself on one elbow to face him. She didn’t think to cover her nakedness with the blanket, for their intimacy was such now that she felt completely at ease around him. He knew every inch of her.

“Rurik?”

He refused to look at her, convincing her all the more that he sensed exactly what she was going to say.

“Why did you swear never to marry?”

His expression became grimmer but he didn’t get up and walk away, which to Zora was a good sign.

“You already know the answer to that, Princess. You have thrown it in my face once before.”

“Yes, I know, and it was unkind of me,” she said, watching him for his reactions. “I was hurt that day and I wanted to hurt you back, but I don’t think it’s true anymore.”

He met her eyes. “What?”

“That you’re hard and unfeeling…that your heart is made of stone.”

He sat up so abruptly that she was taken by surprise. Yet he made no comment although his jaw was working as he stared straight ahead of him, his arms propped on his knees.

“What I meant is I’ve seen you with your children. You love them, I can tell. And in a way, I believe you care about your concubines, too. You could have dealt much more harshly with Semirah, yet you didn’t—”

When he glanced at her sharply, Zora fell silent, almost losing her nerve to continue.

“What does Semirah or any of my concubines have to do with my vow not to marry?”

“N-nothing,” she said, her heart sinking. It was obvious that he hadn’t brought her out here today to explain why he had gone to see his women, but she wasn’t going to give up on the other, more important issue plaguing her mind. Not yet, anyway. Sighing, she decided to try another tack.

“What was her name, Rurik? The woman in Norway.”

He looked away, his tone grown bitter. “Astrid.”

Pained that he could yet feel so much emotion for a woman who had hurt him so long ago, Zora nonetheless believed that it was all the more reason to persist.

“Did…did you love her?”

Rurik exhaled in exasperation, dropping his forehead to his arms. Why was she torturing him with these questions? And as for her observation about his concubines, had she perhaps heard that he had visited them yesterday?

Thor’s blood, if he discovered that someone had broken their oath of silence…! He wanted to be the one to tell her that he had decided to marry his remaining women to five of his warriors, something to which his concubines had thankfully made little or no protest, understanding what Zora now meant to him. But he would tell her after tomorrow. After he was sure!

“I was young,” he finally muttered. He raised his head to stare in front of him again. “I barely knew the meaning of the word.”

Then, thinking guiltily that he was being far too harsh and that there was no good reason why he shouldn’t share this part of his past with her other than how uncomfortable it made him, he added, “Yes, I believed I was in love with her, but apparently she had only been toying with me. When my brother Rolf’s wife died after childbirth, Astrid was right there to comfort him. I suppose a man who one day would be a powerful chieftain seemed far more tempting than a second son who must make his way by sword and by trade.”

When Zora did not reply, Rurik turned to find her studying him intently as if she didn’t believe that he had told her everything.

“Does my answer not satisfy you?”

She slowly shook her head.

Sensing that this woman knew him far better than he could have imagined possible, Rurik sighed heavily. “May I ask why not?”

“You speak Astrid’s name with bitterness, yet I cannot believe that it was only her betrayal that caused you to denounce all women and to deem them worthy of no more a place in your life than to share your bed and bear your children. No, I believe your hurt goes much deeper.”

Her bluntness startled him. Wondering where she might be leading him with such a pronouncement, Rurik decided to be just as blunt.

“If my hurt goes deep, it is only because I have witnessed more treachery in women than loyalty—”

“Is that what happened to Sveinald?”

Rurik was as stunned by her question as hearing his long-dead friend’s name upon her lips. “How did you…?”

“On the riverboat. Late one evening you began to recite poetry with Kjell and I was still awake in the tent. I heard you speak of Sveinald as your closest friend, and that he had lost his life because of a woman—”

“Solveig, one of the loveliest women in the Hardanger,” Rurik broke in, struck by how much the memory still pained him after so many years. “She led Sveinald to believe that she loved him no matter the long-standing oath of blood vengeance between their two families, and he was so taken by her beauty that he would heed no warnings, not even from me. One night she lured him to his death, her three brothers falling upon him with knives when he came to her bower. They cut him to pieces, then threw his flesh to the dogs.”

“How terrible,” breathed Zora.

“No more terrible than what happened to my mother because of another scheming woman,” he added, his voice as harsh as she had ever heard it as he turned his face from her to stare at some distant point.

“I told you some nights ago that I left Norway because I wanted to seek my fortune, but that wasn’t the truth. If I had stayed, my father’s blood would have stained my sword. He abandoned my mother for his Welsh concubine Gwyneth, who cruelly harried my mother into her grave while my father did nothing to stop it…an aging fool of a chieftain made blind by fiery hair and a young, voluptuous body.” Rurik snorted in disgust. “The bastard married Gwyneth the day after my mother died. I hope she has made his life as much a Hel.”

He fixed his angry, pain-filled gaze back upon Zora, his shoulders stiff with tension. “Are you satisfied now, wife? Have you heard enough?”

Seeing what it had cost him to reveal so much to her, Zora said softly, “Enough that I understand why you first treated me as you did, and said the things you did. Enough that I would understand if you still blame me for Kjell’s death, and rightly. So many times I’ve wished I could take back the events of that day, that I hadn’t run away into those woods…that I hadn’t misled him as I did. If I can’t forgive myself, I don’t know how I could ever expect you to.”

Rurik didn’t reply, yet she could see the strain easing from his face and body as if her words had moved him. When he finally spoke, his tone was hauntingly quiet. “I don’t blame you, Princess. Not anymore.”

Swept by wild elation, Zora’s heart began to beat faster at the way Rurik was looking at her. His gaze no longer held pain but a candidness that made her hope flare bright.

“You don’t?”

He shook his head, reaching out to touch a damp curl that clung to her arm. “It was my fault for having brought Kjell along on that mission. If he had been a fighter instead of a poet, he would have known not to rush headlong into those woods without his sword at the ready. Such a simple thing could have saved him. And as for you trying to escape, you only acted as you felt you must. If I ever had a daughter in a like situation, I would want her to fight just as hard as you did.”

Scarcely able to believe what he had just told her, Zora shivered as his knuckles grazed her breast. “Then if you’ve forgiven me,” she murmured, finding it very hard to concentrate, “perhaps you don’t look upon me as harshly as you once did. After everything you’ve suffered in the past, I would understand if it might take you a while to admit…” Her courage faltering, she glanced nervously at the ground.

“Admit what, Zora?”

His tone was gentle, yet probing. He was scarcely breathing as if hanging upon her every word.

“I…I thought that was why you had brought me out here today,” she began haltingly, her cheeks flushing with warmth as she met his eyes. “Not just to swim, but because you might want to tell me—”

Zora got no further, for suddenly Rurik gestured for her to be silent while he inclined his head slightly, listening for something. She heard nothing, but he must have for he lunged to his feet and found his belt. His sword seemed to ring as he yanked it from the scabbard.

“What—”

“The blanket, Zora. Wrap it around yourself. Now!”

She obeyed him, watching anxiously as he tugged on his trousers. It was then that she heard it, the unmistakable sound of galloping horses drawing closer and closer. She had no sooner stood, clutching the blanket around her, when three riders burst through the trees. Yet she relaxed when she recognized Arne and two more of Rurik’s men, as did Rurik who lowered his sword as the warriors reined in their lathered mounts only a few feet away from him.

“My lord, a message has just come from the grand prince,” announced Arne, his bearded face beet-red and sweating. “He has called an immediate meeting at the kreml. The reinforcements have arrived.”

“At last,” Rurik said under his breath, then catching one of the warriors who had accompanied Arne casting a covert glance at Zora, he shouted, “Wait for us beyond those trees!”

Thinking as the three men rode away that he would have to speak to the younger warrior, Rurik turned to find Zora already gathering up her clothes.

“I’m sorry, Princess,” he said. But she seemed not to have heard him, moving woodenly and avoiding his eyes as she dressed. Only when he had settled her in the saddle did he try again, holding her close against him after he mounted behind her.

“We will talk later. I promise.” Growing concerned when still she did not answer, he prodded, “Zora?”

“Yes, later,” she replied in a strange monotone, her body rigid in his arms.

Sighing, Rurik would have liked to say more, but there was no time.

Spurring their mount into a gallop, his thoughts turned to the urgency of Grand Prince Yaroslav’s message and the council of war that would probably go well into the night. Yet however late it ended, he planned to awaken Zora as soon as he arrived home. He would hear what she had been going to say…words he hoped would confirm the intuition that even now was driving all other matters from his mind.

Chapter 25

“My lady, does this cloth not please you? It is of the finest quality, pure Byzantine silk…My lady?”

“What?” Startled, Zora focused upon the shimmering bolt of yellow fabric that Yakov was pointing out to her. “I said does this silk not please you?”

“Oh, yes, it’s lovely,” she murmured, although in truth she might have been looking at coarse wool for all the enjoyment it brought her. As the steward began to haggle with the merchant over the price, obviously having assumed that she must want some for a new tunic, Zora found her gaze straying once again to the imposing kreml that lay directly across the Volkhov River from the marketplace.

Rurik was still there, the council of war having lasted through the night and now continuing into the morning. That could only mean war was at hand. How could she find pleasure in silk and brocade while the man she loved would soon be leaving, perhaps never to return

No, she mustn’t think like that! At least she was here in Novgorod and close to him rather than pacing their bedchamber as she had done all night, unable to sleep for those same terrible questions roiling in her mind.

If the meeting ended soon, Rurik might even come to the market to find her. Then perhaps they could talk as Rurik had promised and this time she would not allow anything to stop her.

Deep in the night, she had realized that if she was to free him of his past, she would have to tell him of her love. If she harbored fears, she could imagine what his must be. No wonder he was testing her! It was so plain to her now why he needed to know that he could trust her. True, her life had been touched by treachery, but not anywhere as tragically as his.

“My lady, if you will come this way, I’d like to show you something in another section of the market,” said Yakov, his nasally voice once more breaking into her thoughts. “Something that I think will please you.”

Puzzled by the steward’s enigmatic smile, Zora waited while Yakov handed the wrapped bolt of silk to one of the four warriors who were following them at a discreet distance. Then the spare little man eagerly led her through the bustling market, pointing out various of the brightly colored stalls—a locksmith whom he trusted or a merchant known for the quality of his rubies—until they came to an area that she recognized at once from the cacophony of smells as the perfumer’s section.

“Lord Rurik asked me to buy whatever you need to make your perfumes, my lady,” Yakov announced, waving his thin, white hand at the many stalls. “Copper braziers to distill the precious oils, flowers fresh plucked from the fields, spices, sweet gums and resins, ambergris and musk to fix the scents, and over here” —he beckoned to her as he moved to a nearby stall, the same secretive smile upon his narrow face— “rare oils from the fabled city of Constantinople.”

Flushed with pleasure at Rurik’s generosity, Zora watched the swarthy Greek merchant who stood behind the counter set a delicate blue-green bottle in front of her.

“What is it?” she asked excitedly, her intuition pricked as Yakov’s smile grew wider. She and the steward might have started out on the wrong footing, but since she had made it clear to him that she had no intention of usurping his duties, he had gone out of his way to be kind to her.

“A gift from your husband. Lord Rurik sent men into the city each morning to ask if any perfumers had come from the south, and two days ago, word was brought that this merchant possessed the scented oil you favor. Lord Rurik thought to present it to you himself, but he decided you might enjoy the surprise of finding it here.”

“White jasmine?” Zora didn’t have to see Yakov’s nod to know that it was so. She had no sooner pulled out the stopper than she was greeted with the lush, intoxicating fragrance. She closed her eyes, savoring its beauty.

“You are pleased, my lady?”

“More than I could ever say.” Remembering how Rurik had looked at her when he had asked what was her favorite scent, it was all Zora could do to return the stopper for how her fingers had begun to tremble. She clasped the precious bottle to her breast. “I’d like to carry it, Yakov. My husband might meet us here and I want to thank him…”

“Whatever you wish, my lady. Now if I may, I’ll leave you to choose the things you need while I speak with some of the other merchants. But I’ll be back soon to pay for your purchases, and Lord Rurik’s men will not be far away if you have need of them.”

“Yes, thank you, Yakov,” she murmured. She was so absorbed in the fragrant array of Eastern spices at the next few stalls that long moments passed before she realized when looking around her that she had been left completely alone, Rurik’s warriors nowhere in sight among the dense throng of shoppers. It dawned on her then that her test had begun, and smiling confidently to herself, she bent to sniff some pungent cinnamon.

“I cannot say that I’m pleased to see how well captivity suits you, my love, but at least you were easy to find.”

Zora froze, her heart suddenly slamming in her throat. Dear God, no, it couldn’t be…

“What’s this? No fond greeting for your betrothed? Perhaps I’ve cause to be jealous after all of the bastard you were forced to wed. I sensed as much after witnessing how favorably you respond to his gifts.”

Zora slowly straightened, seeing first a tall man wearing the plain brown garb and hood of a monk before she could find it within herself to focus upon his face. She could no more swallow than speak as she met Ivan’s cold blue gaze.

“Yes, it’s me,” he said, keeping his voice very low, “but we have no time to answer your questions. My men are waiting for us at the wharf.”

“Y-your men?” Zora’s voice was a mere squeak.

“I didn’t come alone to rescue you, and from the looks of it,” he spat, his tone derisive, “I would almost think that you may not want to be rescued.”

“I…I don’t.”

Ivan’s angry countenance grew all the blacker.

“I’m sorry, Ivan, but I want to stay here—”

“So it is as I thought,” he cut in bitterly. “Wedded and well bedded and now a traitor to her own countrymen. Hardly the news to encourage your father to spare this Lord Rurik of Novgorod if he falls into our hands.”

“What are you saying?” blurted Zora, Ivan’s ominous words passing like an ice-cold hand over her heart.

“Simple, my love. Come with me and you can plead for your husband’s life when the battle falls to our favor. If Lord Rurik is captured, surely you know he will be held for execution, but perhaps your voice raised in his defense will sway your father’s judgment. Yet if you stay here, you will have no way to help him, no way to be heard.” Glancing around them, Ivan shifted impatiently. “Choose, Zora, and quickly. The time to be gone is now!”

Holy Mother of God, what was she going to do? Zora wondered desperately, her mind racing. She didn’t want to leave! Not now! Now when she and Rurik were so close to admitting their love for each other. Yet she could not deny that Ivan was making sense. Damn him for making sense!

She had been tormented for days with thoughts of what might happen to Rurik if her father’s forces prevailed, imprisonment, torture, and, if what Ivan said was true, execution, yet now she was being presented with a way to intercede for him. Surely her father would listen to her pleas!

And if he didn’t win and Grand Prince Yaroslav retained his throne, Rurik would get her back…that is, if he would still want her after her seeming treachery. She had no doubt that he would think the worst of her, yet she could explain everything to him when they were together again. Surely he would understand that she had left him out of love

“Zora, there is no more time!”

“I don’t know…” she whispered, never having felt so horribly unsure.

“Do you love him?”

Meeting Ivan’s piercing gaze, his expression inscrutable, she nodded numbly.

“Then there is only one thing you can do. I will lead the way and you follow. Our boat is docked by the bridge.”

With that, Ivan lowered his head, and folding his hands as if in prayer, he began to move deftly through the crowds, leaving Zora staring after him. But she didn’t stand there for long.

Glancing around her and seeing no sign of Yakov or any of Rurik’s warriors, she hastened to catch up with Ivan, almost tripping in her haste not to lose sight of him. To her dismay, the bottle of perfume went flying from her hands to shatter at her feet but there wasn’t anything she could do.

As tears welled in her eyes, she rushed on, trying not to dwell upon what Rurik would think of her when he discovered she was gone. It was too terrible to contemplate.

Rurik had never known such impatience as he was forced to slow his horse to a walk, the bridge so jammed with people and carts coming and going from the market that he had to wend his way carefully or risk trampling someone.

Thor’s blood, he hoped he hadn’t missed Zora! The council of war had ended early enough that there was still a chance he would find her at the market; he didn’t want to have to wait until he returned to the estate to tell her what he should have said days ago. It was amazing that he felt so exhilarated after being awake all night, but he supposed love could do that to a man.

“Now if that isn’t an odd sight,” Rurik suddenly overheard someone say as he threaded his mount through the milling throng. “A boat manned entirely by monks, not a sailor among them.”

“Aye, must be headed south on some pilgrimage, probably to the cathedral of St. Sophia in Kiev,” commented another man as Rurik glanced over to see two merchants eating their morning meal against the railing as they watched the river traffic below.

Looking beyond them, Rurik spied the boat already well in the distance, its white sail billowing in the wind as hooded monks moved about on deck. A curious thing, he had to agree, then he turned his attention back to the busy pedestrian traffic and the market that lay ahead.

Damn, he couldn’t wait to find Zora! Had she already gone to the perfumer’s section? Maybe if he was fortunate, Yakov had kept her busy elsewhere and Rurik would have the chance to see her face when his gift was placed in her hands. If not, at least he knew that she was thinking about him, perhaps even wearing the white jasmine perfume he couldn’t wait to smell upon her skin.

As for himself, Zora had never been far from his thoughts, nor had their exchange at the stream that had finally convinced him that he had been acting the fool. Why did he need to test her when he could see shining from her beautiful eyes how much she cared? If she hadn’t admitted anything to him yet, he had himself to blame. He had only to remember the callous things he had said to her to understand that she might be afraid. By Odin, he would make amends!

She would realize how much he loved her, especially now that Grand Prince Yaroslav’s forces would be sailing south within two days. He hoped the battle would prove quick and decisive so he could soon return to her and even more, he hoped that her father’s downfall would not drive a wedge between them. If she knew his heart, it might be enough to heal any wounds—

“Lord Rurik!”

Rising in his saddle, Rurik spied Yakov running toward him from the market square and he felt a sudden hard knot in the pit of his stomach. He urged his horse into a trot as he cleared the bridge.

“Lord Rurik! God help us, it is you!”

“What? Why are you shouting?” he demanded, although from the stricken look upon the steward’s face, he already knew.

“She is gone, my lord. Your wife! Nowhere to be found!”

Rurik had never known such a terrible moment, but he could not bring himself to believe it. Not yet.

“Did you look everywhere?”

“Yes, yes, and your men are still looking. We’ve searched each section of the market, even the surrounding churches, but no one has seen her. The merchant at the spice stall where I left her claimed one moment she was talking with a monk, although in such low voices that he heard nothing of what was said, then she was gone!”

“A monk?”

“Yes, my lord, in brown sacking and a hood.”

Stung by glaring intuition, Rurik glanced over his shoulder to the river. The boat he had glimpsed from the bridge had vanished. Not even a speck of the sails to be seen.

By Odin, had Zora somehow enlisted the aid of the clergy to see her back to Chernigov? A priest had come to the compound only a few days ago to visit the wife of one of his warriors who was ill with childbed fever. Was it possible that Zora had convinced him to help her, being the daughter of the man who ruled the leading see of the Orthodox Church? She could have told him to have everything prepared for when she came to the market…

“Send one of my men back to the estate,” Rurik ordered in a voice so ominously quiet that the steward paled. “I want two hundred warriors here within the hour to search every inch of this city. Meanwhile you and the others continue looking, and hire as many men as you can to help. Do you understand?”

Yakov nodded vigorously.

“Then why do you delay?”

“I…I didn’t get to tell you yet, Lord Rurik, but we did find something she left behind. The gift you gave her, the perfume…she must have dropped it. We found the bottle shattered into a thousand pieces…”

As his heart was breaking, Rurik thought, finding it hard to breathe for the gut-wrenching pain that was ripping him apart. Yet he willed himself to keep his emotions tightly under control. He had a wife to hunt down.

“Go, Yakov. See to my commands.”

“V-very well, my lord. But what of you?”

Rurik didn’t answer, veering his horse around so sharply that the startled animal reared, its front legs pawing at the air. This time he thundered across the bridge, giving little thought to the people who had to scatter out of his way or even jump into the river to avoid his mount’s pounding hooves.

His mind was upon Zora. By the gods, he would find her, whether she was somewhere in the city or upon that accursed boat heading south! As soon as the grand prince knew that he was taking a ship after her, Rurik would be hard upon her trail.

“And when we’re together again, Princess,” he vowed fiercely, racing his mount toward the kreml, “you’ll wish that you had never deceived me.”

Chapter 26

Sitting alone in a makeshift tent, Zora suspected she had made a grave mistake.

Ivan had thrust her in here so cruelly, threatening to bind her hands and feet if she made a move to step outside, that she wondered how she could have trusted him. She had thought he made sense at the market, but now that she had had more time to consider his words, it made as much sense that he would have promised her anything just to get her to come with him.

“You’re such a gullible fool,” she muttered to herself, growing more sick at heart with each moment.

She didn’t feel well either, her stomach pitching and churning as it had never done the last time she was aboard a vessel. She felt so nauseous that she might have to peek her head outside the tent whether Ivan liked it or not and ask for a bucket. They must have been sailing for an hour already and he still hadn’t come back to check on her or explain

“You can come out if you wish,” Ivan suddenly called to her, something that she was now only too eager to do.

Feeling as if at any instant she would retch, Zora clamped her hand over her mouth and burst through the flaps, making it to the railing just in time. When she was finished, she wet her trembling hands in the river and patted her face, never having felt so miserable.

“I’d like to think that you’re only seasick, but my guess is that you’re probably bearing that bastard’s spawn in your belly. Am I correct?”

Stunned, Zora gaped at Ivan, still feeling so queasy that she feared she might be sick again.

Could she be with child? She had considered it fleetingly when she had missed her monthly flow, which should have come a few days after her marriage to Rurik. Yet she had been late before, her body sometimes playing strange tricks with her at times when she was more anxious than others. Those first weeks with Rurik would certainly qualify. But how, then, would she explain her dizziness yesterday and her sudden bout of tears at the stream?

“I suppose I could be,” she admitted, wondering if such news would have made Rurik happy. “I was never sick last time I was on the river.”

Zora jumped as Ivan slammed his fist down upon the railing and she took a few steps backward, fearing he might strike her. His angular face that before she had always thought handsome was mottled and made ugly with fury, and she remembered suddenly how her father had once described Ivan as an exacting man who anyone would be a fool to cross. Yet until now, she had never seen this side of him.

“By God, woman, I will not foster that Varangian’s whelp!”

“No—no one said you must,” she said shakily. “I am another man’s wife, Ivan. My husband and I will rear our child in Novgorod.”

“If I have any say, the child will be taken from you at its birth and drowned,” he countered harshly, moving toward her. “You will not be another man’s wife for long, Zora, for as soon as we arrive in Chernigov your marriage will be annulled. Your father promised you to me and I will have you for my bride, spoiled goods or no.”

“You cannot annul my marriage without my consent,” she breathed, horrified by his threat to the innocent babe she carried.

“No? Once your father learns that you fancy yourself in love with his enemy, your word to him will mean nothing. He will be only too eager to end a marriage that never should have been. If you hadn’t been kidnapped from the caravan by Yaroslav’s spies—”

“Is that what you think happened?” Zora interrupted, startled.

“Why else would my men and I risk a journey to Novgorod if we didn’t believe we would find you there?” Ivan shouted as he gestured to the other eight warriors aboard who like him were still garbed as monks. “After hundreds of your father’s troops searched every trading camp along the Desna and as far south as Kiev to find no trace of you, it was the only thing left that made any sense. Princess Hermione was the one who suggested your abduction was the work of spies through the messengers she sent to Chernigov.”

“Hermione?” Incredulous, Zora shook her head. “Of course. She believed I was being taken to Constantinople, so she thought it safe to encourage you to search to the north…except now her plan has miscarried. She not only engineered my abduction, but without knowing it, she led you to find me.”

“You speak nonsense! Your half sister was distraught when she reached Chernigov.”

“Hardly distraught! Hermione paid slave merchants to abduct me from the caravan, believing they would cut out my tongue and sell me in Constantinople. It was only because Rurik found me in a trading camp and thought that he could use me to gain military information from my father that I escaped such a fate.” As Ivan listened impatiently, his expression incredulous, Zora quickly recounted the story up to her marriage.

“I would never have believed it at the time,” she said more to herself than Ivan after she had finished, “but I’ve Hermione to thank for leading me to Rurik.”

“A sentiment as misguided as your half sister’s actions,” Ivan said acidly. “Yet I cannot believe simple jealousy could have fueled such a crime. There had to be another reason, something that pushed her…”

“Rurik asked me the same thing one night after—-”

Ivan glared at her and Zora felt her face reddening. Hastily she added, “We talked about Hermione and when I told him that no matter what she believed, our father had treated us equally, he asked me if there was anything I had been given that Hermione had not.”

“Was there?”

Zora nodded. “You, Ivan. News of my father’s decision that I would become your bride upon our arrival in Chernigov reached us just before we left Tmutorokan, but Hermione never said a word to me about it until the night she drugged me and I was abducted. I can only believe that she’s in love with you and wanted me out of the way so she could become your wife—”

“But Hermione has been thwarted for I have found you.” Ivan swept Zora with a possessive look that filled her with dread. “I’ve no doubt your father will punish her soundly for her treachery.”

“Didn’t you hear me?” Sensing his intent as he began to advance upon her, Zora backed away nervously. “Hermione loves you! Surely you could be just as content with her as your bride! She is a trueborn princess, not a bastard daughter—”

“It is not Hermione I want. You’re the woman I chose, the woman I will have.”

“But…but you never explained how you knew to find me in the market,” she blurted, desperate to distract him as he drew closer. “Nor how you learned that Rurik was my husband.”

“Simple. After my men and I arrived last night in Novgorod, I had only to mention your name to hear what had happened to you. The common folk of that city seemed to know a great deal about their most famed warrior and his recent marriage, yet it was by pure chance that I spied you in the marketplace when I went to buy food. Obviously you were meant to be returned to me, Zora.”

Ivan seized her so suddenly that she had no chance to elude him, his mouth brutal as it covered hers. As he forced open her lips with his tongue, she tried to fight him but he was a strong man, and her struggles were futile. All she could do was endure his loathsome kiss, cursing herself for having been so foolish as to trust him.

“You will be my bride, Zora of Tmutorokan,” he said when at last he released her and so abruptly that she fell against the railing. “And don’t think that an annulment will be enough to satisfy me. If your Lord Rurik doesn’t fall in battle, he will find his death upon my sword, for I’ll take no chance that you will ever be reunited.”

Tears stinging her eyes, Zora stared at him in horror. “You lied to me!”

His laugh was bitter, but his arrogant gaze held triumph. “So I did.”

Unable to bear to look at him, Zora fled to the tent and stumbling inside, she collapsed to her knees. Hugging herself tightly, she rocked back and forth, her anguish so intense that she made no sound as tears coursed down her face.

“Rurik…” she mouthed silently over and over, wishing by some magic he could hear her and know where she was. Yet even if he could, would he answer her cries? Unsure, she sank onto the floor in despair.

It was almost dark when Rurik returned to the compound, his two hundred warriors riding silently behind him, none daring to speak. Even Arne had held his tongue, which was a wise thing. Rurik was in so black a mood he was ready to lash out at anyone.

Zora and her accomplices were well on their way to the first portage and there was nothing he could do to stop them. Grand Prince Yaroslav had doused that hope, his words still echoing in Rurik’s mind.

“I know it’s a hard thing for you to accept, Rurik, but I cannot allow you to leave. Not now. We sail in less than two days and I need you to command your men. But do not lose heart. Upon our victory, you will regain your errant wife.”

Do not lose heart. He didn’t have one left. By Odin, if he ever so much as thought he might trust a woman again, may he fall upon his own sword!

Dismounting in front of his longhouse, Rurik met Arne’s somber gaze.

“See that the men are given a good share of ale, and extend to them my thanks for aiding in the search.”

“As you say, my lord.” Arne shifted uncomfortably in his saddle. “Do you wish my company? I could bring you some ale—”

“And then what, Arne? We drink ourselves into a stupor and bemoan the fact that we were both deceived by sea-blue eyes and a soft, willing manner? I think not. I can do that well enough alone.”

“But maybe you shouldn’t be alone, my lord—”

“Believe me, friend, there isn’t anything more I want right now.”

Rurik turned and entered the longhouse, sighing heavily as he shut the door. He knew Arne meant well, but he had already taken enough advice from him about Zora and he could stomach no more. Moving farther into the main room, he saw that his slaves had seen well to his comfort. A fire burned brightly in the central hearth and he could smell food, yet he wasn’t surprised that he felt no hunger.

He was thirsty, though, and he made straight for the table to pour himself a brimming goblet of wine. He downed it and, pouring another, tossed it back as well. Then he shrugged, and leaving the goblet on the table, he sat down in a chair near the hearth and rested the wine jug on his knee.

Why not get good and drunk? If he dulled his senses, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so damnably that the gods had seen fit to spite him after all.

He could almost hear them laughing, Loki more loudly than the rest. That wily god of mischief must surely have fashioned this day’s wretched events! Yet perhaps none were gloating any more than Zora, wherever she was, for Rurik granting her the perfect opportunity to escape. He couldn’t have done a better job than if he had escorted her to the boat himself and shoved it from the dock.

Thor, what madness had seized him to think that he could trust her? She must have been waiting all along for the right moment to escape, her acquiescence and softening of temper toward him just a part of her plan. He had been right about women! They were capable of only the foulest treachery. And he had believed Zora might love

Cursing aloud the twisting pain over his heart, Rurik took a long draft of wine, almost emptying the jug as he stared unseeing at the flames.

Until this morning he had never thought that he might regret his sworn allegiance to Yaroslav. His frustration that his request to command a ship had been denied was still so acute that even now he was tempted to disobey the grand prince’s orders and strike out after her. It galled him more than he could express that Zora was traveling the route he and his men would take in another day’s time. The same damned route!

“My lord?”

Muttering an oath against this sudden intrusion, Rurik glanced up to find Nellwyn standing a few feet away from him. He hadn’t even heard her enter the longhouse.

“If you’re looking for your mistress,” he said tightly, “she isn’t here.”

“I know, my lord, and when I heard you had finally returned from the city, I came at once to speak with you.”

“Speak of what?” Rurik gave a short, humorless laugh. “If you’re wondering how to fill your time now, you’ll have to find yourself some other tasks to keep you busy, Nellwyn, for I cannot say when your mistress will be back. She’s on a boat heading home to her beloved father and her betrothed, Lord Ivan.” This time Rurik drained the jug, his pain unbearable, then dropping it with a dull thunk to the floor, he lunged from the chair to fetch another.

“That’s why I’ve come, my lord. To speak about your wife, not my duties. I don’t know what happened today at the market, but I do know Lady Zora would never have left you for this Ivan.”

“And how do you know that?” demanded Rurik, turning on the slave woman so suddenly that she jumped.

“Because she loves you, my lord! She confided in me many times over the past few weeks—”

“You believed her?” Inwardly shaken by the slave woman’s emphatic pronouncement, Rurik nonetheless hardened his heart. It seemed that he and Arne hadn’t been the only ones tricked by Zora’s guile. “She deceived you once before, Nellwyn, the night of the fire. Now she’s deceived you again.”

“No, she hasn’t, my lord, and I would swear to it! If she didn’t care about you, she would have slept through the night like a babe, knowing that in the morning she would escape from you. But she didn’t sleep at all because she was waiting up for you, waiting and worrying about the coming battle and what might happen to you. Aye, if she did anything today, maybe in her mind it was to help you.”

“What are you saying, Nellwyn? That my wife fled the city because she thought by doing so she could somehow protect me? She’s gone to Chernigov, while the battle most likely will be fought to the north. What good can she do me?”

“Perhaps more than she could have done here in Novgorod—”

“Enough!” As Rurik’s harsh command echoed around them, Nellwyn’s green eyes widened with alarm. “Leave me, woman, and take your fanciful theories of my wife’s actions with you! You’ve already overstepped your bounds.”

He turned from her and took a draft of wine, expecting to hear the door close behind her. But when he looked over his shoulder, Nellwyn was still there, standing her ground, her hands propped at her thickened waist and her chin raised stubbornly in a manner that reminded him all too much of Zora.

“You may punish me for this, my lord, but I will have my say! Your lady confided much in me and from what I have heard, I believe you love her as she loves you. Yet you’re so willing to think the worst of her, to let your past rule your heart instead of what you can see and feel, that perhaps you don’t deserve her love! Why dare to trust, why dare to put faith in another when it is so much easier not to?”

The room went silent for a long moment, Nellwyn’s outburst striking Rurik more deeply than he would ever admit. Yet as deeply felt was his hurt and when he finally faced her, his voice was low with warning.

“Are you finished?”

“Aye.”

“Then you hear me. What I see is that my wife is not with me and what I feel is that I am a fool. Now leave me, woman!”

Nellwyn did this time, hastening from the room while Rurik stood there, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. As the door shut with a thud, he hurled the jug with all his might at the wall, dashing it to splinters.

Chapter 27

Zora had never known a more miserable five days in her life, her heartsickness growing. Already they had passed one portage and were nearing the second, their rapid progress due to favorable winds and that Ivan and his men never seemed to rest, rowing like demons whenever the sails slackened.

The boat was longer, too, and not as wide as the one Rurik had commanded, which to Zora now seemed like months ago; it cut through the water like a serpent. The only good thing was that Ivan had left her alone, she sensed as much because she disgusted him in her present state as his concentration was fixed upon getting them to Chernigov as quickly as possible.

She had overheard him talking with his men about the scores of warships they had seen in Novgorod docked north of the bridge, and the flurry of preparations that meant that Grand Prince Yaroslav’s forces would soon be setting sail. She hoped with all her heart that they had left by now, and that those fearsome ships that she had also glimpsed from the market might overtake this smaller boat. She imagined that was Ivan’s fear since he spent much of his time in the stern, scanning the distance for any sign of approaching sails.

“All right, men, let’s waste no time!” came Ivan’s impatient command outside the tent, telling Zora that they had reached the second portage. Yet she didn’t move from her pallet, staring at the bucket that was never far from her side.

At the first portage she had ventured outside to watch them hoist the vessel onto the log rollers, but seeing the woods again where Kjell had lost his life had been so painful that she had quickly retreated to the tent. She had been frightened, too, wondering if another band of marauders might be lurking nearby, looking to prey on passing ships.

That was reason enough why she had made no escape attempts. She had no wish to relive that harrowing experience. Nor had she considered jumping overboard. Her single swimming lesson had hardly left her with the skills to tackle a river’s powerful currents, and the thought that the water would be many times over her head—

Zora shuddered. As she felt the boat being lifted from the water followed by a jarring thunk as it was settled upon the logs, her mind raced ahead to when they would leave the river behind to cross overland to Chernigov.

Then she would attempt to escape, for she had no intention of returning to her father’s city with Ivan. She would take refuge at a church or with a peasant family and wait for Grand Prince Yaroslav’s forces to march past, then find Rurik. He would probably want to send her back to Novgorod, but maybe he might keep her with him. She could hope…

“That’s it, men, we’re almost there, now ease her back into the— By God, men, draw your arms! Behind you! Look behind you!”

Zora sat bolt upright, her hand flying to her breast as a horrifying shriek split the air, then another. It sounded as if the hounds of hell had been loosed upon them. She had never heard such a terrible wolfish howling, which almost drowned out the telltale clashing of swords.

Holy Mother protect them, they were under attack! Yet the boat was still moving and she realized it must have already been shoved back into the water. Had Ivan or any of his men made it aboard?

She screamed when an arrow suddenly came splicing through the tent wall to embed in the bucket, and she hesitated no more. Dashing outside, she somehow retained the presence of mind to keep her head down, and peering over the railing, she thought she was going to be sick all over herself.

Ivan and what was left of his men were surrounded by a horde of yowling attackers, outnumbered by more than four to one. As swords and battleaxes flashed in the waning sunlight, another of his warriors falling in a spray of blood, Zora saw Ivan glance toward the drifting boat as if he was searching for her. Then he suddenly collapsed to his knees, an axe blow felling him from behind. Zora closed her eyes, unable to watch anymore.

“Oh, God…” she breathed, having no idea what she should do. “Oh, God, please help me…”

Wild, triumphant shouts caused her to lift her head and she gazed in horror at the grisly dance upon the shore. Dismembered arms and legs were being paraded upon spears like trophies, then a severed head was tossed from one sword onto another…a head with dark brown hair just like Ivan’s—

“No…oh, no,” she murmured, fear tightening like cold fingers around her throat. She watched in disbelief as ten or twelve marauders broke away from the group and began to run along the riverbank…running hard as if they wanted to catch up with the boat that Zora realized to her mounting horror was drifting back toward their side of the shore.

It was the shock she needed. Scrambling on hands and knees to the other side of the boat, Zora ripped her tunic from hem to thigh with hands shaking so badly that she could barely use them. Then, taking care to use the tent as cover, she climbed over the railing at a point where she hoped they couldn’t see her and eased herself into the water.

It was so cold and deep, her fear almost overwhelmed her, but hearing the attackers’ raucous shouts growing louder and their splashing as they rushed into the river, she willed herself to let go. As the boat floated away from her, she drew as much air into her lungs as she could hold and then dived beneath the surface, using her arms and legs as Rurik had taught her to propel herself downstream.

Fortunately, the currents were strong and that aided her efforts, and swimming until she was sure her lungs were going to burst, she finally came up for air. To her relief, the marauders looked like little figures upon the distant shoreline, they were that far away. Filling her lungs again, she lowered her head beneath the surface and let the currents carry her farther away.

Dusk had fallen by the time Zora dared to consider stopping but she pushed herself onward, sometimes floating on her back to save her strength. She didn’t head for the opposite shoreline until it was pitch-dark. With her exhaustion so intense that she feared she might drown before she got there, only by sheer force of will was she able to keep herself calm and her arms and legs moving.

When her feet touched bottom she began to weep with relief, and pulling herself from the water, she crawled into the deep grass and collapsed. She was so weak that her sobs were no more than whimpers, and soon even these grew silent as she closed her eyes against the starry sky.

“The princess, my lord?”

“Aye, I met her only once but you never forget such a face. No wonder my son was willing to risk his life for her, and Rurik Sigurdson to give up his vow and marry her. It’s a good thing she didn’t crawl so far into the grass that we would have missed her.”

“A good thing, too, that we found her before whoever it was that slaughtered those poor bastards upstream.”

“Aye, wandering thieves, most likely. Stripped the dead and the boat, right down to the sails. It’s a miracle the wench escaped…though she might wish otherwise when she’s back with her husband. I’ve never seen Rurik in so foul a mood as when we sailed from Novgorod.”

“That’s true enough, my lord, but look, she’s waking up.”

Zora moaned softly, lifting her hand to shade her eyes from the bright sunlight. Still half in her dream, she could have sworn she had heard someone say Rurik’s name, but that couldn’t be possible

“Lady Zora?”

She froze, scarcely breathing. Alert now and remembering all too suddenly where she was, the next thing she thought was how absurd that in the middle of nowhere, someone would know her name.

Slowly lowering her hand, she squinted against the light, making out two men who were staring down at her. One she didn’t know, but the other…

“Oh…!” She was swept up into Thordar the Strong’s massive arms at almost the same instant she recognized him, her head spinning from the sudden movement. As he turned around, she gaped at the seventy-foot warship moored along the shoreline, fifty armed warriors staring back at her.

“One of my sharp-eyed men spied you lying in the grass,” Thordar explained, anticipating her question as he waded into the water. “You’re a fortunate young woman to have lived to tell what happened to your friends.”

Before Zora could reply, she was lifted into waiting arms and deposited on deck, then Thordar and his companion heaved themselves aboard. As orders were given to lower all oars and push off from the bank, Thordar led her to a rowing bench where he gestured for her to sit. But she remained rooted where she stood, noticing for the first time that farther out in the river another warship was passing them, a long line of ships following as far as she could see.

Grand Prince Yaroslav’s army! Surely it couldn’t be any later than midmorning, which meant that they had been less than a day’s journey behind Ivan’s boat, probably advancing upon them with each mile. If only they had come faster, Ivan and his men might still be alive—

So he could then fight Rurik to the death? Zora remembered, shivering. She would never have wished such a violent end upon anyone, yet she couldn’t deny that she was relieved Rurik had one less enemy to face.

She sank upon the bench. Simply recalling the events of the past day made her knees feel weak. Or was it because she knew that she would soon see Rurik again?

“Where is my husband?” she asked.

Thordar watched her closely. “Probably not to the second portage. There are many ships, Lady Zora. I’m only glad that we came upon the trail first and buried what was left of the dead. It wouldn’t have been a welcome sight for a man anxious about his wife. What happened?”

“We were attacked.” Zora shuddered, finding it difficult even to speak about it. “When they were pushing the boat back into the water. If I hadn’t been on board…”

She couldn’t finish, her memories still horribly vivid of what had almost happened to her during that first attack when Kjell was killed and Rurik had saved her just in time. And here she was talking with Kjell’s father! Yet Thordar didn’t seem half so forbidding now, despite his shaved scalp and the topknot that lent him the fierce look of a steppe nomad.

“Forgive me,” he said, clearly sensing her disquiet. “You owe me no explanations. We’ll be stopping in Smolensk within a few hours for food and supplies. You’ll have to wait for your husband’s ship, but you’ll be reunited with him there.”

Mere hours! Zora could hardly believe it. Yet she felt a sudden surge of nervousness. She could imagine too well what Rurik must think of her, and there was only one thing she could do to remedy it. Surely he would believe her. He had to!

“You have my thanks, Lord Thordar,” Zora said softly, his eyes at this moment reminding her so much of Kjell’s. “I speak also for my husband.”

“For your sake, I hope that is true,” the warrior answered. Heaving a sigh, he walked away.

“She awaits you in that storehouse, Rurik. And now since my ships are loaded, my forces must sail. We’ll meet again in Liubech.”

Rurik nodded at Thordar, his throat so tight that he could scarcely bring himself to speak. He had never known such a moment as when the warrior had met his ship to tell him that Zora was found, and what had happened to the men who had helped her escape. He knew, too, that they hadn’t been monks but fighting men, giving rise to more questions for which he would soon demand answers.

“She wanted to wait for you on the wharf,” added Thordar as he turned to go, “but I thought it better this way…”

“So you were right,” Rurik gritted out, looking from the nearby door to the warrior’s somber face. “My thanks, friend.” They clasped wrists and then Thordar was gone, striding back to the docks where at least fifty warships were moored.

Still more vessels were arriving at the crowded wharf while others, loaded with fresh cooked meat and supplies, were heading downriver on the second leg of their journey, no longer in single formation but four or five abreast upon the great Dnieper River. Soon Rurik’s six ships would be loaded and ready to sail, but first he must attend to Zora. With his jaw clenched so hard that it hurt, he opened the door to the storehouse and stepped inside, grimacing at the acrid smell of pickling brine.

It took him an instant to adjust to the hazy lamplight. He spied her sitting upon a barrel, her eyes as wide as he had ever seen them, her hands clasped nervously in her lap. His relief was stabbing and immediate, yet he forced himself to think not of how close he had come to losing her but of how she had betrayed him.

“Thordar told me what little you shared with him, wife,” he said tersely, wasting no time on a greeting. “Now I want your explanation.”

Zora shivered, Rurik’s tone as cold and forbidding as his gaze. It was just as bad as she had feared, maybe worse. She rose, her legs half asleep from sitting so long, and nervously smoothed the linen tunic Thordar had bought for her.

“I—I know what you must be thinking, Rurik…that I purposely deceived you, but it’s not as it may seem. If it hadn’t been for the lies Ivan told me—”

“Ivan? Your betrothed?”

Rurik had interrupted her so harshly that Zora felt as if her heart had leapt to pound in her throat.

“Y-yes. He and eight of his men came disguised as monks to rescue me. He found me in the market and convinced me to leave with him—”

“Convinced you?” Rurik cut in again, his fury boiling all the hotter. How quickly and expertly she was spinning her tale, no doubt fearing his wrath as well she should! “I imagine that you rejoiced at the chance, Princess.”

“No, that’s not true!” she blurted, taking a few steps toward him. “I told Ivan that I wanted to stay with you, but he said that if I went with him I would be able to plead for your life if you were captured in battle. I was so worried about you, Rurik, and…and it made sense. I couldn’t have done anything to help you if I had stayed in Novgorod! It was only later when Ivan admitted he had lied to me, that he planned to kill you…” She stopped, her expression stricken. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

“That it was Ivan, yes, for Thordar told me the dead men had not been clergy, but warriors,” Rurik replied, steeling his heart against her no matter that her words echoed what Nellwyn had told him days ago. There could be an explanation easily enough for that. Leave it to his cunning wife to fill her slave woman’s head with the same lies just to add credence to her tale!

“But what of the rest?” she asked plaintively. “I swear on my life that it is true.”

“You also swore to me once that you wouldn’t stop trying to escape until you were free of me.” Rurik’s bitterness almost choked him.

“That was weeks ago!” she countered, her eyes pleading with him. “How could I have said anything different? I didn’t know you for the man that you are. I didn’t love you then, but I love you now, Rurik! I love you!”

Rurik suddenly felt as if everything had gone very still inside him, what he had yearned for so long to hear ringing in his ears. By Odin, he wanted to believe her, yet how could he? She had left him!

“I was going to tell you in the market,” Zora rushed on, hope flaring that she might have finally reached him. “I thought you might come there to meet me. I wanted so much to prove to you that you could trust me, Rurik, and then Ivan—”

“Persuaded you within a moment’s time to leave your beloved home and husband,” he interrupted sarcastically, his expression as hard as granite. “Spare me your woman’s ploy, Zora. If you love anything, it was only the thought of freedom. And don’t tell me next that you’re not grieving for Ivan, because I don’t want to hear it.”

“I’m not grieving!” Desperation seized Zora as she moved closer. “How could I mourn someone who wanted to kill the man I love? Who threatened to drown my baby at the moment of its birth?”

Stunned, Rurik stared at her. “A babe?”

“Yes. I didn’t realize it until I became sick on the river. I was miserable.”

“I imagine you were,” Rurik muttered though deeply shaken. Days ago, such news might have completed his happiness, but now it only heightened his pain. “You must have been wretched knowing you carried my child, not only for your sake but for Ivan’s.”

“No, you’re wrong!”

“I’m right, Zora, so spare me your denials! At least now I know you can produce heirs. I was beginning to wonder how long it would take before you’d be breeding and I could return to my concubines, but I see that once we’re home in Novgorod, my life will finally be as it was before I wed!”

Incredulous, Zora’s eyes filled with tears. How could he be so blind? How could he say such terrible things? Then another, more chilling thought struck her.

Perhaps she had been the fool all along to believe it might be possible that he loved her. If he cared, he would never treat her this cruelly. Surely he could see that she was telling him the truth.

“Do you love me, Rurik?” she demanded, her voice hoarse with pain. By God, she would know! “Do you love me?”

He didn’t answer for the longest time, but when he finally spoke, her heart sank, his tone as biting as the smell in the room.

“I told you once before that the word holds no meaning for me, Princess, and nothing has changed. You’ve become confused by lust.”

“No…” Zora breathed, shaking her head. “No!” Rushing at him so suddenly that she caught him by surprise, she struck him across the face with such force that her palm stung, but she didn’t care. Nor did she care when he grabbed her by the wrists and shook her hard. “You deceived me!” she cried, anguished tears coursing down her face. “You put trust in me…led me to think…Monster! You hard, unfeeling—”

“Pagan? Brute? Barbarian?” he finished for her as he swept her fighting and kicking into his arms. “We’ve come full circle, haven’t we, wife? Yet if anyone here has been deceived, it was me and not you!”

“Release me!” Zora demanded through her wracking sobs, her world crumbling around her. How could she ever have thought she could warm this man’s cold heart? Fool!

“Release you?” mocked Rurik, easily subduing her struggles by holding her so tightly that she couldn’t move. “I should send you under guarded escort back to Novgorod but I’m not going to let you out of my sight. I’ll not grant you another opportunity to escape me, Princess. I’ve learned my lesson too well.”

As Rurik kicked open the storehouse door so violently that it flew with the splitting of wood from its hinges, Zora knew then that he was taking her with him. And despite never having felt so desolate, her heartache a raw bleeding wound, she could not deny that she wanted to be with him even as she swore that she would never forgive him for his cruelty. God help her, that made her twice the fool.

Chapter 28

Zora refused to speak to Rurik for the entire journey to Liubech, turning her face away from him whenever he addressed her. At first it hadn’t seemed to affect him, but by her third day of silence, he could not hide his displeasure, his angry scowl there for everyone to see.

Yet if he had wanted to rail at her, it was impossible on the warship that lacked any privacy, crowded as it was with fifty odd warriors, weapons, and all manner of provisions. She had no tent where they could be alone either, only an open lean-to thrown together with blankets where she slept while everyone else, including Rurik, took shifts sleeping under the stars.

Even when she became ill, which thankfully had been less frequent upon the larger vessel, she refused to answer Rurik’s brusque queries about her health. That seemed to anger him the most, yet she stubbornly held her tongue. After the horrible things he had said to her in Smolensk, he didn’t deserve to know and what did he care anyway?

Whenever she asked herself that question, she always felt a niggling that maybe, just maybe he might care, despite what he had claimed. But all she had to do was remember how callously he had denounced her, and the flicker of hope that refused to die would fade back into nothing. Nor did she trust any longer her memories of what they had shared, resigning herself that she must have misread everything no matter Nellwyn’s assurances.

By the morning of the fifth day they arrived in Liubech and if Zora had tried not to dwell upon the approaching battle, there was no way to avoid it now.

As Rurik’s ships drew into the bustling dock, she overheard him telling Arne that the imposing timber palisade that had been newly erected around the trading town would serve as a line of defense if Grand Prince Yaroslav’s troops were forced to retreat. The ominous specter of war was brought that much closer when a senior warrior met them to announce that the grand prince had ordered an immediate march to a point more than halfway between Liubech and Chernigov where they would make camp.

“Why there?” Her growing anxiety caused her to break her silence as Rurik lifted her from the ship. If he was surprised that she had finally spoken to him, he gave no sign of it, his expression remaining as hard as before.

“You didn’t think your father would be fool enough to allow us to march to his gates, did you?” he replied, signaling for two strapping warriors to follow as he led her to a place out of the way of the ships being unloaded. “The location of our encampment will ensure ten miles between our armies, unless Mstislav decides to attack during the night. But I doubt he’ll stray that far from his precious city for fear he might lose it.”

Zora wasn’t given a chance to reply as Rurik left her with the two guards while he went to oversee his men. Although the wharf at first appeared a mass of chaos, in less than an hour not only his warriors but all those whose ships had recently arrived had begun to march, slaves and hired freemen bringing up the rear with the provisions.

For a moment, Zora wondered why she and her guards hadn’t joined them. Then Rurik rode up on a spirited gray stallion that matched him for size and power.

She tried not to notice how magnificent he looked atop the huge animal, his thick blond hair swept back from his forehead and shining as brightly as the silver mail-shirt he had donned, but she couldn’t help it. No matter what had happened between them, he still remained to her the most handsome of men.

“Take my hand,” he commanded, his eyes appearing a deep crystal blue in the warm sunlight.

“Perhaps I prefer to walk,” she countered, bristling at his harsh tone that reminded her all too unhappily of how cruel he had been to her in Smolensk.

“You have no choice, wife. Do not force me to humiliate you before your uncle’s troops.”

Thinking that he would probably relish embarrassing her much as he had the time he threw her over his shoulder, Zora accepted his hand with reluctance and he hoisted her up behind him.

“Hold on tight,” he ordered. “I don’t want to risk your falling off.”

You mean you don’t want me to threaten your heir with any of my foolishness, Zora thought resentfully, although she couldn’t deny that it felt wonderful to wrap her arms around him again.

They had scarcely touched since he had carried her to the ship days ago, yet she hadn’t allowed herself to admit how much she had missed it until now. As they galloped to the front of the formation to join Grand Prince Yaroslav and other senior warriors, she could feel the sinewed strength of Rurik’s body with his every movement, and she wondered if he was affected in the slightest by having her so close…

Rurik cursed to himself. It was all he could do to keep his mind on the grave matters at hand with Zora hugging him so tightly, her womanly softness a seductive warmth against his back.

By Odin, despite her treachery she inflamed his senses like no other! How could one female so sorely tempt him and try him at the same time?

With great effort, he reminded himself of her deceit, which helped to put matters in perspective, if not as much as he would have liked. It seemed the harder he tried to bury his feelings for her, the more impossible the task became, and he had already given up trying to suppress the memory of what had happened in Smolensk.

He still couldn’t believe that she had struck him. Perhaps that had stunned him more than anything she had said. Words were easy to discount but actions not so easily. He had never seen such hurt in her eyes, such pain, as if he had broken her heart—

More likely it was despair that her attempt to escape him had failed, Rurik amended bitterly, thinking back on how she had refused to talk to him since that day. She had spurned his every attention, his every query about her welfare, no longer bothering to hide the fact that she wanted to have nothing to do with him or to pretend that she might care.

Yet the moment they had landed in Liubech, he had sensed her agitation and had surmised at once that she was plotting all over again. He would wager a thousand gold grivna upon it! Why else would her first words to him have been a question about where they were bound?

That had sealed his decision to take her with him rather than leave her at the trading town. He wanted to keep her from the battle, but the thought of leaving her somewhere less secure seemed a worse evil.

If Zora was left well guarded at the camp, she would still be there waiting for him when the victory was won, although he imagined that she would try anything she could to return to her father. He would have to warn the men he entrusted with her care to be especially vigilant, for she would outwit them if given half a chance.

“And she said she wanted to walk,” he muttered, wondering if Zora really thought him that much of a fool. So she could have escaped into the woods?

“Did you say something?” Her breath was a soft, stiffing warmth upon his neck.

“No!”

Rurik heard her sigh but he ignored it, forcing his mind to what lay ahead.

Once a tent had been constructed for her and she had been ushered unceremoniously inside, Zora didn’t see Rurik again for hours. When it grew dark, she began to believe that he wasn’t planning to come back at all, which wouldn’t surprise her.

He had said little else to her during the long ride to the camp other than his last outburst, and she had sensed in him an irritation that she could only suppose was directed at her. Although she didn’t know what she had done to deserve this latest display of temper, it really didn’t matter. It seemed that hurt was only piling upon hurt between them and there wasn’t any way to stop it.

Finally she lay down and turned her back to the two stone-faced Varangians posted just inside the entrance, having grown weary of looking at them and no doubt they of her. There were also a half dozen or so warriors pacing outside the tent. She had watched their shadows moving across the canvas walls all afternoon. She couldn’t see them anymore but she could hear the low drone of their voices, an occasional laugh surprising her considering the gravity of their presence here.

These men of the north seemed so confident, so fearless. She already knew they believed that God and right was on their side, victory assured over a foul usurper. To her, the imminent future was too uncertain to even contemplate. She closed her eyes, willing herself to try to get some rest despite the hungry rumbling of her empty stomach.

“You could rouse the dead with that growling.”

Rolling over, Zora stared up at Rurik in surprise. In the oil lamp’s flickering light he appeared as much a giant as the first time she had seen him, his head grazing the ceiling, his formidable size dwarfing the tent.

Her heart pounding, she noticed then that her guards were gone and she no longer heard men’s voices right outside. She realized Rurik must have sent them to help themselves to food for he carried a round loaf of bread under one arm, a wineskin under the other, and in his hands a steaming bowl of something that smelled wonderfully of lamb stew.

“I thought you might be hungry, Princess, but if I’d known how much I would have brought more food.” He went down on his haunches and set everything in front of her, then he sat upon the ground and rested an arm on one raised knee. “Go on. While it’s still hot.”

“Aren’t you going to have any?” Zora’s face grew warm under his scrutiny. She broke off a piece of bread and dipped it into the stew.

“Not tonight. I never eat before a battle.”

Her eyes widening, Zora suddenly didn’t feel very hungry. But if Rurik had noticed her reaction he made no comment, reaching instead for the wineskin. She thought he was going to drink but he simply removed the stopper and then handed her the leather bag. She didn’t ask if he wanted any, sensing his answer would be the same.

“Eat, Zora. For strength.”

She did, understanding his unspoken reference to their child, which for the past days had been the only thing to sustain her spirits.

Whether Rurik loved her or not, she knew in her heart that she wouldn’t want to live if anything happened to him, but she must for she no longer had just herself to consider. Yet right now, that didn’t make it any easier to swallow the food and she had to wash it down with wine for fear she might choke.

“The guards told me you never strayed from this corner,” he said, glancing at the straw pallet on which she was sitting.

“Where else could I have gone?” she asked, wondering at his sudden frown. Then it dawned upon her that he must still think she was going to try to escape and she gave a sad laugh. “I’m no match for your Varangian warriors, Rurik, even if they lacked an ounce of sense. Those two stared at me all afternoon as if they were afraid I might disappear right from under them.”

“You have a history of doing just that, wife.” Rurik’s jaw tightened visibly.

“So I do,” she admitted softly. This seemed to startle him. He had obviously expected her to hurl some retort.

Silence reigned for long moments as Zora ate her meal, but she drank little wine. She wanted to have her wits about her for whatever the next hours might bring. At last when she could eat no more, she pushed the remainder aside and met his eyes.

“Thank you for thinking of me. I feel much better now.”

“Good. I suggest you eat the rest when you’re able for I cannot say when hot food will be prepared again.”

Feeling a chill at the import behind his words, Zora sighed heavily. She was so worried about him. If only he could give her some reassurance. “Are you and your men so confident that you will win?”

“If a man hopes to live, he doesn’t go into battle expecting defeat,” Rurik replied, wondering why she had asked him such a question. Irritation gripped him as he imagined it was because she feared for her father and his men. By Thor, even with his child growing in her belly, her loyalty to her countrymen had not wavered! “Your father’s forces and ours are well matched, Zora, if that gives you any comfort. They have enough men that they will not fall like spring lambs to the slaughter.”

“That’s not what I meant!” she said heatedly. Then she shook her head, her shoulders slumping. “Never mind, it doesn’t matter. You would twist whatever I have to say anyway. I learned that well enough the other day.” She rose as if she didn’t want to be near him and went to stand at an opposite wall, her back to him. “I’m tired, Rurik. If you don’t mind, I wish you would leave—”

“So you dismiss me, Princess?”

Hearing the restrained anger in his voice, Zora glanced nervously over her shoulder to see that Rurik had risen to his feet, his eyes black as coals in the hazy light.

“I—I didn’t mean it as it sounded…” she began lamely, then her own indignation was pricked as much at herself as at him. Why shouldn’t she ask him to leave since he thought the worst of everything she had to say? She had had enough of his callous treatment!

“Yes, I did mean it,” she continued, lifting her chin as she turned to face him. “You brought my meal and I have thanked you for it, but I’m sure you have other things to do.”

“Nothing that cannot wait, wife.” Rurik glared at her as he came closer. “Or have you forgotten that you still bear that title? Perhaps you’re already thinking ahead to your father’s victory, for surely that is the outcome you hope for in your heart—”

“That’s right!” Zora shouted, losing all control in light of his preposterous statement. “That’s exactly what I want! Why hide it any longer? You’ve read me so well, Rurik Sigurdson, I see no reason to keep my true feelings from you. Yes, I hope my father wins and I hope you soon find yourself without a wife!”

He grabbed her so suddenly that she gasped, his fingers tunneling in her hair to yank her head back.

“So this is how I will remember you as I go into battle,” he breathed, his gaze ablaze with fury. “Treason like venom upon your lips.”

Tears springing to her eyes, Zora could barely answer for the emotion threatening to choke her. “You have made it so, Rurik. You can only blame your—”

She didn’t finish, Rurik’s mouth coming down so brutally upon hers that it hurt…and she knew he wanted to hurt her. His embrace was so crushing that she could hardly breathe and her neck felt ready to snap, her scalp stinging.

But she would not let him hurt her, no, she wouldn’t let him! She returned his kiss with a fury that equaled his, determined that he would remember not the lies she had just hurled at him but the blinding truth of her passion.

I love you, Rurik! she cried in her heart as she threw her arms around his neck to hold him tightly, to hold him like she would never let him go.

As if she had surprised him, his embrace eased and became not cruel but wildly possessive, and with a ragged groan he deepened his kiss to ravage her mouth while his hands grew frantic in their caress. She clung to him even as she felt him wrench her tunic over her hips and tear away her undergarment, then lift her and wrap her legs around his waist.

His breathing was hot and desperate against her lips as he yanked at his trousers and she pressed eagerly against him, knowing his intent and wanting it as much as he. She felt his hardness poised for an instant against her moist flesh, then she was riding upon it, his hands gripping her bottom as he thrust inside her like a man possessed, fast, hard, relentlessly, until she was shaking with her need.

She locked her ankles behind him, not caring that the iron mesh of his mail-shirt was biting into her thighs or the insides of her arms as she clutched wildly at his back. All conscious thought was centered upon that wet, throbbing place where they were joined, upon the incredible heat, the friction, the rapture rising up to consume her…

“Rurik!” she cried at the dizzying height of her ecstasy, but she heard not a sound, his kiss silencing her as he thrust deeply once, twice…then the third time with such ferocity that his whole body shuddered.

“Zora…” came his hoarse whisper, his mouth tearing from hers so he could stare into her eyes as his seed burst hot and pulsing from his flesh. And at that heart-stopping moment she knew…though she might never hear it from his lips. She could see it shining like truth in his eyes. The pain, the torment…the yearning.

He loved her. Holy Mother Mary, if life ended for her now she would need nothing more.

It was that thought she drew on for courage when he suddenly closed his eyes as if to shut her out, his expression growing as hard and angry as before. Then she was standing upon the ground, her crumpled tunic falling around her ankles as Rurik fastened his trousers and strode from the tent.

He was gone without a final word, yet she heard him giving terse orders outside to the men who must have returned. Certain that her guards were soon to rejoin her, Zora walked shakily to the lamp and doused it, then moved through the dark to her pallet where she lay down and drew the blanket over her.

She wanted no one to see her tears.

Chapter 29

Zora awoke to the distant sound of drums and she was seized with such panic, she vaulted from the pallet and ran stumbling in the predawn light for the entrance.

“Hold there! Where do you think you’re bound?” demanded the guard who jumped up and caught her around the waist while the other man lunged to his feet to block her way.

“The drums…” she said distractedly, thinking of Rurik, wanting to go to him. “It’s started, hasn’t it?”

“Not until they fall still, my lady.”

“Aye, and when they do, we should be fighting that usurper alongside our lord instead of left behind in this camp with the slaves and a disobedient wife,” the taller Varangian muttered before he was silenced with a sharp gesture from his grim-faced companion.

“Go and sit down, Lady Zora,” continued the red-bearded guard who held her, his voice firm. “There is nothing to do but wait.” Sighing when Zora refused to budge, he picked her up and carried her back to the pallet and set her down upon it. “Try to sleep if you can. Word will be brought to us—”

“Sleep?” Zora tossed aside the blanket he had dropped in her lap. “How can I when my husband…?” Realizing from the man’s frown that she was getting nowhere, Zora willed herself to be calm. “Where are they?”

“Two miles south. Prince Mstislav’s army advanced during the night to a village called Listven and Grand Prince Yaroslav’s forces have gone to meet them.”

No wonder they could hear the drums, Zora thought, rubbing her temples that had begun to pound as insistently. Rurik wasn’t so far away, but with these warriors guarding her, she might as well be in Novgorod.

“Your friend said he wanted to be fighting with my husband,” she said, trying a desperate tack. “Go if you wish! Both of you! I can wait here alone—”

“Our orders are to stay here with you, Lady Zora, no matter what was said.”

As the guard went back to his companion, the two men now watching her warily, Zora knew from their somber faces that she would not sway them. All around her becoming a nightmare, she covered her ears with her hands…hating the drums’ ominous sound but dreading even more the moment when they would stop.

Standing at the head of his men, Rurik grimly scanned the valley before him.

He had not seen so many thousands of warriors facing each other since the grand prince had defeated his murderous brother Sviatopolk on the plain of the Alta River five years ago. That day the ground had flowed red with blood and today would be no different. Once again, the kingdom of all Rus was at stake.

With the fierce cadence of the drums thundering in his ears, Rurik looked to his right along a hundred-deep line of men that stretched to the distant hills. Then he glanced to his left, the sun’s dawning rays streaking the cloudless blue sky with gold fire. Fleetingly, it reminded him of the tawny glory of Zora’s hair until the drums abruptly stopped and he thought of her no more.

As a thunderous battle cry tore from ten thousand throats, Rurik yanked out his sword and held it up to the sun. “Branch-of-Odin, honor me! Defend me!”

Whipping his shield from his shoulder, he began to run with his men toward the enemy…the ground made black with their numbers, the air thick with their arrows and spears.

Zora had never known time could pass so horribly slow, each hour dragging into the next and still they had heard no news.

She imagined that she was making the guards dizzy with her incessant pacing, but she couldn’t help herself. It was better than sitting and staring at them or the tent walls. Now it was nearing sunset, the sunlight already thinning. She was certain if they didn’t hear something soon she would explode.

“Do you think they will go on fighting into the night?” she asked her guards for the tenth time that hour, but before either man could answer, shouts were heard outside the tent accompanied by the pounding of hooves and then horses snorting and whinnying. Zora rushed frantically toward the entrance only to be warned away with a sharp glance.

“Wait here, my lady,” came a terse command as both warriors ducked outside, leaving her alone.

“No, I won’t stay in here any longer!” Dashing after them, Zora ran straight into a burly warrior who was just about to enter the tent. She would have fallen backward if he hadn’t caught her and it was then she recognized him, although the grimness of his expression and those of the guards behind him made her heart lurch painfully.

“Arne!” Her gaze swept him, his clothing stained with sweat and blood, a deep gash on his upper right arm that appeared to have only recently stopped bleeding. “Where’s Rurik? Tell me!”

“He is missing, my lady.”

“Missing?” Horrified, Zora gaped at him. “How…?”

“This day’s battle has been won by your father but by the narrowest of victories. Great losses have been suffered on both sides. I have never seen such terrible slaughter. The dead and the wounded are still being counted.”

The dead and the wounded. Holy Mother of God, please not Rurik! Feeling as if she might be sick, Zora forced herself to think rationally.

“Then we must go and look for him, Arne!” She glanced past him to the four men on horseback who appeared to be waiting for them and then back to his dirt-smudged face. “You have horses—”

“Aye, but not to take you to search the battlefield. Grand Prince Yaroslav sent us to fetch you, for he wants you at his side when he meets with your father in Chernigov. He has decided to seek a compromise rather than suffer more bloodshed. If we go on fighting, many more will die for there is still much strength left in both armies.”

“But what of my husband?” she cried, helpless tears welling in her eyes. “My husband, Arne! He might be hurt…he might need me!”

Although his gaze held pity, the grizzled warrior’s voice was resolute.

“Many are looking for him, my lady, and there is always the chance he could have been taken prisoner. Knowing Lord Rurik as I do, he probably ignored the order for retreat and fought on until the last moment, only to become overpowered and captured by your father’s advancing forces. We must hope that is what happened, but for now you must come with me. The grand prince is waiting. He believes your presence may help ease the way for talk of peace.”

“No!” Backing away, Zora shook her head. “My uncle and my father be damned! If I go anywhere, it will be to search for my husband—”

“Forgive me, my lady,” said Arne as he lunged for her and grabbed her arm, pulling her toward him. The Varangian who had so resented being left out of the battle caught her other arm, the two men half dragging her to the horses as she twisted and struggled between them.

“No…please! Let me go!” she demanded desperately, but it did nothing but make her voice hoarse. She was lifted into a saddle, one of the men who had accompanied Arne now her steely armed captor.

Arne mounted, then they were galloping past silent, blood-splattered troops just beginning to return to the camp, many shouldering makeshift litters that held wounded men whose agonized moans cut like knives into Zora. Seeing Rurik in each warrior’s pain-wracked face, she finally had to shut her eyes against them.

Zora could imagine what a bitter moment it was for Grand Prince Yaroslav as he and his phalanx of warriors were ushered into the great hall of a palace that had once belonged to his viceroy, only to find his brother waiting for them upon a gilt throne. As for herself, any joy she might have felt in seeing her father again was tempered by the horror of the battlefield they had skirted on their way to Chernigov, grisly images she could not shake even as they approached the raised dais.

She now understood why it might be difficult to find someone in such carnage. In places where the fighting had been fiercest, the living had waged battle on top of the fallen until bodies were heaped upon bodies six or seven deep. Yet if she began to believe for an instant that Rurik might be lying at the bottom of one of those lifeless piles, she would go mad—

“Zora!”

She started as her father left his throne and rushed toward her, his thick arms outstretched. Then she was smothered within his bearish embrace until she feared she might faint. Finally he pulled away to look into her eyes, and in his ruddy face she could see his overwhelming relief.

“So you were in Novgorod all along.”

She nodded, knowing he would want a full explanation but feeling too numb to speak. Thankfully, his mind seemed to be upon the pressing matters at hand, and leading her to the dais, he gestured for a chair to be placed near to the throne. She was no sooner seated than he turned his attention back to his somber visitors, his expression becoming as grim as Yaroslav’s.

“You were wise to return my daughter to me, elder brother. Any agreement we might reach tonight would have been threatened if harm had come to her.”

“I say the same about those men you hold captive in your prison,” countered Yaroslav. “If God has been merciful, one of them is the husband of your daughter, Lord Rurik of Novgorod.”

An astonished rumble went up from the retainers flanking Mstislav’s throne, but he waved his hand for silence and fixed his gaze upon Zora.

“Is this true?”

“Yes, Father,” she said shakily, seeing the many questions in his eyes. “My husband has not yet been found and it is our hope that no injury has befallen—”

“Our hope, daughter?” His expression tightened. “By such words, I might think you now side with my enemies.”

Zora had to swallow against the hard lump in her throat; her father had never before spoken to her so harshly. Yet he must have read in her eyes what he feared. His enraged roar shattered the weighty stillness in the hall.

“If this Lord Rurik is in my prison, bring him to me!”

“There are others whose condition I would know,” Yaroslav demanded as Mstislav’s guards hastened across the hall to do his bidding. “At least fifteen of my senior warriors have not yet been accounted for, all of them Varangians who would have fought on no matter that a retreat was sounded.”

“Very well! Bring however many of these men you can find!” Mstislav shouted after his guards as he glared at his brother. Then he lowered his voice and leaned forward upon his throne. “Your concern for your druzhina is touching, Yaroslav, yet I will not wait for these men to begin our discussion. You stated in your message that you wished to seek a compromise and I agreed to hear you, my promise given for your safety while in my city. Now what have you to offer me?”

As all eyes turned to the grand prince, Zora’s were fixed upon the doors through which the guards had disappeared. How she wished she could have gone with them to search for Rurik! But she gasped along with everyone else when Yaroslav finally spoke in his great booming voice.

“Half of Rus, to be divided along the course of the Dnieper River. I will retain the side with Novgorod and Kiev, while everything else will be yours.”

Zora glanced at her father to find him pondering Yaroslav’s words while his retainers whispered to each other behind him. If at first Mstislav had been surprised, now his narrowed eyes were shrewd.

“Only half, my brother? After my victory today—”

“A narrow victory that could have easily gone to my favor!” interrupted Yaroslav, his face flushed red with anger. “Think carefully before you allow your greed to overwhelm you, Mstislav. My forces are still strong enough to fight, as are yours, yet a lengthy war will only deplete much needed men and resources. Meanwhile our enemies abound, barbaric nomads in the east, neighboring Slavs to the west, and Patzinaks in the south, all of them watching like carrion crows for any sign of weakness so they can swoop down and attack. If we fail to form an alliance this night, neither of us will have the forces left to fight them.”

Again a charged silence reigned, everyone waiting upon Mstislav’s answer. Zora knew her father to be an ambitious man, yet the wisdom behind the grand prince’s argument could not be discounted. Wondering what path he would choose, she was distracted by a side door opening nearby. Her heart skipped a beat as Hermione entered the hall in a swirl of purple silk.

Their eyes met. From the agitation in her half sister’s gaze, Zora realized that Hermione must have heard of her arrival and come at once from the terem. Yet Zora found herself abruptly dismissed as Hermione scanned the hall for someone, her porcelain features soon registering her disappointment.

Ivan. She was looking for Ivan, Zora thought, struck by a sudden wave of pity. But it faded when Hermione fixed a gaze of icy hatred upon her as if daring her to say a word about the truth behind her abduction.

“Very well, my brother, I agree to your compromise. Half of Rus, with my throne to remain here in Chernigov.”

Zora’s attention turned back to her father, who had left the dais to clasp hands solemnly with Yaroslav. As scribes were called forth to prepare the necessary documents, a great swell of conversation erupted among those present that only heightened as the huge double doors at the end of the hall swung open to admit a line of chained prisoners.

Rising shakily, Zora had never known such a clash of hope and fear. Mother of Christ, where was Rurik? She counted five warriors, then eight, but he was nowhere among them. Oh, please, please, tell her it wasn’t so…

“Rurik!”

Spying him suddenly in a second group of prisoners, his bright blond hair like a beacon in the torchlight, Zora’s hoarse cry echoed around the hall. She wanted to run to him but her father’s dark glance kept her rooted in place. With her heart pounding as hard as any drum, she watched impatiently as a path was opened for Rurik and the other prisoners. Her eyes drank in the sight of him.

He was limping, dried blood streaking his left leg, but he appeared sound. Even the cold hardness of his gaze could not dampen her joy. Imagining what must be going through his mind to see her standing on the dais, she could no longer heed her father’s warning. She hurried down the steps as the prisoners were made to halt in a line behind the grand prince. “Zora…”

Ignoring Mstislav’s angry voice, she moved undaunted to Rurik’s side, warmed by the astonishment in his eyes. Yet she said nothing to him, boldly facing her father and his retainers instead.

“Hear me, all of you! This is my husband, Lord Rurik of Novgorod, the man I love more than life. I will see no harm come to him!” She glanced at Rurik, her voice breaking. “Can you find it in your heart to believe me now?”

Shaken by her pronouncement, Rurik had never felt more humbled, the plea shining in Zora’s eyes chasing all doubt and bitterness from his mind. And here he had been thinking the worst of her up until a moment ago, thinking how happy she must be now that she would finally be free of him!

By Odin, he had not only been a fool, but a blind one! That she could still want him after everything he had done, everything he had said…

“No harm will come to him, my daughter, that I swear,” Mstislav interjected before Rurik could answer her. “But your marriage to this man must be annulled. I gave my word to Lord Ivan that you would become his bride. He went in search of you to Novgorod. I can only believe that he must still be there—”

“He’s not in Novgorod, Father,” said Zora, sickened that he would even suggest to end her marriage. “I have so much to tell you…I don’t know where to start. Ivan did find me and I agreed to return to Chernigov with him, but only because I thought it would be a way to help my husband if he had need of me after the battle. Then Ivan and his men were murdered by thieves at one of the portage trails. I managed to escape but—”

“Ivan is dead?”

Zora spun to find Hermione standing only a few feet away, her lovely face stricken with horror.

“Ivan is dead?” Her voice was shrill and her gaze skipped from Zora to Rurik to her father and then back to Zora.

“Yes. I’m truly sorry, Hermi—”

Her words were cut off by a howl of such rage that Zora felt a shiver of fear.

“You spawn of a whore! Bastard filth! If I’ve lost my only love, I’ll find myself in hell before you have yours!”

Zora saw the flash of a knife at the same moment Hermione lunged wildly for Rurik.

“No!” Without a thought, she hurled herself against him, blocking Hermione’s attack with her body even as she felt Rurik trying to shove her out of harm’s way.

“By God! Zora!”

Hampered by his chains, he was too late. She met his eyes as the blade sank into her flesh and she screamed once while all around them became confusion. People were shouting, her father and uncle were shouting, Hermione demanding hysterically that her captors release her. Then Zora felt her knees buckle beneath her and she was sinking, even though Rurik held her in his arms. Oh, it hurt. It hurt so much.

“Zora! God help me, Zora!”

She knew he was calling to her but she couldn’t answer, her tongue grown thick and heavy. She saw him lift his hand from her side to find blood dripping through his fingers, and his face went deathly pale. Through a ringing that was growing louder in her ears, she could hear Hermione ranting at her as if from a great distance, her piercing voice becoming fainter and fainter.

“Bastard whore! Bitch! I should have poisoned you instead of selling you to that cursed slaver! I should have killed you when I had the chance!”

That was the last thing she heard as blackness rose up to meet her, releasing her at last from the pain.

Chapter 30

“Rurik…?” Her eyelids feeling like leaden weights, Zora turned her head to one side and whispered more loudly this time. “Rurik?”

“No, daughter, it’s me,” came a familiar voice, a large warm hand covering hers.

“Father?” Struck by sudden foreboding, Zora opened her eyes to find Mstislav seated next to the bed, his image blurred and fuzzy. She tried to raise herself on her elbows but immediately fell back, wincing at the sharp pain in her side. “You haven’t sent him away, have you? You haven’t sent Rurik away—”

“Sshh, Zora, he’s in the other room. I finally convinced him to allow the physician to attend to his leg. He’s a stubborn one, that Varangian of yours. It’s the first time he’s stepped away from your bed since we brought you here last night.”

“Last night?” She was answered with a nod, her father’s face gradually becoming more focused. His expression was somber and he looked weary, as if he had gotten little sleep. Yet his gray-blue eyes held the affection she had always known there.

“You gave us a scare, daughter, one I hope never to relive. Seeing you lying here so pale, the healers doing everything they knew to help you…” Mstislav sighed heavily and fell silent, adding after a long moment, “It reminded me of when your mother fell ill…except that time, nothing could be done—”

He seemed to choke and he looked away, but not for long. Meeting her eyes again, he squeezed her hand, a faint smile touching his lips.

“You’ll be up from this bed in no time, or so I’ve been promised. Fortunately the knife did not go deep but glanced off your ribs. Yet you lost a lot of blood—”

“My babe?” Zora broke in, beset by fear.

“The child still thrives within you, daughter,” came his reassuring reply. “I only regret that I’ll not be there at its birth, for you will be far away in Novgorod.”

Her eyes widening, Zora stared at him incredulously. But before she could say anything, he went on.

“I had much time to think during the night and knowing as I do now of everything that happened to you, I cannot in good conscience break apart a marriage that God has ordained. If Lord Rurik had not been at that trading camp, no matter that he had been sent to spy against me…” Again, Mstislav had to pause for the quaver in his voice and this time, it was Zora who clasped his hand.

“I love him, Father. More than I could ever say.”

He exhaled slowly, nodding. “I know this, Zora. Your courageous act last night could not have proved it more clearly. I loved once, too, but could not marry the woman who captured my heart. It is a pain I have never overcome, and I do not wish such suffering for you. You and Lord Rurik have my blessing.”

Swept with elation, Zora could only smile her thanks. Yet she sobered at the thought that suddenly came to her and she asked softly, “What of Hermione?”

Mstislav’s expression hardened, but it also held regret. “I’ve banished her to a convent in Tmutorokan until I decide what else is to be done with her. I cannot forgive her for her cruel treachery toward you, but she, too, has suffered. I never loved her mother, and though I tried to treat both of you equally, Hermione must have sensed that you were the joy of my heart. I’ve never heard such bitterness as she spewed at me last night. I fear Ivan’s death has driven her half mad.”

Neither of them spoke for several moments, their shared silence a pained one. Finally Mstislav gently stroked her cheek.

“Your sister’s troubles are not your fault, Zora, and I will not have you blame yourself. This is my cross to bear.” He gave her hand a last reassuring squeeze, then he rose and moved to the door. “I will tell your husband that you are awake—”

“I already know, my lord.” Rurik stepped into the room, not caring that his voice had gone hoarse. His gaze flew to Zora’s face. Just to see her conscious again, her beautiful eyes anxious and yet so full of hope, made his chest swell with gratitude. He was certain at that moment that the gods must be smiling. “I’ve been waiting outside until you finished…not an easy task.”

Becoming oblivious to all else but Zora, Rurik was scarcely aware that Prince Mstislav had left them, nor did he recall walking to the bed and kneeling beside it. It seemed that suddenly he was there. Reaching out his hand, Rurik touched her tawny hair with shaking fingers.

“I feared…” His voice caught. Swallowing hard, he began again, not caring that his eyes were blinded by tears. “I feared that I wasn’t going to have the chance to tell you that I love you, Princess. God forgive me for being such a fool, I love you!”

Zora’s heart was too full for her to speak, but she didn’t need words. Her own eyes brimming, she took his battle-scarred hand in hers and pressed her lips to his palm.

She knew it had been enough when he smiled, then bent his head and kissed her.

~ The End ~

If you enjoyed this book, try more in the Captive Brides Collection by Miriam Minger...

Twin Passions

Captive Rose

About Miriam

Miriam Minger is the award-winning author of ten bestselling historical romances and a romantic suspense thriller, Ripped Apart. Writing as Miriam Aronson, she is the co-author of the popular Little Mike and Maddie series of children’s picture books about a lovable pair of dogs and their motorcycle escapades. Writing as M.C. Walker, she is the author of Blood Son, an inspirational romantic suspense thriller.

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Visit Miriam at www.miriamminger.com

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Viking’s Prize

By Tanya Anne Crosby

Chapter 1

Alarik Trygvason knew full well the risk he took by navigating so far up the river Seine, but the French Count deserved this retribution. Never again would the spineless bastard plot against him—of that he would make certain.

He should have perceived the true reason Count Phillipe had sent his squat little balding man with his gift of French wine. But he’d been too hungry. Too mesmerized by the lush green beauty of French soil. Too enthralled by the prospect of holding a meager parcel of it. He should have recognized the ruse at once—native soil in exchange for peace between them? Loki take them all!

Like vipers they had slithered into his sleeping camp. And like vipers they had attacked. He’d lost full half his men before any of them could clear their heads of wine or sleep. Sotted as they’d been, they had been ill-prepared to fend off the strike, but thanks to the count’s little balding man, Alarik’s eyes were open wide; he knew precisely who to thank for the night’s unexpected call.

Phillipe of Brouillard.

His eyes narrowed vengefully.

The deceiving fool doubtless believed that if he rid himself of Alarik, he would deliver King Robert from the terms of their agreement. But Phillipe had chosen the wrong man with whom to match wits and might.

Tonight he would pay the price.

His gaze fixed upon the horizon, his expression hard as unyielding steel. His features were chiseled like that of his namesake’s, the hawk, and his pewter gray eyes had been likened to the silver of his sword, Dragvendil, for they could slice into the heart of a man with the ease of a fine gilt-edged blade.

The single turret appeared first, standing sentinel alone, its battlements a hungry mouth open to the heavens, jagged teeth exposed and ready to devour the concealing vapors.

Gracefully, with little more sound than the lifting and parting of skin-wrapped paddles from the black water, the drakken prows slid toward shore.

Like a mantle of misty white, the impenetrable fog cloaked his men from the fortress’ view, though Alarik spied the guard atop the stone tower at once, and a prickle raced down his spine as he waited for the man to sound the alarm.

He heard nothing—nothing but a tumble of thunder, an approval from the heavens.

His men took heart. “Thor! ’Tis Thor! He is with us!” his men declared.

Their victory was predestined.

Alarik, no longer cleaving to the old gods, allowed his men their enthusiasm, but did not share in their triumph. He acknowledged their belief with a deferential nod, but would not accept that a mere rumble of thunder would predetermine the outcome of this battle. Their superior warrior’s skill alone, hard earned by the sweat and blood of their bodies, would give them the victory they sought tonight. That and naught else.

The wind picked up, feathering the haze away, leaving them completely exposed to the watchman’s view...

Still nothing but silence.

With a calmness that belied the occasion, Alarik listened and waited, his face tilted skyward with no emotion evident in the intense silver of his stare. He eyed the sentry intently for some sign that the alarm had already been sounded... that he’d missed it somehow, but there was nothing. His eyes never left the turret.

All the while, the current brought them closer.

Closer…

With a flick of his hand he motioned for his men to cease their rowing. Their forward momentum alone would complete their glide to shore, and he needed the silence to better determine their position.

The oars were abandoned, but the night air remained undisturbed, the whispering wind the only sound to reach his ears. Incredibly, there were no shouts of ‘To arms! To arms!’ to be heard from within—despite the fact that Alarik was certain the guard had spied their approach. With an absent gesture, he stroked the hilt of his double-edged sword, considering the goal, assessing their options with narrowed eyes.

“A trap, jarl?”

By now, every man aboard the three warships had spied the lone figure atop the tower, but it was Sigurd Thorgoodson, Alarik’s most loyal, who came forward to voice the concern.

“Nei,” Alarik said, his gaze returning to the figure above. The silhouette grew slowly clearer as they neared. “They could not have known we would come.”

None of the count’s bumbling mercenaries had lived to carry the tale. He had no inkling why the witless guard did not alert the castle.

Brouillard’s thick masonry walls were a deterrent to most in this day when castles were built of timber, but Alarik knew this one’s damning secret and his lips twisted with ill-concealed contempt as he thought of the man whose blood he sought to spill this night.

Coward.

Only an incompetent, craven bastard would have such an escape portal. And there was only one thing Alarik despised more than a coward: a traitor.

Count Phillipe was both.

The latter had decreed the count’s fate, the former now sealed it.

Concealed by the dense trees and bush of the surrounding forest lay the means to breach the mist-enshrouded monstrosity—a hidden passage that backed deep into the sheltering woods. And he grinned at the thought of it, a slow, merciless smile that swept winter into the silver of his eyes. For that bit of knowledge he could also thank the little balding man, for by it Alarik would return the count’s favor tenfold this night.

His grip tightened about Dragvendil’s hilt as he thought of the portal, for it was fitting the hidden passage should be the count’s very downfall this eve.

He had no qualms whatsoever about catching the count unawares. As declared by Phillipe’s own Christian God, it was fitting to take an eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth... a life for a life. Just as the count had dealt with him, so would he be dealt with himself.

The chill wind rose, swirling the remaining fog in its wake, obscuring the figure upon the turret momentarily before being sucked into the turbulent heavens.

It was only then, in that instant, as the ship’s prow nudged its keel into the soft muck of the river embankment and ended its journey, that Alarik clearly beheld the figure standing above them.

To his absolute shock... it was a woman... her dark hair long and fluttering wildly in the breeze... her light colored kyrtle billowing furiously with the wind.

The sight of her made the hairs of his nape stand on end.

Elienor shook her head in denial, but the proof sailed before her eyes, appearing from mist and shadows like a grim specter from the dark.

She braced herself against the buckling of her knees for the dream that had awakened her and had sent her dashing to the tower to disprove it was, in truth, unfolding before her eyes. The rising wind buffeted her face, flinging her hair into wild disarray at her back, and sending icy prickles of fear down her spine.

Merely coincidences, Mother Heloise had said. Always when she would dream, and the dream held true, the old abbess would assure her that she was not afflicted with her mother’s curse. And because her visions were few and her desperation great, Elienor had readily believed her. But the sight before her gave testimony to her fears.

Now what was she to do? Turn and flee down the steps, a voice whispered.

Warn the castle.

Her legs would not move.

If only her gifts would not mark her for a witch and condemn her to her maman’s tragic fate. She shivered as the wind, bitter as ice, lashed her face and froze her tears. In that instant, she saw herself again as a child of four, standing atop a knoll of forsaken graves, the white lily she’d picked for her mother held firmly in her little hands. In her mind, the voice came back to her with such clarity. “What possessed you to come here, child?”

Hearing Sister Heloise’s voice, Elienor had nearly cried her relief. She had swung about and hurled herself into the sister’s welcoming arms.

“The lily!” she said, squirming. The old nun struggled to keep Elienor within her embrace. “The lily!” Elienor insisted.

“Non, non ma petite! ’Tis raining. We must go now! I will bring you again.” she coaxed. “When the rain has—”

Elienor struggled more fiercely. “Nay!” she cried.

Freeing herself, she scurried to the blossom and hastily scooped up a handful of wet soil from the center of the mound. Handling the lily gingerly, she planted the end of it into the hollow she’d formed, covering it carefully, taking her time whilst Sister Heloise hovered above her, shielding her back from the pattering rain.

Elienor’s eyes filled with tears as she turned and thrust herself back into the sister’s arms.

Sister Heloise lifted her up. “There, there, now,” she soothed. “Sister Heloise will love you now, ma bonne petite. Together we will care for your maman’s lily. Oui?”

Elienor nodded into the warmth of Sister Heloise’s shoulder. “Maman loves lilies,” she said sadly. Her chin turned up a notch, and a tear slipped defiantly from her dark lashes. “She loves them so much!”

Sister Heloise carried her away and she turned to peer over the nun’s shoulder. With stark violet eyes, she watched the grave recede as they made their way down the hill. Her words were broken with emotion as she raised her little hand to wave farewell.

“Adieu, Maman. Adieu!”

The fates were cruel, indeed.

Elienor gulped back a sob of despair. The pain of her mother’s death was still fresh in her heart, even after all these years. To die so cruelly, for naught more than predicting the course of a babe’s illness... and the greatest insult of all… a cold grave far from hallowed ground.

She blinked, focusing on the specter ships below. If she warned the castle, would they question why she’d come to the tower tonight? She closed her eyes and begged for strength.

Mayhap it was yet a dream...

But nay, for she felt the bitter wind as surely as she felt the numbness stealing into her bones. If only she were not such a coward. The thought of meeting the same fate as did her mother made her knees weak and her tongue weave knots.

Even now she could hear her mother’s screams and see her writhe helplessly against the flames of hell.

At four, they’d made her watch, restraining her by the hair so she could not look away.

Her mother’s final shrieks still echoed in her brain.

She bit into her whitening knuckles as she watched the ships advance—black shadows against the river.

No more time to linger.

There was no need to say what had driven her to the tower, was there? No one need know. She could tell them that she had come for air—that she could not sleep.

But warning them would not save them, she knew. Nothing could save them tonight.

Stricken with grief for the fate of Brouillard, Elienor watched only an instant longer, needing to be absolutely certain. But she waited no longer than to see the Vikings land their vessels upon the moonlit shores, for little more time could be spared if she were to warn the folk.

She spun about and hurried down the tower stairs, tears brimming in her eyes, her body stiff with terror and cold.

She should have known it was too good to be true. That Count Phillipe had asked for her hand in marriage and her uncle had assented was true enough, but that it might actually come to pass was more than she should have dared to believe.

With assurances from Mother Heloise that Elienor was not beset with her mother’s curse, her uncle had withdrawn her from the cloister mere days before she was to make her vows to the church. So long she’d waited and despaired. Tonight marked one full month since she’d first come to Brouillard, and in little more than a fortnight she would have become its countess. At last she might love and be loved in return. She would bear children into the world, love them, care for them. At last.

But it would never be.

Despite the fact that Mother Heloise had plainly perjured herself for Elienor’s sake.

Tears welled in her eyes as she rushed down the stairs. Fumbling for the silver ring that hung about her neck, she lifted it out from within the neckline of her bliaut and pressed it firmly to her breast. The night was well advanced. She only hoped she could rouse the castle in time to save a few—but to what end?

Tears streaked down her pale cheeks, for deep down she understood.

Their fates were sealed.

The Viking would prevail tonight.

Chapter 2

They moved quickly, soundless shadows creeping through the night.

Flattening their war-hardened bodies against the stone walls, they stole toward the hidden portal.

She was gone now, but Alarik could not wrench his gaze away from the tower above. Even once his men toiled to destroy the wooden portal, his eyes sought her. Once it was breached he could delay no longer, and he shuddered away a prickle of foreboding before turning to his men.

There was no guard posted at the hidden portal—arrogant, stupid Franskmann.

His eyes glinted with loathing. “Eyes to your backs!” he warned his men, and then he raised his gilt-edged sword into the night. “May Dragvendil spare no man!” he said. “May your own blades dole no mercy!” And with that, he stooped to lead them through the tiny, well-concealed portal.

‘To arms! To arms!”

Swiping at the tears that blinded her vision, Elienor shouted at the top of her lungs. ‘To arms!” she called again as she spiraled downward. Her frantic voice carried down before her into the hall below, and she was relieved to hear the ensuing commotion as men stirred from their slumber.

One man darted up the tower steps, tripping over himself as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes, only to halt when he saw her. “My lady!” he gasped.

“Gaston!” It was the sentinel. He’d come in from the cold to warm himself only to fall asleep at the foot of the stairs. She’d passed him on her way up, had tiptoed around him so as not to wake him—so certain had she been that her dream would not hold true. Had he been at his given post tonight, it would have been Gaston who spied the Viking ships, and not Elienor. She wished, with all her soul that it had been so. Her heart pummeled against her ribs. For an unbearable instant, neither spoke.

“The Northmen are come!” she told him. “I have seen them from the tower. Go quickly—warn the castle!”

The man’s eyes widened. “My lady, art certain?”

“Aye!” she exclaimed. “Even now they climb the banks! Go!”

Sobered by her revelation, he did not hesitate to wonder why she’d been in the tower to begin with, nor did he linger to offer explanation as to why he was not, and she said a silent prayer of thanks. She watched as he whirled about and raced back down, sounding the alarm.

Knowing there was little time to spare, Elienor followed, praying she’d not lose her footing on the slippery steps. So intent was she on her descent that she nearly tumbled over Stefan as he came loping up the dimly lit stairwell. Despite the fact that his newly acquired sword clanged and scraped clumsily against the wall, she did not see that he was there until she was virtually upon him.

“My lady!” he reproved. “You will fall to your death!”

Elienor shrieked as he caught her arm. “Stefan!” Sweet Jesu! How could she have overlooked him? Despite the fact that he was no more than a boy of thirteen summers, he’d been the only one with wisdom enough to understand her apprehension over coming alone to a strange new household. The rest had kept themselves apart. It was her duty to save him if she could.

“My lady? Is it true?” There was a tremor of excitement to his voice. “Gaston says you have spied the Northmen?”

A quiver of fear passed down Elienor’s spine, but she recovered herself, seizing him by the wrist. Knowing full well that he would feel obliged to hie to his lord’s side, she ignored his question and tugged him after her. “Quickly,” she commanded on impulse. “Follow me!” If his face had been revealed to her in her dream, she would have known the futility of altering its course. But it had not been, and Stefan was far too young to die.

“My lady!” he protested. He cringed as the sword Count Phillipe had so recently presented to him shaved the wall. “My lord...”

“I spoke to him,” she lied. “He said you were to come with me to the chapel!” It was only a small lie, she reasoned. Surely God would forgive it.

“My lady?” He tried freeing his arm from her frenzied grip, but Elienor clutched it all the more fiercely. “Did you not realize that my lord has gone to Pa—”

“Please!” Elienor appealed. “Heed me—if only this once!”

Stefan dug in his heels stubbornly.

There were no torches burning in the great hall at this late hour, and the muted light came from the single torch that graced the stairwell behind them. As Elienor turned to face him, tears shone in her eyes. “Stefan,” she cried. “I beg you!”

His shoulders slumped in frustration and his brow furrowed, but he nodded. Elienor nearly wept her relief.

Clasping his hand firmly, she drew him at once out of the hall, into the narrow pentice, which provided them with a covered passage from the hall to the kitchens. Once in the kitchen, certain that in scant moments the donjon would be overrun with the Northmen, she ran across the smoke-permeated room, to the far doors. It was the quickest route, she knew, and there was no time to waste. Count Phillipe’s small numbers were simply no match for the scourge of the north.

As they left the kitchen and entered another narrow walkway between buildings, she pulled the boy to her protectively. Stefan recoiled at once. “My lady, please! I have no need of such coddling. I am elevated to squire! Aide to my lord!” he protested.

“Hush, Stefan! Instruct me to your heart’s content once we are safe within the chapel!”

But then Elienor grimaced, recalling the enemy. Since when had the Northmen regarded the Church as hallowed ground? Mother Heloise told her that the fiends never spared castle or monastery, whether Roman, French, or English. Their pillaging of Grande Bretagne’s Jarrow and Wearmouth were well renown, as well as the numerous parishes of her homeland. It was true that their reign of terror had subsided of late, but only now that most of northern Francia was at last under their barbarian rule.

The chapel door stood ajar a scant few feet away, the dark interior a greater beacon to her now than the brightest of lights, and she prayed, begging for God’s mercy and aid—not for herself, but for young Stefan.

Let us reach the chapel—please, please, please.

Tonight, she would live, as the dream foretold... but Stefan? There was no time even to make the sign of the cross, or she would have.

Within the chapel it was darker even than it had first appeared, but having spent so many hours within its cobbled walls, Elienor had no need of candle to light the vestibule. Letting her memory guide her, she snatched up the wooden bar and placed it within the stout metal rings on either side of the heavy door, locking the two of them securely within.

“My lady?” Stefan protested, this time with an edge of desperation to his voice. He was clearly growing impatient, yet having no choice, Elienor continued to ignore him. Taking him by the hand once more, she led him to a place beyond the crossing, well into the chancel, and finally behind the altar. There she shoved him with all her might onto his haunches. She shoved again when he resisted until he fell back upon his lean little rump.

“Bon dieu!” Stefan exploded. “Enough, I say! Tell me what goes here! Why do you bar the door when you know I must—”

From the donjon, shouts of ambush could be heard. Giving Elienor an accusing glance, Stefan bolted for the door.

Elienor seized him by the wrist. “Nay! You cannot! ’Tis done! ’Tis done!”

“My lady! I beg you release me! ’Tis my duty you would deny me!” Shouts of the wounded and dying escalated and so did his desperation. “Release me, I say!”

“Nay!” The scraping of metal upon stone could be distinguished beyond the chapel doors. “Nay!”

They heard a bloodcurdling scream. Elienor could picture it all so vividly, the savage Northmen with their axes raised high into the air. There was little use in closing her eyes, for the vision originated from within, from some accursed second eye within her soul.

“Set me free!” the boy demanded furiously. Again he shouted, “’Tis my duty you would deny me!” With a final twist, he liberated himself and raced for the door, his long legs awkward as he ran.

“Stefan! Nay, oh, nay!”

He could not go. She would not allow it. Desperately, Elienor groped about in the darkness, seeking the means to stop him. Her hand closed upon the sacred reliquary, a small copper chest that sheltered a sliver of the Christ’s cross, and she knew at once what she must do.

“Father, forgive me,” she whispered fervently, and then she bolted across the nave after Stefan, striking the chest down upon his head.

Caught in the process of sliding the bar from the ring, Stefan made some strangled sound and released it. Though she could not see him fall for the darkness, she heard him as he crumpled to the wooden floor, unconscious. The wooden bar fell from his grasp, slamming against the door as it began to slide cacophonously from the other ring. Without a moment to spare, Elienor seized it, securing it once more.

Chapter 3

The skali, or hall, was dark, save for the feeble glow cast by a single torch guttering further up the stairwell.

Alarik’s eyes scanned the shadows, noting with disdain the slain enemy scattered about his feet. What little resistance they put forth, these pathetic French. With a grunt of disgust, he gave the signal for his men to disperse and make use of whatever could be found, be it ale or wench, beast or gems.

He’d never doubted they would prevail, but it had been much too simple a victory, and he decided that tonight his men deserved whatever spoils they desired, for he knew they were not appeased. By the gates of Hel, neither was he, for the count he’d come to crush had been conspicuously absent from the fray.

Shouts of revelry followed Alarik as he wandered away in search of the missing count, but the terrified howl of a man found hidden beneath a table in the gloomy light of the skali drew him back, and he turned to watch, leaning a shoulder against the arched entryway.

Before him, Sigurd Thorgoodson scampered up the steps to retrieve the torch burning there and then returned like a maelstrom of fire, sweeping his way around the hall, lighting torches as he passed. He flew by each so quickly that it seemed he lit them with the sparks spilling in his wake.

Alarik understood the haste.

This last kill they would savor fully, terrifying the hefty man with their unappeased blood lust, rendering him senseless with fright. Then, they would offer the poor fool a battle axe for Northmen had little liking for killing the defenseless. There was no glory to be gotten from an execution. To fight in the face of danger showed one’s valor. And if by chance a man fell in the enemy’s stead, then from Asgard would come, donned in shining armor, riding steeds of white, the maidens from Valholl, the hall of the slain. Heads held high, solemn and deep in thought, the Valkyrs rode—choosers of the slain—and down they would come to the field of battle to swoop up the souls of the dead to join Odin in his great corps, the Einherjar. There, only the bravest served.

His men encircled the prey, successfully foiling any attempt at escape, and finished with the task of lighting the scattered torches, Sigurd, teeth bared, and growling, elbowed his way back through the pack. Using the pitch torch as his weapon, he lit the man’s hair from behind, garnering laughter from the others. The Frenchman yowled in pain, and Sigurd at once slapped out the small flame he’d begun, howling hysterically at his own cleverness.

Alarik’s brow lifted in droll amusement. Sigurd, ever the jester, was as loyal as they came, but his humor was sadly lacking—though evidently flame-haired Hrolf Kaetilson didn’t think so. Red-Hrolf was clutching his belly and howling at the top of his lungs. At once, Ivar Longbeard joined Sigurd in terrorizing the man, taking firm hold of his own long russet whiskers and tugging wildly, looking every bit the berserker. And seeing Longbeard ravage the hair of his face, Lars the Fair Head followed suit.

Bjorn, Alarik’s younger brother, nut-faced from the sun and too comely for his own good, immediately began the chant, “Die! Die! Die!”

The others followed his lead, their voices in the night sounding like a ballad to a Northman’s ear.

Suddenly, Sigurd threw an axe at the man’s feet and then waited for the fool to grasp it. Sensing his fate, the man stood arrested, paralyzed with fright.

To goad the man into lifting up the axe, Sigurd removed and discarded his armor and then his clothing, taunting him all the while, until he was nude as the day he was begot.

“Look at me, Fransk!” Sigurd goaded in disjointed French. “No breastplate! No shield! Still I shall crush you beneath my boots!”

Hoots of laughter greeted his claim.

“Hah! One blade behind my back!” With a flourish, Sigurd concealed his sword behind his back, and added a lewd pelvic thrust, then turned to collect grins of approval from the rest.

Despite himself, Alarik chuckled, though he shook his head.

The Frenchman sought his gaze, understanding instinctively that he was leader.

Alarik’s flesh prickled as the man stared without blinking. His own eyes narrowed as he moved nearer. The man shook violently, though his gaze never wavered, and one by one, his men followed the Frenchman’s gaze to where Alarik stood behind them, and quieted.

‘Tell me French dung,” Alarik demanded, once there was silence, “where is your murdering count?”

The sound of his own footfalls bounced off the stone walls.

The man’s gaze skidded away, then back.

Alarik halted before him, allowing a moment longer for his reply. When it was apparent he would not speak, Alarik asked once more, “Your count?” His hand tightened around Dragvendil’s hilt.

It was a long moment before the man was able to still his quaking long enough to respond, but when he did, he spat upon the ground before Alarik’s boots.

Alarik kept his composure, for there was only one man whose blood he ached to spill this night. This one he would leave to his men. “Stupid bastard!” he said. “I would have given you a clean death.”

He motioned for his men to carry on. “Do with the fool as you will.”

The revelry recommenced at once with hoots and laughter, and Sigurd, tired of waiting for the man to pick the axe up, feinted for it. Only then did the Frenchman move to take the weapon, understanding that it was his sole salvation.

Sigurd’s claim had not been mere boast, Alarik knew. His men were the finest—the best warriors to be found in all of the North Land. The Frenchman had not a breath of a chance. The man’s fate was sealed the very moment his stout fingers closed about the axe’s handle.

Alarik turned from the melee, entering what appeared to be the eldhus, or kitchen, while behind him an anguished cry spewed forth. The gruesome sound was followed by the merry roar of laughter. It was over, yet despite his feeling of justification, Alarik was not satisfied—not whilst the gutless count lived.

Behind the eldhus was an alley leading to a small kirken, or church. His mother had been Christian, he mused, as he scrutinized the large ornate doors before him. Fingering the woodwork, he pondered what it was that drew his brother to it, as well, and shook his head over the mystery of it all—so many wars fought over what?

A muffled sound came from within, and he stiffened. Something clattered against the door, and he jerked away. Eager for a confrontation with the count, he anticipated the opening of the door, his sword arm raised and poised to strike. But the only sound he could discern was a slight shuffling... as though someone were dragging an injured leg across the floor.

The count?

Determined not to be robbed of satisfaction, Alarik tried the door, and finding it barred, swore his displeasure. He could well picture the spineless bastard hiding like a coward within his forsaken chapel—more than willing to let his men fight his battle without him.

For his perfidy, Alarik vowed, the man would die this night, as cruel a death as he could manage.

“Coward!” he snarled at the door, and with a cry, he lifted his broad axe from the loop in his belt and raised it high. He brought the gleaming silver inlaid blade crashing down upon the door, shattering it easily with the force of his blow.

At the terrible sound, Elienor bolted from her knees and seized Stefan’s arms. She tugged with all her might. She had to get him behind the altar. Had to hide him.

When the thundering crack of a battle-axe met with the wood of the chapel door a second time, she panicked. Instinctively, she threw herself over Stefan, her heart thumping madly as the barrier between them and the Viking cracked and splintered away. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tried to block out the voice of terror in her mind.

Her heart leapt into her throat as heavy footsteps tromped across the hallowed sanctuary, echoing over the ageless crypt that lay beneath. Stifling the urge to cry out in fear, she clutched Stefan.

She dared not move.

When finally the footsteps ceased before her, she did not perceive it, for her heartbeat thundered in her ears.

Chapter 4

The moon’s glow filtered in behind him—enough to light a goodly portion of the kirken, but Alarik’s enormous shadow kept the figure before him cloaked in darkness. He stepped aside, and exposed, not one, but two shapes lying still at his feet. He cocked his head in curiosity, lifting a brow at the odd positioning of their bodies.

Were they lovers, then, preferring death by their own hands rather than meet with his blade?

Stilling his own breath, he strained to catch some nuance of life, but no sound was immediately discernible.

“Pathetic!” he snarled in Norsk. “May your carcasses rot where you lay!” He pushed the uppermost figure with his boot.

It was then he noticed the thick mane of dark hair that cascaded beneath his boots, and his brows drew together. In his curiosity, he stepped away and stooped to fondle the pool of lustrous strands.

Soft. So soft.

Squatting with one arm resting across his thighs, he lifted the length of hair from the chapel floor. At once he recalled the long-haired woman upon the turret, her hair fluttering in the breeze, and another prickle snaked down his spine. He’d somehow managed to forget her during the fray. Overwhelmed with curiosity now, he slowly wound the silken strands around his fist, and without a trace of gentility, jerked up the head.

He fell backward onto his heels, unable to stifle the sudden catch to his breath at what was revealed to him in the silvery light: Dark hair framed a face more lovely than was conceivable. Skin that was almost translucent in the light of the moon beckoned to his fingers that they would revel in the softness of her creamy flesh. Eyes that were so blue they were almost ethereal met his own without fail, and he nigh toppled from his haunched position to see them focused upon him so intently.

The scowl that touched his face was violent, for his body’s lustful response was immediate and unappreciated under the circumstances.

Those eyes were a maelstrom, a stormy violet blue that glimmered in the darkness with the intensity of blue heat from a torrid flame. He’d thought her dead, but it was more than obvious to him now that she was not—not by any stretch of the imagination, for her eyes were vibrant. His fingers moved to the fragile softness of her cheeks, examining the cool satin flesh.

Elienor swallowed with difficulty at the feather-light touch, though in truth she wasn’t certain whether it was from fear. Her eyes closed as a quiver sped through her.

No one had ever touched her so tenderly.

By the blessed virgin, was it supposed to feel so good to be caressed by one’s enemy?

Or was she simply faithless?

Her eyes flew open once more, and it was then she saw him—truly saw him. That face! Sweet Jesu—that face! She recalled it from her dream and shuddered, though what it was exactly that made her tremble she did not know, for she recalled only the face. Her cry of terror was stifled only by the constriction of her throat, for the tales she’d so oft heard of his kind truly did the man little justice. He was every exaggeration ever told—multiplied a hundredfold.

What had she dreamt of him?

She couldn’t think.

Too acutely was she aware of every stroke of his thumb. She tried to find her voice—to plead with him to stop—but could not speak for the terrible lump in her throat. God help her, but she didn’t think she could bear it much longer!

What kind of man was this?—that he could slay her with his gaze, yet touch her as gently as one would a tender babe? In the darkness his eyes were sinister pits that seemed to bore into her very soul. They had to be black as pitch in color, for they were, indeed, blacker than the night that engulfed them. Yet if his eyes appeared overly dark, then the opposite was true of his lion’s mane of hair. In the heathery moonlight it appeared silvery.

She forced herself to look below his shadowed face and shining hair, and swallowed with difficulty as her gaze took in the rest of him. His shoulders were massive, wider than any man’s she’d ever beheld. Her scrutiny fell to the laces of his boots, where she found herself staring desperately at the ties that criss-crossed upward toward his leather-protected knee. But if she’d thought it would help to look away from his face in order to regain her self-control, she was mistaken. His legs were enormous too. They reminded her of oak stumps. She commanded herself not to look, but she couldn’t keep herself from it. In panic, her gaze skidded upward—to his arms. No doubt he was capable of swatting her dead with the palm of his hand as effortlessly as the tanner would a fly.

God have mercy on their souls.

He chuckled, and her gaze flew to his in alarm.

“We shall see if your God will aid you, little Fransk,” he said smugly.

Elienor’s blood curdled within her veins to hear his husky voice and his words of flawless French. How had he known what she was thinking? She’d not spoken it aloud! Or had she?

Jesu—did he have the sight, as well?

Nay, but nay—get hold of yourself, Elienor!

She tossed her head back, a defiant gesture that the nuns—admonishing her—said was worldly and proud—not virtues suited to one promised to the cloth. Then again, she’d never felt the calling in her soul—had always fought against her disobedient self in order to be what the nuns had wished of her.

“What know you of my God?” she asked him.

Again he chuckled. The sound reverberated within the old chapel, unnerving her. “Enough to know he’ll not intervene for you this night,” he said evenly. “As of now, little Fransk…” One finger swept down her cheek, beneath her chin, forcing her gaze up to meet his. “Whether you like it or nei… you are mine to do with as I will and there is none here who would gainsay me—not you, not your spineless count.” He chuckled again, the sound wholly sinister. “Nei, not even your God.”

His laughter mocked her.

Elienor’s eyes closed with loathing as she shook the Viking’s offending fingers from her chin. But his hold only tightened in her hair. Her scalp screamed under the torture, yet Elienor dared not break.

“He was not my count as yet!” she informed him. Again his fingers tightened. Elienor winced, but would not be so easily cowed. Her chin tilted. “Nor was he craven!” she added.

Despite her resolve not to give in to hysteria, her heartbeat quickened, though she hid her fear. He’s but a man, she reasoned wildly. Aye! her mind argued, a man! But a blood-thirsty Viking as well! With fingers so warm and gentle they sent quivers down her spine. Her eyes welled with tears. Nay! she scolded herself. You will not go to pieces in the face of this! If she feared, it was only for Stefan—at least that was what she told herself as she felt the trembling work its way through her limbs.

The Viking’s brow arched and his voice was full of derision as he said, “In fact, your count is as spineless as they come.”

Elienor shivered. “Is?” she returned contemptuously. “What is he now but dead? And by your hands! You murdering sav—” She felt his fingers tighten against her scalp and she cried out in pain.

“I would have a care with that blade of a tongue were I you,” he advised softly. “If I say is, ’tis because the bastard lives. He fled the castle, I’ll warrant.” Her eyes narrowed in disbelief and his brows arched. “Did you not realize, he’d left you to die at our hands? You have been forsaken by both your count and your God.”

As stunned as Elienor was by his disclosure, she could do naught but glare at him.

Beneath her, Stefan moaned and her eyes flew to him fearfully. She prayed fervently that he’d not wake. If he would die... best he not know it. Best he not feel the cold edge of the barbarian’s blade meet with his tender flesh.

The Viking glanced down meaningfully at Stefan’s twisting form. His eyes glinted dangerously. “Mayhap ’tis him you shield even now?”

“Nay!” Elienor cried, her heart pummeling madly. “I swear ’tis not! Leave him be!”

The Viking’s gaze never wavered, and Elienor found her own gaze locked steadfastly with his. Sweet Jesu!

Mercy! she pleaded silently. Mercy!

Alarik contemplated the wench’s reaction to the boy. It was evident there was some bond between them. What it was, he wasn’t certain, but his curiosity was piqued now.

Tightening his hold upon the woman’s hair, he rose from his stooped position, hauling her up against him as he came to his feet, and the feel of her soft body hardened his more fully. He noted briefly that there were no grunts or moans against the pain he knew he inflicted; and he could only admire her mettle. “Who is he, then?” he demanded, his tone as menacing as the gleaming blade of his axe.

The woman wet her lips. “He... Stefan is but a boy... please—leave him be!”

His lips broke into a slow grin as he pressed closer, savoring the feel of her high, round breasts against his chest. Bending to whisper in her ear, his lips brushed her lobe. “You wish me to leave him be?”

She nodded frantically.

“And what will you pledge me if I do?”

She closed her eyes, yet he would not be swayed. The feel of her against him so warm and soft and firm in all the right places drove him to shift his pelvis for comfort. Stirring into her, he stifled a groan of pleasure and demanded, “What do you pledge me?”

Chapter 5

Elienor swallowed convulsively, for the look in the Viking’s eyes left no doubt as to what he wanted of her. Mother Heloise, in preparing her for Count Phillipe, had enlightened her to the needs of men, and it was that need she sensed the Viking sought to quench just now. But that he would barter for it seemed out of sorts with these men who were so willing to take without mercy.

“I—”

Stefan stirred, moaning. Elienor’s gaze flew to him at once. Forgetting that her hair was raveled so tightly about the giant’s fist, she hurled herself at Stefan, as though to shield him with her body, and with a wounded gasp halted her dive to the floor, turning again to look into the Viking’s smoldering silver eyes.

Tears brimmed as once again she locked gazes with the Viking. Hysteria welled within her. For the first time in her life she was well and truly at a loss for words. For what could she say? Barbarian, sir, could you be so kind as to release my hair so that I may warn this kind boy against you? Hah! Likely he’d laugh in her face before plunging his sword into Stefan’s heart... and then mayhap into her own. Yet, whatever he would do to her, she could not allow him to harm Stefan. At any cost she would save the boy.

Her eyes closed. She swallowed. “I... I have naught of value,” she said bitterly. “Please...”

The Viking grinned, his teeth flashing white in the shadows, and then he laughed outright.

Elienor shivered at the wicked sound of it. “Naught save myself,” she told him honestly. Her eyes misted traitorously, but she held herself rigid and proud.

So she knew how to cry after all?

Alarik’s brow lifted as her eyes filled with telltale tears. His lips twisted sardonically.

Again he pondered what bond she and the boy shared that she would protect him so fiercely—even so far as to offer him her body in payment to save him. Did she always offer herself so freely? The possibility rankled, though he knew not why it should.

He said more sharply than he’d intended, “Why would I bother to haggle for that which I already possess?”

Alarm flared in her blue eyes, and that too, rankled—that she would find the thought of him so repulsive. Yet what else would she feel for him? And why should it matter? As he gazed into the misty, violet-blue pools of her eyes, he was compelled to release the hold he had upon her hair.

At once she fell to her knees over the boy—and it was a boy, he saw, for now he could discern the whiskerless face.

A quiver sped through him as the long, dark strands of her hair wove their way out of his callused fingers like silk. The pleasing sensation sent a surge of familiar heat rushing through his veins and a smile curved his lips as he imagined that whispery length tangled about his bare thighs. In that instant, he craved her more even than he did revenge over the spineless count, and the realization jarred him. More than that, he wanted to know her—that barely subdued passion he could see with such clarity in her eyes. He wanted her acquiescent—and so consumed with desire that she would whimper and sigh beneath him.

“You have yourself a bargain, my little Fransk.”

Startled, the woman glanced up at him, her expression confused and he smiled darkly. “Your compliance for the boy’s life.”

He felt no need to point out that he had no intention of harming the lad anyway. He had no taste for slaughtering children, though it would serve him well if she thought he might.

She swallowed visibly, and shuddered, but nodded agreement before returning her attention to the boy. With a quick flip of her hand she removed the length of her dark hair from the boy’s pale face.

Feeling a sudden rush of heat and anticipation, Alarik stepped forward to better observe the pair. The woman’s nondescript kyrtle covered her form completely, yet even in such a shapeless garment her generous curves were more than apparent, and he felt the burn of his loins intensify.

Never, in all his days, had he seen her equal—hair as dark as the Byzantine, yet skin and features as fair as the Norse—and he found himself mentally disrobing her, drawing up a luscious picture in his mind. For the first time ever he was sorely tempted to lie a wench flat and ride her against her will. But he would not. He abhorred such weakness in his men—though now, for once, he could comprehend what drove them to such ends.

He watched in silence as she gently lifted up the boy’s dirt-smudged face for her scrutiny.

With her eyes, Elienor warned Stefan to remain silent. With her heart, she prayed he would understand.

“My lady,” Stefan moaned, wincing. “What have you done to me?”

Tears pricked at Elienor’s eyes as she envisaged the outcome of the battle in her mind. “’Tis over, Stefan.” She swallowed. “There is naught to be done now.”

Stefan moaned pitifully. “Then I am shamed!” he said, lifting himself up and thrust his head into her lap to hide the moistness gathering in his eyes. Elienor felt the telltale wetness even through her layers of clothing.

Tears of frustration came to her own eyes as she searched for the words to ease the boy’s conscience, but before she could utter another sound, the Viking suddenly gave a fearsome growl of displeasure and lifted her up into his arms, over his hefty shoulder, pinning her there. She gasped, startled. Blood rushed to her head as he swooped down yet again to yank Stefan up, as well.

Startled, Stefan struggled to gain his feet.

With scarcely an effort, the Viking hauled them both outside into the clear light of the moon.

As she watched Stefan struggle, Elienor’s heart went out to the boy, and she vowed in that instant that she would die trying to save him if she must. Furious that he would be treated so harshly when they’d already effected a bargain, she demanded at once, “Release him!”

The Viking said naught, merely kept his pace, and Elienor pounded his back with all her might. “Beast! You made me a bargain!” she reminded him fiercely.

Stefan was suddenly dropped to the ground, though almost as swiftly as he was released, the Viking caught him by the back of his tunic and began to drag him across the empty yard behind them, like a dog by its lead rope.

Elienor’s anger intensified. “Is force the only way of your people?” she shouted. “Barbarian!”

Abruptly, the Viking lifted Stefan to his feet, urging him to walk, but Stefan only stumbled to his knees. The giant hauled him up once more, then shoved him forward.

“Walk!” he snarled, “Or you will find yourself without legs to walk with!”

Thankfully, Stefan did as he was told without balking, though his knees wobbled visibly all the way into the donjon. Elienor’s heart ached for him. As they approached the now brightly lit hall, her nostrils flared with the overwhelming stench of blood. Her eyes widened at the gruesome sight that greeted them; a horde of Vikings frolicked about the hall, partaking of ale and whatever else they encountered. One man, his writhing form as naked as the oak in winter, danced merrily over the body of the dead sentry, Gaston. She cried out, clutching the giant’s tunic lest she fall with the wave of nausea that assailed her. Squeezing her eyes shut, she tried to block the sight of it from her mind.

Cheers resounded the moment they were spied coming into the hall. Viking voices hailed them—no doubt praising the barbarian that had carted her in. The din threatened to burst her eardrums, and she knew in that moment that the shoulders she’d been irreverently slung over belonged to none other than the leader, himself.

“Jarl! Jarl! Jarl!” they bellowed, each man louder than the one before.

One bedraggled beast with hair the color of the noonday sun came to stand behind Elienor’s captor. Roughly, he jerked her up by the hair to see her better. Heathen! What she wouldn’t give to slap his face just now, not for herself, but for all the terror they had wreaked upon these people! For Stefan! For the way that he’d been treated! Bon dieu, were she not such a peace-loving soul she’d strike the heinous smirk from his face but good!

Unable to stay her hand, Elienor’s palm cracked along the side of his face.

Abruptly, the hall went silent, and one by one, every pair of eyes turned toward them.

The flame-haired’s gaze narrowed upon her, his eyes sparking with fury.

Her palm stung. Still, she held it in midair, poised to strike again. She peered up fearfully to see a welt beginning to form upon the flame-haired’s cheek.

“Jesu!” she whispered hysterically. Seeing the ire in his eyes, she regretted her rashness at once, despite the fact that he deserved worse.

Beneath her, the Viking’s shoulders began to quiver, then shake, and then rumble, and she found to her dismay that he was laughing.

Laughing?

How dare he!

The fiend she’d slapped, on the other hand, glared at her. Though to her immense relief he responded only by gurgling his ale in her face. When he finished swooshing it, he grinned, letting the sudsy, amber liquid seep from between rotting and missing teeth. She winced as a sprinkling caught her full upon the brow, and resisted the urge to swipe the revolting droplet away.

Beneath her, the golden one’s shoulders shook ferociously with his mirth. Bracing her palms against her captor’s back for support, Elienor willed him to perdition and beyond! Though even as she struggled for balance and blasphemed him, his husky laughter filled her senses, riveted her, and only belatedly did she realize that Flame Hair had taken another hearty swig from his tankard. He swooshed it again, puffing his cheeks to spew it upon her. Fie! No doubt all would burst into fits of hilarity this time. Uncouth savages! She squeezed her lids closed and braced herself for the deluge.

It never came.

The metallic hiss of a sword being drawn caught every ear. Stefan’s voice resounded off the stone walls, flying upward into the tower. “Leave her be!”

Elienor’s eyes flew wide as he charged at the leaders back.

Her mouth formed a scream that never materialized, for what happened next happened so quickly that she would never be entirely certain of the chain of events; Stefan came at them with blood lust in his eyes, his sword rising up. One instant, the Viking leader was empty handed. In the next he held his sword and was facing Stefan, ready to strike. With astounding ease, he’d also managed to snatch her down to hold her by the waist before him. Next she knew, Stefan lay skewered by his sword.

“Nay!” she screamed. “Nay! Nay! We made a bargain!” Frantically, she resisted the Viking leader until he was forced to release her. “You made me a bargain!” she cried as she tumbled to the floor beside Stefan’s body.

His face in death was still as sweetly innocent as it had been in life, no fear, no regret—he’d done it for her. “Nay... oh, nay!” He was but a boy! God have mercy, he’d died for her! She seized him, clutching him to her breast, rocking him. “Stefan!” she whimpered. “I’m so... so... so, sorry!” It was her fault.

She cried out, her features twisting with horror as she lifted her tear-stained face to the chaos about her. Bodies were strewn about the once spotless hall, littering every corner. Tables were toppled. Stools, so beautiful once with carved legs that clawed the ground, were axed into little more than rough-hewn splinters. The only lives that seemed to have been spared were those of the female servants who now screamed for mercy beneath the abusing bodies of murdering Northmen.

Nay, they were not being raped, but how long before they were all defiled? How she wished she could aid them! She released Stefan, and tried to rise, but her vision blackened as blood rushed into her temples. Desperately, she fought another wave of nausea as she rose. Her legs had never felt more unsubstantial.

Anger unlike anything she’d ever known soared within her. She whirled to face the Viking leader, loathing in her eyes. “You made me a bargain!” she cried furiously. She lifted her fists to strike him and he caught both wrists in midair with a single fluid movement.

Wrenching herself free, Elienor turned to face the rest of his butchers, all the while shaking her head in denial. “He was just a boy!”

The flame-haired Viking laughed uproariously. Undaunted, she met his gaze without fail, her own eyes vivid with fury. He would laugh? He would rejoice at the death of a child? Too furious to consider the consequences, she lunged at the flame-haired one, too desperate to avenge Stefan to consider the consequences.

An arm caught her firmly about the waist. Elienor screamed, bucking and squirming against the iron hold.

“Think you a boy cannot deal a death blow?” a husky voice asked at her back.

“As God is my witness, I wish he had!” Elienor told him and meant it with all of her soul. “Set me free, you deceiving, misbegotten cur!”

Trying in vain to shake herself loose from the leader’s grasp, she kicked him. He dropped her at once. Muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a Norse curse, he spun her about, his expression furious, though he said not another word.

Blinding tears welled in Elienor’s eyes and trickled down her cheeks, but she lifted her chin, daring him to make her repudiate her words, daring him to say aught more to defend himself. They’d struck a bargain and he’d forsaken it, and she’d never forget. Ever!

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Whether boy, or man, in fact,” he said, “by the blade he wielded he declared himself a man!” He spared a quick glance at Flame Hair, and turned back to Elienor with a look that was lethal.

Elienor shook her head. Accursed fate! She cast a withering glance at the one called Red-Hrolf.

The Viking leader snarled and tore his gaze from her abruptly. “Enough!” he commanded his men. His scowl was as cold and fierce as the north winds. “We go now! Take whatever catches your fancy from this wretched mound of stones—but do so quickly!”

The Viking in the nearest corner snickered wickedly and again tackled the wench he’d pinned to the floor. Red-Hrolf shouted heinously as he turned and dove upon the girl, as well. Struggling in earnest they squashed the buxom wench beneath their strong play, causing her to scream in fear and protest.

Another came and tapped the leader upon the shoulder. He smiled meaningfully. “I’d have a taste of this one, if it please you.”

“Nei, you will not!” the leader barked. His eyes narrowed in warning. “Take what else you will with my blessing, but do it now. Do not try me tonight!”

The other Viking stood beside him stubbornly, his expression offended and resentful.

“Suit yourself,” the leader grumbled, and then still scowling, he turned to yet another—the nude one! “Enough, you bare-assed sapling, dress yourself! We go! And you!” he added to Elienor, “get yourself up and walk!” He pried her away from Stefan’s body, lifting her and nudging her forward.

“Nay!” Elienor planted her heels. “I’ll not leave him!”

He shoved her this time. “You will,” he apprised. “Walk of your own accord, wench, or I will haul you out myself!” When she wouldn’t comply, his fingers dug into her upper arm in warning. “Walk!” he demanded.

There was no doubt in Elienor’s mind that he would, indeed, carry her out as he’d warned, but it was the only way she would leave, she vowed. If he would steal her from her home, she would not go easily!

Muttering another savage curse, the Viking leader lifted her up, and for the second time this night, flung her over his hefty shoulders.

Chapter 6

Three longships were beached upon the narrow embankment, the largest of them monstrous, over eighty feet long. Spanning more than sixteen feet in the midsection, it held no seating; the oarsmen used great-footed war chests in their stead, their surfaces weather-beaten and smooth from use. Moonlight glinted off the polished wood, casting deep shadows into the planking.

Elienor was dumped unceremoniously into the belly of the largest vessel, into the shadows, next to a young woman she recognized by name as Clarisse, Brouillard’s fille de chambre. And then, cursing roundly, the Viking simply turned his back and stalked away.

“I shall see you rue this day!” she swore tearfully.

Never had she felt such loathing for another human being. Indeed, never had she even considered it possible! She might have forgiven him anything—anything! Stealing her away from her home, the raid upon Count Phillipe’s castle—anything but the killing of an innocent boy!

“Oh, God... Stefan.”

Her throat tightened.

In her mind she could see him again so clearly, his innocent young eyes widening the instant he recognized death. “Unfair, unfair, unfair,” she sobbed. Her gaze bore into the Viking’s back as he assumed his position at the helm. Curse him—a thousand times curse him! The Norse fiend had been three times Stefan’s size, and likely claimed three times his skill.

Trembling with fear and fury, Elienor sat in bitter silence and watched as the last of the Vikings boarded, seating themselves upon their sea chests. At once they took up their oars.

“M’lady?” the young woman beside her ventured timidly. “You should not blame yourself. I... I saw it all... It was the boy’s...” She swallowed visibly. “It was Stefan’s fault.”

Elienor shook her head adamantly, refusing the comfort offered.

“Aye, m’lady!” Clarisse insisted. She began to sob quietly, disconsolately. Elienor thought she might be weeping for Stefan, for she knew they, too, had been close. Impossible not to care for young, lighthearted, sweet, smiling Stefan. “It was his duty to defend you!” Clarisse maintained. “My lord Phillipe would have expected it.”

“He was so young!” Elienor cried. “So very young!”

Hot tears blurring her vision, she swallowed and met Clarisse’s gaze. She swiped at the fiery wetness upon her cheeks, and shook her head. “If... if only... I’d not struck the demon…” She averted her gaze, unable to continue, grief and remorse wrenching her heart.

Through misty eyes she watched as the Vikings launched their dragon ships into the Seine. It was like naught she’d ever seen before. In one fleeting moment the castle was in plain sight, in another it was gone, vanishing into the night mist without a trace, so swiftly did they glide away. And with it, their last chance for deliverance.

Would her uncle know where to seek her? Would he bother? And what of Count Phillipe? The Viking had said he lived. Could it be true?

She dared to hope.

Against her will, her gaze was drawn again to the helm, where the King of Demons stood peering out over the waters.

Murderer! her heart screamed.

His back was to her this instant, but even at this distance, she knew him. Aye, she knew him—never would she forget those silver eyes, so cold and hostile!

The men surrounding him were large of stature, yet he towered over them still, his fair hair glowing pale beneath the silvery moonlight. Bound with a braided leather strip about the forehead, its silky length fell well below his nape, catching the light so that it gleamed. The thought occurred to her suddenly, bitterly, as she stared transfixed, that she’d never seen the likes of his hair before. Not even the fairest ladies of Francia’s court had such beautiful tresses as did he. She found herself wondering over the feel of it.

Would it be as soft as it appeared?

The instant she considered it, she recoiled. Jesu, but whose thoughts were those? Surely not hers!

She shivered as the breeze swept her hair into her face, and closed her eyes to pluck away the stinging strands from her lashes. When she opened them again it was to meet the Golden One’s dark gaze. The way he watched her never ceased to send quivers down her spine.

Faithless was what she was.

But nay, all it took to keep those thoughts at bay was to remember Stefan’s face as he’d died. “Murderer,” she whispered, and hoped he could read her lips. Still, she could not wrench her gaze away, and so she willed him to know what was in her heart, every last trace of loathing. And yet if her emotions were truly in her eyes, he seemed wholly unaffected by what he saw, for his gaze never wavered. His lips merely curved at one corner, as though to mock her, and then mercifully he turned to address his men, releasing her at last.

With another shudder, Elienor turned to meet Clarisse’s probing gaze, and gasped in surprise at being watched so cannily. Chagrined at what thoughts might have been evident in her confused expression, she wrenched her gaze guiltily away.

“M’lady?” Clarisse asked weakly. “What do you suppose they will do with us?”

Elienor’s blue eyes were full of torment as she turned to acknowledge the question. She had no notion what to say to allay Clarisse’s fears. In truth, she had no inkling what lay in store for either of them; the dream had ended in the chapel, with the screams of the wounded and dying. She shook her head miserably.

Clarisse nodded, bowing her head, and Elienor turned again to watch the men at their rowing.

Heathens though they were, they moved gracefully together, in perfect accord. Yet, as beautiful as their motion was, the sound they made was diabolical. Keeping time with the head oarsman’s pounding rhythm, the oars groaned eerily as they rolled over wet wood, lifting and plunging again like savage beasts into the murky water. As the three dragon ships soared over the night-blackened waters, the sound only escalated, grating on Elienor’s nerves.

For the longest time, neither she nor Clarisse spoke. She simply sat, watching all, seeing naught. Against her will, she kept envisioning the Viking leader... the way his eyes had pierced her within the chapel... the way he’d touched her... caressed her cheek so tenderly.

Those eyes.

She saw them again as he’d touched her within the chapel… gently… more gently than any single person ever had. Not even Sister Heloise had shown her such affection. Troubled by the image, Elienor closed her eyes to ward away the memory and at once it was replaced with another.

Stefan.

“Sweet Jesu,” She moaned. Would she ever forget the look on his face as he’d died? Never! she swore vehemently. “Never!” she whispered.

All too soon, the three longships exited the mouth of the River Seine and entered into the turbulent channel.

Water rose up to slap against the dragon vessel like mighty wrathful hands. At once the rowing ceased and the rigging was hastily raised, the sailcloth unfolded and prepared. In short time the red diamond-patterned sails, which struck terror in the hearts of men, women, and children alike, billowed sharply with the strengthening breeze.

Elienor’s heart wrenched as the sails filled and the ship punched forward with a terrible fury, leaving the mainland of Francia small in its wake.

She dared not weep. With silent, stoic pride, she watched her homeland vanish before her eyes, then squeezed her eyes shut, even as her heart constricted with grief.

It was her duty to be strong, she told herself. For Clarisse.

Beside her, Clarisse began to weep in earnest. Burying her pallid face into the sleeve of her gown, the girl fell forward against the planking to sob.

Hours later, as the sky began to lighten, Clarisse lay weeping still, though quietly now. Elienor had no notion what to say to comfort the poor girl. Try as she might, the words would not form. She scooted to the maid’s side to soothe her the only way she knew how, the way Mother Heloise had so often done for her. She stroked the back of Clarisse’s matted hair, and when Clarisse’s sobs began to ebb at last, Elienor coaxed the girl’s arm away from her face.

Clarisse resisted, whimpering, concealing her eyes. She turned her back to Elienor, and it was then Elienor discovered the sticky blood that coated the girl’s dark hair behind her head. “Clarisse!” she exclaimed. “You’re injured! Jesu, why did you not say?”

Clarisse moaned and shook her head, refusing to bare her face. “I... I... sorry, m’lady! So sorry...” She moaned pathetically. “’Tis the light!” she complained.

As best she could, Elienor parted the girl’s hair to find the gash little more than a graze. The welt beneath, however, was a furious purplish crimson. She hesitated to touch it. “Does it pain you?” she asked, and then berated herself for the question. Of course it pained her!

Clarisse nodded emphatically, concealing her face into her sleeve, yet the gesture managed to bare her wound more fully to Elienor. Elienor gasped to see the swelling so severe at the base of her skull. She shook her head. “Jesu... what have they done to you?”

Clarisse responded by coiling herself protectively into a little human ball.

“Clarisse, how can I help if you will not speak?”

“H... he...” Her breast heaved on a sob. “He struck my head against the stairwell.”

There was no need to ask who. In Elienor’s heart it wouldn’t have mattered who the guilty party was. She knew precisely at whose feet to place the blame.

His.

“It hurts more with every passing moment!” Clarisse whined.

Cautiously, Elienor reached to probe the wound with her fingers, gently, so as not to cause more suffering.

At Elienor’s touch, the girl wrenched herself away with a shrill cry, rolling out of reach. Once again she began to sob, and Elienor felt utterly helpless, wanting to aid her, yet knowing she had not the means. Elienor looked to the helm, and this time, she rose determinedly, not thinking, only feeling.

The very least these heathens could do was to supply her with cloth and water to cleanse the wound!

Before she could rise fully to her feet, she was shoved backward by the one called Red-Hrolf. He scowled fiercely at her and began to bellow viciously in his garbled tongue. Elienor knew not a word, yet understood him perfectly. He commanded her to stay—like a dog! Well, she refused to be cowed! Clarisse needed aid and she would not fail her!

As she’d failed Stefan, a little voice hounded her.

Resolved as Elienor was, she rose again, only to be thrust backward once more.

“How dare—” She halted on a gasp, restraining angry words, and despite the trembling in her limbs, once more rose to face the irate Viking. “I would speak to your jarl!” she demanded furiously. “I’ll not sit idly by and watch this woman die! Have you no mercy at all?”

She didn’t stop to consider why she felt the jarl would help her any more than the flame-haired one would.

Red-Hrolf continued to bellow, shoving at her arm intermittently, and then abruptly he ceased his tirade to glower over her shoulder.

“Since when do thralls demand aught?” the leader demanded.

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, and she buckled to her knees. Mary mother of God! She resisted the urge to cross herself. She dared not rise, nor turn to look at him for fear that her eyes would betray her. Her heart throbbed painfully as she waited for him to speak again, but when he did, it was to address Red-Hrolf in their own tongue.

Red-Hrolf immediately sat down upon his sea chest. Hushed and angry, he took up his oar once more, all the while glaring resentfully at Elienor.

At once she was wrenched about to face the Viking leader.

“And you! Mistress Arrogance! I remember not affording you choices!”

“Arrogance!” Elienor gasped, fury choking her. “Arrogance?” she returned contemptuously, “And what, prithee, my lord Viking, could be more arrogant than to steal into a sleeping manor and butcher those within for the sake of glory, or greed?”

The Viking’s eyes darkened to coal before her eyes, smoldering with ire. “Glory?” he replied sharply. “Greed?” His sneer mocked her. “Nei, wench! But I’ve no inclination to explain myself to you. Best you listen to me well, for I vow I’ll not deign to warn you again! From here forth you will do what is expected of you, or you will pay the consequences!”

Elienor met his gaze boldly. Something about this barbarian Viking liberated that wicked part of her she’d repressed for so very long; so many times she’d had to bite her lip to keep her words from spilling free, but not this day, she vowed. “And what might that be?” she dared to ask. “Might I lie down and die for you too?” she asked contemptuously.

He shook her briefly, and she choked back a startled cry. His eyes glinted in warning, his jaw working furiously. “What is expected…” He paused, obviously battling his raging temper. “…is that you be seated in silence and cease to goad my men. As it is, you’ve caused more than enough unrest today.”

She had caused unrest? She had?

Where the courage came from, Elienor would never know, for she felt anything but valiant in that moment, but her chin lifted in defiance. “Nay!” she spat, “Not I, my lord Viking! ’Tis you, you who have caused so much destruction and depravity this night! And you dare accuse me?”

The angry retort hardened his features, and in answer his other hand flew to her shoulders so quickly that before Elienor knew what he intended, he’d lifted her until she stood on the tips of her toes. His jaw working with fury, he shook her until her teeth jarred. When he spoke again, his lips were so near to her own that she felt the heat of his breath. “Best you realize now, little Fransk,” he advised in a seething whisper, the endearment anything but tender, “I dare anything I please! Mayhap yesterday you garnered your will with your shrewish ways and biting tongue, but today you belong to me! Incite my men to violence once more, I tell you, and I will see you repent it sorely—woman or nei! Do not try me again this day!”

Elienor tossed her head back as best she could, her eyes blazing with ire. Belong? “Nay, Viking!” she returned sourly, spitting the word as though it were the vilest of epitaphs. “I belong to no man!” She dared again to lift her chin, cursing the sinful pride that would impel her to do so. “No man before the eyes of God!” She flashed him a look of disdain. “And I would remind you, my lord Viking, that you breached our bargain mere moments after effecting it.”

His eyes narrowed and his lips thinned in anger. “Aye, my little Fransk, you do,” he returned huskily. “For you belong to me—bargain, or nei!”

Again, she lifted her chin. “You have no claim over me, nor shall I give you anything freely! Now release me, if you please!”

He grinned suddenly, ruthlessly, pressing her closer. “In such case... believe me when I tell you that I shall deeply enjoy the taking!” He chuckled nastily. “After all, I am a beast,” he said, his tone heavy with sarcasm, “a Viking, as you so like to point out, and by your own words, force is the only way of our people. Naught—naught!” he stressed, “shall give me greater pleasure than to take what you will not freely give!”

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat, for she doubted him not. “Then by all that is holy, I shall fight you!” she returned, swallowing her fear. But to her dismay, she shivered beneath his gaze.

Feeling her tremors, he laughed outright, his expression knowing, his grin widening. “So be it! I trust we are understood?”

Elienor averted her eyes, loathing even the sight of him in that instant, loathing the fear that was undoubtedly in her own eyes.

He shook her once more, prodding her. “Are we understood?” His fingers tightened about her arms when she did not respond.

Her gaze reverted to his suddenly, her eyes shimmering violet fire. “Release me, barbarian!”

Triumph, that forbidden prideful emotion, flooded through her when he winced at her words. It was a victory, no matter how small, and she savored it fully. And then his expression turned utterly violent.

Sweet Jesu, but she was in peril of losing all self-control if he did not release her soon. She could not withstand his scrutiny, or his touch, much longer. “Aye!” she spat at once, feeling suddenly weak and vulnerable in the face of his fury. “Aye! We are understood! Release me now,” she cried.

He complied at once. She collapsed to her knees. With a last shriveling glance and a disgusted shake of his head, he turned to leave.

Kneading the soreness from her arms, Elienor whimpered softly, cursing him for the heartless heathen that he was. As much as she loathed him—and aye, feared him, even—she could not allow him to leave without requesting aid for Clarisse. ‘The maid is ill!” she shouted at his back, her voice trembling.

She prayed for strength.

The Viking stopped abruptly, pivoting to face her, his silver gaze as deadly as his sword.

With the last vestiges of her pride, Elienor raised her chin. “I would aid her, but have need of water—”

Without a word, he lifted his skin from his belt and flung it at her, then turned and stalked away. Elienor had no choice but to catch it, for it landed squarely at her breast, snatching her breath away—not from the impact, but because she’d not expected to gain it so easily.

She watched him go without another word, lest he change his mind and seize it away. Her gaze fell suddenly to where Clarisse lay. The girl’s eyes, focused upon the jarl’s massive back, were wide with fright, her cheeks tear stained. Her gaze reverted to Elienor.

“M-M’lady, I... I fear ’tis unwise to provoke him,” she fretted. Her eyes closed suddenly and her face contorted with pain.

Desperate to aid her, Elienor knelt beside her, brushing the damp hair away from her forehead. “Your fever rises, Clarisse...”

Clarisse groaned pitifully. “Aye, m’lady, aye... but—oh, the light!” she exclaimed. “The light p-pains mine eyes!”

Elienor’s brow’s furrowed. “What of the wound?” She wet her skirt with water from the skin, then wiped Clarisse’s brow with it, soothing her. “Where does it pain you most?”

Clarisse shook her head fitfully. “Mine neck... and... and mine eyes—the light, m’lady! ’Tis the light!”

Elienor offered Clarisse the skin of water to drink by.

Clarisse shook her head, refusing it.

Elienor’s own mouth felt dryer than sun-dried wool, and her tongue too large for her mouth, but she held the skin out resolutely for Clarisse to take. “I have no thirst just now,” she lied without pause. God forgive her, but she knew the girl would not accept it and knowingly deprive her in order to quench her own thirst. Clarisse’s station, regardless that here among enemies they were equals, was not so easily forgotten. Still Clarisse would not accept it. “Go on,” Elienor prompted. “I would prefer that you drank from it first.”

Still Clarisse hesitated. Elienor nodded encouragement, her eyes pleading. “Take it!”

At last Clarisse reached for it, her lean fingers quivering as she lifted it eagerly to her sun-parched lips. She drank deeply, and with desperation, and then finally lowered it from her lips, giving Elienor a look of utmost gratitude.

Elienor set it aside for the time being.

“Why do they not simply kill us and be done with it!” Clarisse cried suddenly.

Elienor wondered the same. She shrugged. “Clarisse... would you turn for me that I might cleanse the wound?”

Their eyes met and held. Elienor knew she requested the girl’s trust unjustly, for she’d failed Stefan, yet for answer Clarisse nodded, rolling slowly to show her back, moaning with misery.

Elienor’s eyes were drawn again to the helm, never more full of anguish. Whatever it required of her, she vowed, she would let no harm come to Clarisse. She refused to accept that she had not the power to prevent it. She could not bear yet another death upon her conscience.

As he took a hefty swig from a second flagon, Alarik watched the little Fransk offer the skin he’d given her to the ailing girl. He could clearly see the longing in her own eyes, yet she refused it when the girl pushed it back.

With a muttered oath, he recapped his own skin. Why had he not left her in Francia? He should have, he acknowledged with a scowl. What madness had possessed him to take her? What could he have been thinking? It would serve her right did she die from lack of water.

Why should he care?

He had the urge to go to her, force the shrew to drink.

Casting an irate glance at Red-Hrolf, he cursed her again. His men would see such a gesture as a weakness in him, especially after their previous confrontation, and that was the one thing he could not afford. In his world, strength alone ruled, and now more than ever, for there was much unrest in the Northlands.

It did not help matters that his brother, Olav, would force the people’s hearts where they would not turn. With his own eyes he’d witnessed the iron hand his brother wielded. In anger that one of his own men would not take the new faith, Olav had offered him to Odin before the rest of his men, cut like a sacrificial beast upon the altar stone, making of him an example.

His gaze was drawn again to the girl. She was no more than a thrall, he reminded himself, not worth risking the loyalty of his men, and with that he turned his attention to the skies.

The wind filled the Goldenhawk’s sails for the moment, but it was only a matter of time before the weather turned foul. Hopefully they’d be well on their way north by then... mayhap even within sight of Friesland’s broken coastline.

His gaze returned to the girl.

By the Norns, he cared not a whit for the Frenchwoman, he avowed. He’d taken her only to avenge himself against the count.

Yet the wench had mettle enough for a league of Northmen. As intrigued as he was by that fact, it also rankled, for just as surely as the termagant sat there glaring at him, he knew she would bring him grief. But if he were to do it all over again... he would take her again.

And that admission made him scowl. For he knew that, in truth, his decision to take her had little to do with Phillipe of Brouillard. Plainly and simply and with an intensity he’d never conceived possible...

He wanted her for his own.

Chapter 7

By late afternoon, Elienor could no longer feel the sun’s heat upon her flesh, though its glaring brightness assured her that it had not fled. With a groan, she glanced at Clarisse and found the girl sleeping fitfully. It was good that she slept, for she seemed only miserable when awake.

Above them, the sails rippled noisily. But down below, where they lay, the air was stagnant, humid, and strangely peaceful, making Elienor feel oddly sedated and dazed. To begin with, it had been colder upon the sea than it had been on land, but now that her body was sun-scorched, she couldn’t feel anything but heat. The salt air stung her eyes, and she squeezed them shut to ward away the burn. Still, though she felt a desperation to, she could not succumb to the slumber that beckoned; her thirst was too fierce, her face too burned, her throat too raw, her worry for Clarisse too great. With a great sigh, she lay as near to Clarisse as possible, closing her eyes to rest them, and somehow, at last, she dozed.

She slept no longer than an hour when she awoke abruptly to the ungodly sound of the sea shattering against the vessel. In such short time the weather had turned foul. Salt water dashed over the gunwales, the mist spraying her flaming cheeks, easing the burn fleetingly until the moisture evaporated, and then her skin blazed twice as tender as the salt cured her flesh.

With a groan of misery, she turned to give one side of her face respite from the scorching sun and blistering wind and whimpered as her abused flesh met with sea-drenched wood. Sweet Jesu! To her dismay, in that instant her eyes met Red-Hrolf’s, and the look he directed upon her was sheer malevolence. Cold fingers flew down her spine as he continued to glare. Hatred, unbridled and fierce, glittered in his Nordic blue eyes. He would kill her, she knew, were the choice his own. Thank heaven above, it was not!

Fear twisting her heart, she glanced hastily away, shocked to find herself thanking God in that instant for the Viking jarl’s protection. And though she shuddered at the notion, she recognized the truth of it, and conceded to it. He was the lesser of evils—much as she loathed to acknowledge it.

Beside her, Clarisse moaned pitifully. Instinctively, Elienor sought the skin of water to give to her. Never taking her eyes from Red-Hrolf, she took two greedy sips for herself, then forced herself to stop. Using as little water as possible, she moistened her skirt, then used it to cool Clarisse’s face once more. That done, she lifted Clarisse’s head to her lap, and without avail, tried to part the girl’s lips to feed her the water. To her dismay the water merely trickled down Clarisse’s chin. With a heavy heart, Elienor conceded defeat, recapping the skin, and tucking it beneath her to conserve for later.

Clarisse awoke in that instant, a pained expression on her pale face.

“Clarisse?”

“Aye, m’lady,” she croaked.

Elienor brushed black damp wisps of hair from Clarisse’s sickly pale face. “Art better?”

Clarisse’s voice was weaker this time, almost a whisper. “Aye, m’lady.” She grimaced as another wave struck the ship, pitching it violently. “The light,” she croaked pitifully. “’Tis the light…"

Elienor glanced up at the sun and with all her heart wished it away.

Darkness came without warning, spreading shadows over the sea like an enormous black veil, and with it came an unbearable chill that settled into the bones.

The winds grew progressively stronger the further north they sailed, and to Elienor it seemed that in the darkness demons railed at them.

No matter how she lay, she was ill at ease and found herself shifting every so often to find a new position. No doubt he felt perfectly at ease in this infernal clime—fiend that he was.

Not for the first time, her gaze was drawn to the helm.

Only two of the Vikings were left awake, the leader and the nude one. Nay, he was not nude now, but Elienor would always see him as she had that first time, nude and dancing merrily over the dead. She blinked away a vision of Gaston prone beneath him.

Both Vikings were staring out over the dark waters, their enormous bodies silhouetted by the immense moon. Soft murmurs came to her ears, but she didn’t bother trying to eavesdrop, knowing naught of their heathen tongue.

Feeling the woman’s overwhelming presence, not for the first time this eve, Alarik’s rapier gaze sliced through the thick sea mist.

She glanced away the instant his eyes found hers.

Unobserved by his slumbering men, he watched as she curled close to the other girl, laying her head gently upon the overlapping planking. When she still could not find a suitable position, he watched as she gathered up the length of her dark hair, her movements graceful and sensual despite the stiffening cold, and attempted to employ it as a pillow. His body hardened as he watched her cozy into that glorious mane.

What would it feel like to share that silky pillow along with her?

Recalling the softness of the tresses he’d caressed within the chapel, he craved the feel of it, yet he resisted the urge to walk the distance separating them.

He’d find out soon enough, he told himself—the very instant their feet were on solid ground. And with that resolution, he resumed his vigil over the fickle sea, banishing thoughts of the girl from his mind once and for all.

It served no purpose to think of her.

The fact that she found it difficult to rest upon the hard planking told him much, for while she’d not complained, neither did she appear at ease with the lot she’d been given. She was no maidservant, he surmised, leading him again to the conclusion that she was, in truth, the count’s—what? Whore? Wife?

A light draft ruffled his cloak, rifled through his hair, as he again glanced at the woman, watching her slumber.

She was shivering.

He continued to stare, his body disobeying as he told himself he was unmoved. By Odin’s lost eye, who wasn’t shivering? The night air was frigid. Why should he concern himself over one measly wench?

He elbowed Sigurd suddenly. “Take the tiller,” he charged, and then he walked away without another word.

He picked his way over the slumbering bodies of his crewmen, halting next to the woman, his hands at his hips.

It surprised him to discover she’d found her way back to sleep for he’d braced himself for another confrontation. Or had he hoped?

Without giving himself time to consider either his actions or his thoughts, he removed his cloak, covering her with it, tucking the ends carefully beneath her. A quick glance over his shoulder revealed that for the moment the sea held Sigurd’s undivided attention.

Sigurd Thorgoodson was Alarik’s sworn man, had been with him longer than any. He trusted Sigurd with his life, but he had no wish to be spied this moment, even by one so loyal. Sigurd seemed to understand that, and for his deference Alarik was grateful.

The rest of his crew slept on, and knowing this he was unable to stay his hand. The need to touch her was insuppressible. Lifting a loose strand of her hair to his lips, as though to taste of it, he then brought it to his nostrils, breathing deeply of its exhilarating scent: roses, sea, wind. They shouldn’t have mixed so well together, but they did.

Exquisitely.

Once again a vision of her standing atop the tower appeared to him; she was silhouetted by the heathery moon, her hair fluttering wild and free behind her, and he shivered with anticipation. Never had he craved home more than he did this instant. The wait was almost intolerable.

“What hold have you upon me, little Fransk?” he whispered.

She roused an alien emotion in his hardened heart. Somehow... when he’d stared into that ethereal face of hers for the first time... It was as though he’d lost something of himself.

And then, after he had slain the boy, and she’d looked at him with such accusing eyes, he’d had absolutely no notion why he’d felt the need to defend himself. He had taken his first life long before his twelfth year—so had many others, for that matter, but the look in her eyes had drawn a defense from his lips nevertheless.

“’Tis but lust!” he swore emphatically, lifting her hair to his nostrils once more. He inhaled the essence of her, and it held him spellbound a full instant.

When she didn’t stir, his gaze wandered down the length of her, and abruptly, another vision assailed him… of her lying prone beneath him, with long shapely legs wrapped about his waist. His body hardened painfully, and he shifted for comfort, cursing softly when he found none. With a muttered curse, he cast aside the lock of her hair as he surged to his feet.

Hel and damnation! It was lust and no more, he assured himself, and swore again, for even as he made his way back to the helm, the lie followed him.

Chapter 8

The skies remained downcast the entire next day. And the next, as well, though fortunately it didn’t rain.

Late in the eve of the fourth day the wind suddenly began to gale as they moved past a string of large islands. In the rising tempest, the ship thrust forward so swiftly that the islands soon vanished in their wake.

Elienor had not eaten at all that first day. On the second day she’d been given measly portions of dried fish and water. Clarisse ate nothing and grew progressively worse, though thankfully, the girl sipped some water. At the moment Elienor was not hungry, despite the fact that she’d eaten nothing yet today. They’d given her more of the dried salmon an hour past, but she had not eaten it. Instead, she had saved it for Clarisse, in hopes that the girl would try it when she awoke this time. Fervently, she prayed that the storm would abate and the waters would calm, but to her dismay, the storm only intensified.

Willing away her fear, her thoughts focused upon a happier time. The month she’d spent in her uncle’s court had been all too brief. For the first time in her life she’d felt a part of something, even if her relation to Robert of Francia was known only by a select few.

As she remembered, her fingers skimmed the ring that lay hidden beneath the neckline of her bliaut. If her life before the priory ever seemed unreal, distant, or if she ever doubted the vague memories she had of her noble sire and gentle mother, she needed only to look upon the ring that bore her family crest, the royal crest of Francia. Her uncle had given it to her, the grandest of gifts, for the ring had once belonged to her father.

She cherished it.

With bittersweet memories she recalled the moment her uncle Robert had bestowed it upon her—the day he’d taken her from the Abbey.

Having been summoned to the chapel, she’d found him humming softly, the Latin words too soft to make out. At the sound of her footfalls upon the hollow wood floor, he’d turned from staring at the cross above the altar, and the humming ceased abruptly. He cleared his throat. “You’ve the look of your mother, child,” he’d said.

“Aye,” Elienor answered. “So I have been told, my lord.” She was helpless to keep the bitterness from her tone. “But as you can see, I am a child no longer.”

“Aye... truly... and your father would have been proud.”

He must have sensed her longing at his words, for afterward, once they had talked awhile, he removed the ring from his finger. “Take it, Elienor, for it belonged to your sire...”

Elienor hesitated.

“I understand should you choose not to... yet you are as much entitled to it as I.”

Still she hesitated.

“Try not to condemn him, Elienor. Your father was—as I have been—naught but a pawn in the politics of matrimony.”

At last, she took the ring from his grasp. “As am I,” she reminded him.

He nodded and sighed deeply. “As you are. But you should know that he refused to repudiate her at first.”

Her heart stumbled at his words, and she gazed at him.

“Alas… as you know... to no avail. I fear it served my father well that your mother was known to bear the sight, for it took very little goading on his part to rouse the common folk against her.” He gazed at her pointedly. “At any rate, ’tis fortunate she did not bequeath you... her... inauspicious gift.”

Elienor’s heart turned violently. She dared not meet his gaze for fear he’d suspect. “Aye,” she croaked, “’Tis fortunate, indeed.”

He seemed not to note the alarm in her tone, for he carried on. “Were it not for your father’s intercession with the church,” he told her, “she might not even have been buried on sacred ground. For that at least, you should offer your father a pardon... for he loved you, too.”

So Elienor took the ring.

And she was grateful for it, for with it, her uncle had given her a sense of belonging. It had meant much to her to be acknowledged by her family. She had despaired of ever fulfilling that dream. She thought she understood why her uncle had been compelled to reveal it all after so long, for he indubitably felt at least a twinge of guilt for what his father had done to Elienor and to her mother.

Then too, she was a little sad for him for Robert of Francia knew firsthand the pain and agony of losing a loved one. He too had fallen victim to such machinations. His first marriage had been annulled in much the same manner as was her own father’s, and his love thereafter confined to the priory.

But as grateful as Elienor was, she could not help but feel a little bitter over all that had been taken from her as a child. The pain her mother had endured.

It was best not to dwell on that, she knew. She tried to focus instead on the good things in her life: She was learned in the scriptures, knew her histories, and could tally her numbers well, for Mother Heloise had been priming her to become abbess in her stead.

With a sigh, she curled her legs into the mantle that had appeared upon her so mysteriously the morning of the second day and wondered again to whom it belonged. It was not Red-Hrolf’s, she was certain. Nor did any of the others seem overly concerned with her welfare.

She had a suspicion to whom it belonged, for it smelled of him; an elusive combination of wind, sea, and man. It was insane, she knew—to know his scent, when she knew him not at all. But she did.

The wind howled about her, hissing like a viper through the sails, and Elienor made certain Clarisse was covered as well. Leaning over her, she tucked the coverlet gently beneath her, and then peered out over the gunwales. Nothing but angry gray swells met her gaze. They were so far from anywhere. The unfathomable depth of the ocean made her shiver abruptly. She felt so vulnerable out here, almost as vulnerable as she had on that fateful day when she had been ripped from her mother’s breast…

The sea was so dark—as dark as she’d oft imagined her mother’s grave to be.

She shivered again and hugged herself for warmth, cursing her lips, for they burned incessantly—even in the cold, damp darkness. She raised her fingers to them as though that brief touch might ease them.

She wasn’t so much afraid to die, she told herself. Rather she was terrified that if she did, they would toss her body into the sea—to the dreadful creatures that dwelled within it. With a miserable groan, she glanced down at Clarisse. Moonlight glinted off the young maid’s face, making her skin seem too pale, her eyes black and eerie. The thought occurred to her suddenly that Clarisse might not survive the sea voyage. Once again she was failing. As she’d failed Stefan. Swallowing the thickness in her throat, she tilted her head skyward.

Had God truly forsaken them?

Her hand covered her mouth. In the darkness, with no eyes to see her and the rising wind to carry away the sound, she began to sob quietly.

Fifteen winters she’d spent within the priory. Fifteen long, lonely winters. And Phillipe had been her greatest hope.

Above her, the sails rippled violently, twisting the mast windward. Shuddering, Elienor crossed herself. What fate was this God had given her? To see poor Stefan die—and now mayhap to watch Clarisse suffer and do the same? Well, by God, she’d not allow it!

As though her fury had become tangible, the wind suddenly lifted, pitching the ship viciously and jostling those aboard.

“Clarisse?” she cried out.

There was no response from the weak form beside her.

Frantically, Elienor shook the girl’s shoulder as the ship listed once more. “Clarisse!” she shouted.

Still no answer; Clarisse lay unmoving.

“Oh, nay!” Panicking, Elienor felt for a pulse at Clarisse’s neck, and finding it fragile, breathed a shaky sigh of relief. With trembling hands she fumbled for the skin of water behind her. It was the fever, she was certain. If she could but cool her somehow. She found the skin instantly, but the moment her fingers lit upon it, the ship listed again, sending it flying behind her. She turned to catch it and was startled to find Red-Hrolf awake, watching them. Grinning balefully, his boot came down upon the skin of water, halting its slide across the planking. Fearful to retrieve it on her own, Elienor held out her hand for him to return it, hoping against hope that he would.

His grin only widened, and Elienor’s heart twisted. Nevertheless, knowing Clarisse had need of the water, she dared to reach for it now, uncertainly at first, keeping her gaze on Red-Hrolf. Yet to her alarm, before she could grasp it, the ship listed once more, this time violently.

Chaos erupted.

With a terrified shriek, Elienor rolled atop Clarisse, striking her hard enough that she rose up only to bounce down upon the planking, her head landing with a sickening smack that Elienor could hear even above the sound of the wind and the waking shouts of the crewmen. To her horror, Clarisse’s body began to convulse beneath her, bucking as though possessed. Elienor screamed, taken aback by the sight and feel of Clarisse twisting and writhing beneath her.

And seeing Clarisse, Red-Hrolf began to shout. He jumped to his feet in revulsion. “She is afflicted!”

“Nay!” Elienor denied, “she is but ill!”

Clarisse continued to buck and twist. Elienor couldn’t stop her. Her tongue lolled limply from her mouth, and her eyes opened and crossed, the sight appalling enough to terrify even Elienor.

“’Tis a plague from Hella!” Red-Hrolf shouted. “We will perish! Shrivel away to bones!”

Fear clawed at Elienor’s heart.

Before her eyes she saw again her mother’s accusers, heard their chanted convictions: Witch! Kill the witch! God’ll strike us dead for her sins! Kill the witch!

She closed her eyes to ward away the bitter vision and prayed for strength. Merciful heaven. She must remain strong.

“Pitch the whore to the sea!” someone shouted.

Kill the witch! Aye! Kill them both! The daughter’s a filthy witch, too! Send them both to Hades from whence they came!

“Nay!” Elienor shrieked at the memory. “Nay! Please! Please!”

“Pitch them both into the sea!” another echoed in French, glaring at her.

“Nay!” Elienor shrieked, wild with terror now. “Nay! Nay! Have mercy—I beg of you! Sweet Jesu! Have mercy!” She rose up, clinging to Red-Hrolf’s tunic, begging. “Jesu Christ—please!”

Red Hrolf thrust her away in revulsion. “Filthy Fransk whore!” He lifted up his oar to frighten her away.

Frantic now, Elienor rose up with him, pleading incoherently with fear. “Please, please, leave her be—oh, please!”

There was no time to avoid the blow, even had she been aware it was coming.

She screamed as the pinnacle of an oar struck her head. Her eyes widened at the sound of her flesh ripping, so loud it seemed to come from inside her.

Oh, God… had her visions been so wrong?

Was she to die here as well?

Something wet and warm blanketed her temple, blood, she thought vaguely.

Blood.

Before her eyes a hazy blackness settled in, and it seemed an eternity passed as she fought the inevitable. A hollow ringing shrieked in her ears, blocking out all other sound.

And then silence.

The silence of her mother’s grave.

In that instant, she felt as though she would retch, so violently ill did she become. She opened her mouth to plead for aid, but the words never formed upon her lips.

Who did she expect would aid her anyway? No one, a little voice sneered. “No one,” she whispered weakly, her vision fading swiftly to gray.

To her shock, the face that swam before her in that instant was not her uncle’s, not her mother’s, not the kind old abbess’, not Count Phillipe’s, nor Stefan’s, nor Clarisse’s... but his.

She tried to look toward the helm, to plead for help, but abruptly the world spun away.

Accustomed to frequent heated matches amongst his bored crewmen whilst at sea, Alarik had paid the sudden upheaval little mind, until he heard the scream. He turned in time to see her collapse to the planking.

With a hoarse cry, he hastened to her side, lifting her face up. Her blood flowed freely into his hands from a gash at her temple. He turned his wrath upon Red-Hrolf, who was the only one near enough to have inflicted the mighty blow. “What need was there for this?”

“She’s mad!” Red-Hrolf defended, his expression indignant. And then uneasy over the way Alarik glared at him, he insisted, “She’s mad, I tell you! and the other is afflicted!” His face reddened under Alarik’s censure, but as he caught an assertive nod from Bjorn, he dared to speak up once more. “Anyway, why should you object to what I’ve done to the whore, jarl? She’s just a filthy Fransk! We ought to toss them both overboard and be done!”

As though the Gods of Asgard held their breath for Alarik’s response, even the winds abated in that instant, and the uncanny hush that followed Red-Hrolf’s inquiry taunted him. In truth, it was a question he’d asked of himself already. Though as yet there was no answer. Still, he’d not have the wench mistreated, and the vehemence with which he said his next words stunned himself more than it did his men.

“I care!” he snarled, “because she is mine!” He slammed a fist against his chest and shot his brother a contemptuous scowl, cautioning Bjorn to take care, for he’d not missed the encouraging look his brother had given Red-Hrolf.

Bjorn’s eyes widened in startle, and when Alarik was satisfied that his warning had been interpreted correctly, he turned to all within plain view and reiterated. “The Fransk is mine to do with as I will! I dare any who thinks otherwise to defy me!”

Again he met each of their gazes; one by one heads shook in negation, shrinking from the challenge.

No one dared even to speak.

Feeling the warmth of her blood flow over his hands, Alarik glanced down, and with his salt-sprayed tunic, he swiped at the blood streaming so swiftly from the wound, baring the flesh of her temple only momentarily before another rush of her blood covered the open gash. As he’d feared, there was a fairly deep laceration just below the temple, a very delicate spot, he knew. And concerned by the gravity of her injury, he scanned the storm-tossed waters.

The wind was rising once more, but there was little choice to be made if he wished to aid the wench. He was the best navigator aboard the ship, but in light of the circumstances, he felt he could trust no one to minister to the Fransk.

Sigurd, he thought, could skillfully guide the ship in foul clime... It was simply that he preferred to sail himself at such times. Though why did he always feel the need to do everything himself?

No matter, those were his choices; to sail himself and let the woman die, or minister to her and possibly kill them all in the process.

In that instant the Goldenhawk pitched to one side. With a muttered curse, Alarik braced himself, but he was too late. He was flung down upon her.

So small.

She was so small beneath him.

He couldn’t let her die.

His hands tangled in her bloody hair. Nay, he would not let her die!

As long as he might live he’d never comprehend the pull she seemed to have over him, but he made his insane vow nonetheless—to save her life at all cost, even at the risk of his own, and those of his men. Why he would make such a treacherous pact with himself was beyond comprehension. He only knew that something beyond his power of reasoning compelled him unto it.

As the drakken turned its prow into the whitecaps once more, he peeled his body from the girl, his gaze slicing through the sea-spray and mist to see that the man at the helm was struggling at best.

Sigurd would simply have to attempt it. His decision made, not even Thor himself could have swayed him from it. Not understanding his own motives, Alarik turned to Sigurd. “Replace Ivar at the helm! Quickly!”

Sigurd’s jaw dropped with disbelief, his eyes widening. “But jarl—”

“Go!” Alarik roared. “Now!”

Shaking his head, Sigurd went.

Laying the woman’s head upon the planking, gently, so as not to cause her further injury, Alarik watched him go, his hand reaching for his bone-handled dagger as he came to his feet. The wind battered his tunic as he held the hem within his fist, ready to slash it. He glared at Red-Hrolf as he rent a wide strip of his garment, baring his chest to the biting wind.

Red-Hrolf stood, shaking his head as well, torn between his fear of a watery grave and Alarik’s wrath. “You’ll kill us all!” he accused.

Probably hoping Alarik would change his mind, Sigurd halted abruptly, turning to hear Alarik’s reply.

In the meantime Bjorn dared to speak his mind. As Alarik’s brother, he maintained certain privileges others were deprived of—at least that much was granted him. “Alarik, mine brother, you are the only one who can guide us through this storm!”

Alarik stood silent, his legs braced apart, his eyes gleaming dangerously.

Bjorn’s face screwed with disbelief. “You would kill us all over a worthless Fransk bitch?” Almost at once, he regretted his boldness. Noting the ire that danced like fiery daggers in Alarik’s dark eyes, he shuddered, never having seen his brother so furious.

Clasping his dagger firmly, Alarik slashed another strip of material from his blood-smeared tunic, oblivious now to the numbing chill. He fixed a warning glare upon Sigurd. “Take that helm,” he said coldly. While his warning seemed directed at Sigurd, it was in fact meant for his young brother, and he issued the last of it as he turned to Bjorn. “Or ’tis you I’ll toss overboard, not the wench.”

He turned again to Red-Hrolf and added pointedly, his eyes burning with fury, “I’ll not have my commands questioned—ever! Do y’ heed?”

Knowing Alarik’s words were not mere threats, Sigurd immediately took to the helm.

“And you, Bjorn,” Alarik warned. “I shall take little more insolence from you—brother or nei. Go now and lower the accursed sails!”

At once, Bjorn leapt to do Alarik’s bidding, knowing there was too little time to waste. In this Hel wind it would take very little to devastate the sail cloth.

“Leave the mast raised!” Alarik called after him. He would need it later to raise a shelter. Then too, as soon as the wind abated he would again hoist the sail and use the drift anchor. Best to make use of it while they were able.

Once more, the Goldenhawk tilted violently. With hoarse shouts and curses, the men braced themselves against the tempest, lest they tumble into the frothy sea. Alarik stood his ground like an effigy from hell, not wholly real, but paralyzing in his towering might and intensity.

Satisfied that he would have no more resistance from his men, he gave his complete attention to the woman at his feet.

Chapter 9

“She’ll bring unrest,” Red-Hrolf said at Bjorn’s back.

Bjorn didn’t bother turning.

“She’s a Christian,” Red-Hrolf persisted.

A prickling crept down Bjorn’s spine at Red-Hrolf’s proclamation. He paused at his task, turning.

Red Hrolf’s expression was filled with scorn. “What else would a Frenchwoman be?”

Shuddering over the notion, Bjorn frowned, returning to the task of lowering the sails. He tugged violently at the lines. “Why should that concern me? You heard as well as I... she is mine brother’s problem! Speak to him if you would!”

Red-Hrolf’s eyes narrowed balefully. “Are you so blind, Bjorn? I say she is a threat to all of us!”

“She’s naught but a puny wench.”

“You underestimate her!”

“I think not.”

“Like a coiled adder is a woman’s bed talk. If you allow it, she’ll work her accursed faith upon you both! Destroy your alliance with the old gods! Mark my words, friend—else you will fall to its force... as has Olav... as has Alarik.”

Bjorn’s face contorted with disgust, and he dismissed Red-Hrolf once and for all. “You lie!” he charged. “My brother has not claimed the White Christ! I would know. No matter what else lies betwixt us, there has always been truth.”

Hrolf’s face contorted. “Do you not see how he risks us to save her? Nei, Bjorn, we all see what value he places upon our lives—your life.”

At once, Bjorn’s gaze was drawn to where Alarik knelt over the Frenchwoman. He stood watching a moment, doubts creeping in even against his will.

Red-Hrolf said darkly, “Watch them closely,” he warned, and with that spun away, leaving Bjorn to mull over his counsel.

As the storm abated, frosty white flakes fluttered down from the northern skies, sweeping their way into the icy blue sea.

Despite the fact that the gale had been brief it was fierce and Alarik estimated that it had borne them at least a full day closer to their destination. He’d been concerned for a time because the third and smallest drakken had vanished from view, but only moments ago it had been sighted ahead of them, its sails slightly tattered from the winds, though otherwise intact.

A cool flake lit upon the bridge of his nose, dissipating almost at once. Considering the fact that the temperature had already dropped considerably, he made his way to where the small canvas shelter had been erected utilizing the mast, cursing himself for doing so yet again.

Nor could he discern why he’d spared the other wench’s life when it was possible his men could have been right. She might, in truth, have carried the pestilence—something he could not have risked at sea. Yet he had. All because the little Fransk had protected her so fiercely. But why should he be so affected by that accusing glare of hers?

And why, by the thunder of Thor, should he care what she thought of him?

It was only meager consolation that the other wench was so much improved, for he had, in truth, risked more than he ought to have in letting her live. Alarik had no idea what malady had possessed her earlier, but she appeared to be recovering now, and Sigurd seemed to have taken to her, as well. The old warrior managed to play nursemaid to her when not otherwise occupied, and Alarik could well see why, for she was a comely little thing.

Reaching for the tent flap, he hesitated before lifting it, torn between his loyalty to his men and that which he had sworn to the woman within. He should be aiding with the navigation, he knew, but he also knew he could not attend to his command without first seeing to the wench, and his scowl deepened.

Surely he’d been bewitched.

With a disgusted shake of his head, he shoved aside the flap and stooped to enter the small cloth-enclosed chamber. Once within he straightened to his full height and moved silently toward the figure slumbering so peacefully upon the pallet. At her side, he dropped to his knees, noting that the wet rag he’d left upon her forehead had fallen to the side of her face. Lifting it, he contemplated the paleness of her skin.

In the dim light her features were ethereal, the fine bones of her face set in the most perfect arrangement he’d ever beheld on a woman. And her skin... as pure and unblemished as freshly fallen winter snow. Nevertheless, it was her eyes that drew him most, held him inexplicably spellbound. They were a work of artistry, with the delicate line of her brows arching over bewitching violet irises. Though closed now, Alarik could still see their vivid violet color, startling in its clarity.

To him, she was more beautiful even than the imagined Valkyrs of his youth, though he was well aware that few others would share his opinion, for she was darker than the maids of his land.

Retrieving the skin of fresh water that lay discarded atop the coverlets, he uncapped it, dousing the rag once more. He’d watched her do the same for the other maid and had surmised she’d done so to cool the fever. He was well aware that fever induced madness, and thought that it might have incited the other maid’s fits. Recapping the skin, he tossed it carelessly aside, then refolded the dampened cloth, considering the woman lying before him.

She’d slept without waking in the hours since her injury, causing him to wonder. With his own eyes he’d witnessed such a state where the injured fell into the deepest slumber and remained therein for days, weeks, months even, ere waking. Some were said never to revive at all. But such was not the case with this one, he assured himself, his mouth curving into an unconscious smile, for the little wench babbled as much in her sleep as she did while awake.

Indeed, for the better part of her slumber it seemed she’d dwelled in a world of vivid fantasies.

On impulse he moved the coverlet down to view her body beneath.

In removing her wet kyrtle, an undertunic of fine embroidered linen had been revealed, affirming the fact that she was a woman of substance. Discarding the rag, he placed his hand at her ribs, ascertaining whether the garment had dried, and despite himself his body quickened at the feel of her warm, soft flesh beneath the filmy gown. Unable to recall when he’d been so affected by a wench, he shook his head in self-disgust.

His eyes were drawn upward, and he stared, transfixed at the canvas, his heart hammering like mighty hoof-beats against his ribs. With all his might, he resisted the urge to slide his hand up to cup one luscious breast, squeeze it gently… he craved it madly.

Was he no better than Red-Hrolf?

Cursing himself, his hand drifted downward, away from that which tempted him so sorely, only to encounter something hard and round beneath her gown. Curious as to what it might be, he slipped his hand quickly within her neckline, his eyes closing with self-restraint as his fingers moved between her bare breasts, skimming her warm flesh. Surely the Gods taunted him.

He drew from her undertunic a long leather string, and his brows lifted in surprise, for suspended from it was a gleaming silver ring, generously embedded with tiny jewels.

For the longest instant, Alarik merely stared, transfixed, studying the ring thoughtfully. If his memory served him—and it did—the design within the raised border was the same worn by the Frankish King.

Who, then, was this woman to be wearing such a ring as this? A thousand possibilities crossed his mind, none of them acceptable.

“By the jaws of Fenri!” he whispered. He removed the ring from about her neck and weighed it speculatively within the palm of his hand. “Who are you, wench?”

He caught it suddenly, closing his fist over its hardness, and then with a muttered curse drew it over his own head, dropping the ring beneath his tunic. Taking hold of the discarded rag once more, he raised the cloth to the woman’s forehead, smoothing it over her brow. And despite the grim turn of his thoughts, the ache in his groin intensified as he slid the moist rag down her lovely throat... so white and soft.

Was she mistress, or daughter?

He refused to consider that she might have been Phillipe’s bride. She had claimed he was not her count as yet. Mayhap then, she was his betrothed?

He didn’t bother trying to convince himself he’d taken her for revenge, for he knew it wasn’t true—not when the merest thought of Phillipe touching her left acid burning in his gut.

As an afterthought, he lifted one hand, inspecting it, noting the calluses that contradicted the noble breeding the rest of her proclaimed. Strange that a highborn woman should bear the hands of a laborer. He considered that an instant, and then released her hand abruptly, letting it drop at her side, and then lifted his fingers reverently to her lips—such a luscious pink they were, despite the fact that they had been chapped by the wind.

But it was her hair that was her crowning glory, the color of richest sable. This moment, it was spread like a crown of shining velvet about her face, with a wayward lock entwined about her slender neck. Moistened with water from the rag, it clung to her silky flesh like a jealous lover. The comparison fully aroused him.

Determined now to view all he would lay claim to, he drew the blanket down to her ankles.

His eyes never made it beyond her breasts. Beneath the sheer undergarment her nipples were dark and lovely, hidden only by the gossamer linen, and he resisted the nigh irrepressible urge to touch them, telling himself that he was content to savor them with his eyes as they rose and fell with her gentle breath.

Later he would have his fill of her... later when she was healed and able to partake... later when he could take pleasure in the passion he knew he could arouse. He didn’t doubt that he could, but he knew he would need to leave her be for now. Unlike Red-Hrolf, he’d gain no pleasure from this manner of loving.

Flinging the coverlet over her, making certain those parts of her body that would tempt him were covered, he rose abruptly, considering what he would do about Red-Hrolf, for as certain as the wench had beguiled him, he also knew Red-Hrolf would cause dissension among his crew. He might have been distracted with the wench, but he’d not missed the confrontation Red-Hrolf had with Bjorn—nor had he missed Bjorn’s agitated expression afterward.

It boded ill for all.

Raking his hand across his scalp, he moved toward the tent opening, peering out speculatively at his men. All was quiet for the moment, but another tempest was brewing.

He could feel it in his bones.

Chapter 10

Elienor first became aware of the bitter chill seeping through the blankets, and immediately thereafter of the briny scent of the sea.

Where was she?

Such strange, strange dreams. Ships and warriors. A battle at sea—and that face—his face!

The floor beneath her swayed suddenly and she winced against the sharp pang that surged through her head at the unexpected motion. Struggling to sit upright, she brought her hand to her throbbing temple. It was then she saw him. Everything came rushing back at once. Her voice faltered. “What have you done with Clarisse?”

He turned abruptly toward her, his brows rising, but if she thought she spied relief in his expression she was sorely mistaken. His lips twisted sardonically as his silver eyes narrowed and met her blue ones. “Last I looked, you were in no position to command answers from anyone.”

Elienor said nothing, only glared at him.

“I take it you recall?”

“Would that I did not!”

A lethal chill entered his silver-flecked eyes. “Nevertheless,” he countered, and the depth of his tone sent shivers down her spine, “what is done, is done.” His eyes were alight with challenge and mockery. “Were I you, I would worry now only with covering myself... lest it be your aim to tempt the beast.”

Following his gaze to where the coverlet pooled at her lap, Elienor gasped, seizing it to her bosom, her face burning scarlet. “Where are my clothes?” She drew her arms defensively within the blanket.

“Wet,” he announced matter-of-factly. “I removed them, lest you catch the ague.”

“And what of Clarisse?” Elienor persisted, her chin lifting slightly.

When he didn’t reply, only lifted a brow at her, she swallowed at the inevitable conclusion she drew. She closed her eyes briefly, resisting bitter tears. When she opened them again, it was to meet his penetrating gaze. God help her, but she had to know for certain.

“Tell me, my lord Viking,” she said trying to sound conversational, but failing miserably. “Did you relish watching her take her last watery breath?”

A muscle ticked at his jaw as he stooped to lift up the skin of water at her side and uncapped it. He drank from it slowly, as though he considered his answer, never taking his eyes from her.

Elienor bristled at his apathy.

Swiping the back of his hand across his lips, he asked, his brow lifting in challenge, “You would have had me instead expose my men to whatever malady she might have carried?”

Elienor’s heart twisted violently at the affirmation. Her eyes squeezed shut as hot tears threatened to flow. “Jesu!” she declared in an agonized whisper. “You are all beasts!”

She heard him stir toward her and she averted her face, crying out in fear that he might strike her for the insult. But he didn’t. There was only silence between them—a massive silence in which the creak of the mast and the drone of voices from beyond the tent opening screeched into her conscious. That along with the sound of her heart pounding against her ribs.

“Scorn not what you cannot comprehend,” he replied with deceptive calm. “’Tis the law of the sea, wench.”

Elienor dared open her eyes to look at him. But it was her undoing, for the intensity of his gaze ensnared her.

“’Tis the law of the land, as well,” he disclosed in the same mesmerizing tone.

“To murder the innocent?” He expected her to simply accept such a thing? Not ever! “Not of my land!” Elienor returned miserably.

He lifted a brow. “Nei?”

Elienor shook her head, her eyes averting to the skin of water, and then returning.

“Mayhap,” he conceded, his dark eyes growing darker, stealing her breath away.

It was ludicrous—inconceivable, even—but he would not release her gaze; it was as though he held it physically within his grasp and refused to yield it.

“Then, again... I was not born of your land,” he disclosed, and glanced down at the skin of water in his hand. He took another modest sip and then surprised Elienor by holding it out to her.

Elienor stared at the skin as though it were sin itself he were offering, wetting her lips and cursing her weakness, for as thirsty as she was, she could not even begin to refuse it.

He smiled suddenly, as though he’d read her mind, and thrust it closer. “You don’t have to,” he said, his dark eyes sparkling with mirth at her expense.

Elienor blinked.

“Do you always speak your thoughts aloud?” he asked.

Elienor’s color deepened—curse and rot her wayward tongue! “So I’ve been told,” she ceded grudgingly, removing the skin from his hands—enormous hands with long, graceful fingers, she couldn’t help but note.

Tipping the flagon to her lips, she remembered the warmth of his touch on her face and sighed. And then she stiffened abruptly, catching his scent.

To her dismay, she found the scent of him lingered on the skin—she could swear she tasted him as well—yet it was absurd. Her brows drew together, and distressed by the discovery, she drew the skin away from her lips, as though singed, only to find that he watched her still, ruminating, something peculiar in his expression.

“The Northland is cruel to those not hale enough to endure it,” he announced suddenly. “Those not up to the trial are best put to rest.”

By his expression, Elienor thought he might be trying to justify his decision to murder Clarisse. Let him try—naught could justify it, she reflected bitterly.

As though to escape her accusing eyes, he rose abruptly, moving to peer out of the tarpaulin. There was silence a long moment, and then he countered, “Is it not more heartless to let the weak live... only to see them die another day?”

“What say you?” Elienor glared at his back, horrified to remember against her will the firmness of his flesh beneath her palms as he’d carried her out from the kirken, and then again to the ship; the refined strength in his every movement, the ease of his stride as he’d walked. She swallowed convulsively.

“Only that I see it as an act of mercy, and not cruelty, to free the weak from misery,” he said simply.

“Mercy?” Elienor repeated incredulously. “Mercy?” She shook her head. “How can you think so? ’Tis murder and naught less!”

He glanced over his shoulder at her, as though considering her reply. “Mayhap you think ’tis more merciful to let the sickly live and thereby allow others to suffer for it? In the Northland food is scarce—oft times ’tis what drives men from their homes to seek another...” Again he turned to peer out from the tarpaulin and there seemed a note of self derision in his voice. “It is what also leads men blindly into slaughter for the mere chance to hold a parcel of fertile land.”

“You are right,” Elienor said acerbically. “I don’t understand. How can the one justify the other? If one endures hardship, it would seem his compassion for others would be greater.”

“As surely as the healthy would be deprived of food in meager times, did the sickly child live… had the girl carried the pestilence, then all my crew would have suffered for it.” He peered over his shoulder at her, asking pointedly, “Should I have allowed the many to perish for a single wench who would doubtless die on her own?”

It finally occurred to her what it was he was trying to say. “Do you mean to tell me that you kill innocent babes? That a mother would allow it?” Her own mother had gladly forfeited her own life to save a child not of her blood.

He didn’t bother to turn toward her. “As I said... scorn not what you cannot possibly comprehend.”

She couldn’t believe what he was telling her so dispassionately. No one could be so cruel. “Surely, only God has the right to decide such things!” Elienor exclaimed. When he did not respond to her charge, her gaze swept the length of him, taking in his massive size once more. “How facile for one so fit to pass judgment on others less fortunate!” she said with anger and contempt. “I’m certain that you, my lord Viking, would have had naught to fear!”

He turned toward her suddenly, his lips curving, as though her proclamation amused him somehow, and in that moment, Elienor felt a rush of contempt for him.

His eyes were dark and insolent. “You think not?”

Elienor averted her gaze, flushing clear to her toes.

“From here forth you will cease to refer to me as my lord Viking,” he told her. “My given name is Alarik... and it would please me greatly should you use it in future.”

Please him? She’d rather think of him as the demon he was! “I’d as soon join Clarisse!” she said bitterly.

“That too can be arranged.”

Elienor’s gaze flew to his, dizzying her with the quickness of the motion. He wouldn’t dare!

Eyes gleaming, he chuckled deeply as he turned and moved toward her. Jesu—but he would. Her heart leapt.

He seemed to read her thoughts, for he halted abruptly at the terrorized look in her eyes.

“The truth is, wench,” he told her, looking perturbed, “my own father thought to put me out as a babe.”

As shocked as Elienor was by the revelation, she tried not to show it. Her lips parted to speak, but nothing came.

“’Tis true,” he assured her, his dark eyes sparkling.

Forsooth, and that should amuse him? Anger surged through her, but it was directed more at herself. Why should she have expected more from mere barbarians? Pain flared through her head and she cried out, her hand going to her temple.

He was beside her in mere seconds, stooping before her, his warm palm splayed across her own hand. She recoiled from him, but he held her fast, drawing her hand away in his own to peer beneath, and his voice was wrathful, yet oddly tender when he spoke again. “Hrolf Kaetilson will be punished for his savagery,” he assured her.

Elienor peered up at him, trying to shake his hold from her hand. “You...” Her voice, skeptical, suddenly faltered. “You would condemn your own man for harming me?”

His silver eyes hardened, his long powerful fingers refused to relinquish their hold. “As I would any for defying me,” he told her pointedly, squeezing her fingers lightly. Quivers swept down her spine at the gesture.

For defying him? Why else? Elienor asked herself scornfully, wrenching her hand free. “I see.”

She was suddenly aware of his hands upon her arms, sliding up and pressing her backward upon the pallet. “Rest now,” he commanded. “You must regain your strength.” He pulled the coverlet high about her throat, and his fingers slid the length of her jaw, sending gooseflesh racing down her arms. “I shall bring you nourishment directly.”

“I’m not hungry!”

“Nevertheless,” he countered, his voice as deep and unfathomable as the sea, “you will eat what I bring.”

Rising abruptly, he stood over her for an uncomfortable moment, peering down at her with... not concern; it couldn’t be. And then he turned to leave. Yet he halted before ducking out from the tent, glancing backward, as though suddenly reluctant to go. His eyes narrowed. “The boy... he called you Elienor?”

Reminded of Stefan, Elienor once again fought the salty burn of tears in her eyes.

“Is that how you are known?”

Curse him, Elienor thought, for he had not even the decency to show compunction when speaking of poor Stefan! “Aye,” she relented, a lump forming in her throat. A single tear slid down her cheek, but she swiped it away, vowing to shed no more. “I am Elienor,” she told him, suddenly feeling so very fatigued, defeated.

“Elienor,” he whispered, as though savoring the sound of her name. His eyes bore into hers. “It suits you,” he told her. “And from whence do you hail, Elienor?”

Her eyes narrowed with anguish. Another tear slipped silently past her lashes. She blinked it away. “As though you did not know.”

Something strange flickered in the gleaming silver depths of his eyes—regret? She didn’t want his tenderness, nor his concern. She wanted only to loathe him!

“I mean before Brouillard. Who was your sire?”

Realizing what he wished to know, Elienor sought to deter him, uncertain how it would bode her if she revealed her relation to Robert of France. “I came from Baume les Nonnes,” she supplied.

One brow shot up in surprise. “Nonnes? You came from a holy house?”

Elienor nodded, her eyes stinging with tears she refused to shed.

His eyes were sharp, assessing. “I thought you were to be wed to Count Phillipe?”

“I was. Until you came.”

“Then you are not his bride?”

Elienor shook her head in answer, and then shivered, for as she watched, the tiniest smile twisted his lips, spreading deep into his bladelike eyes. She vowed to say no more, not wanting to please him.

As though sensing her withdrawal, he nodded, evidently appeased for the time being, and ducked beneath the tent flap, disappearing into his own world.

She wanted no part of that world.

Her heart heavy with grief, she watched as the flap swung to and fro an instant, and then tugged the coverlet over her head to hide the tears she could no longer keep.

Chapter 11

Had she truly thought she’d known confinement?

Elienor’s tiny cell at Baume-les-Nonnes had never seemed so grand than it did at the moment. Still, as she had no wish to see any of her barbarian captors ever again—even to breathe fresh air—she remained within the confines of the little tent. That she had to suffer Alarik, the demon—she couldn’t say his name, even mentally, without adding the epithet—was torment enough.

He was the one who brought her food and water, and for the first two days had ministered to her head wound solicitously, yet she felt anything but grateful at the moment. Some part of her—the part that felt the loss and guilt most keenly—wished only that he would let her die in peace. How could she bear to live with such beasts?

She could have borne it had she had someone to care for, to protect, someone who needed her. But there was no one now. Stefan and Clarisse were gone, and she’d never been more alone in her life, not even when she’d been abandoned to the priory.

Turning away from the tent opening and the starry darkness beyond it, she recalled what Alarik had said to her—that his own father had thought to put him out as a babe. She closed her eyes, and there the image plagued her. Desperately, she tried to free her mind, but it was no use.

Why couldn’t she stop thinking of him?

Why couldn’t she simply go to sleep?

He was anything but vulnerable, she knew. So why was she foolish enough to see him otherwise?

Tugging the coverlet up, she buried her face in the abrasive wool and managed to coerce herself into a troubled slumber. In her dream the rain pattered on her back…

“What possessed you to come here, child?”

Hearing Heloise’s voice, Elienor swung about, hurling herself into the old nun’s welcoming arms.

“There, there, now,” she soothed. “Sister Heloise will love you now, ma bonne petite. Together we will care for your maman’s lily. Oui?”

Elienor nodded into the warmth of Heloise’s wool clad shoulder. Scratchy as the fabric was, it felt good to her little cheeks. “Because Maman loves lilies... She loves them so much...” She sighed. Here she felt so safe... so sheltered...

She lifted her face, smiling, to gaze into... his face!

That look! So tender. Alarik was holding her, his arms strong, shielding her from the pattering rain.

She couldn’t help herself. She let him, sagging against his coarse mail-clad chest, her arms going around him.

Safe... safe...yet how could it be so?

The sun was shining, sweet and warm upon her face.

But something was wrong.

Something... though she knew not what...

It was much too bright suddenly, the sun glinting off silver helms and mail. All about her swords clashed with mighty clangs. But she could see no one!

Shields flashed.

Bringing her hand from around from his back... she discovered blood.

Betrayed? Had she betrayed him? But how?

How was it possible when she’d never given her loyalty to begin with?

It could not be.

All at once she was torn from Alarik—seized by a man without a face.

Elienor screamed...

“Shhhhh, little one,” a husky voice whispered. “Shhhhhhh. ’Tis but a dream.” A warm palm smoothed her damp hair away from her forehead.

Elienor’s eyes flew wide, and her heart leapt into her throat. As her vision adjusted in the darkness, she found him hovering inches above her, his expression tender—that same expression she remembered from the church... and more recently from the dream.

Her breath caught as his hands moved to her shoulders, stroking gently, the gesture oddly soothing yet disturbing in its intimacy.

“You?” she croaked. Reaching out, she seized his hand in a desperate attempt to stop his ministrations.

His hands stilled, but remained where he willed them “Aye,” he whispered, his lips hovering so close to her face that she could feel the heat of his breath. “You were dreaming. Again,” he added with quiet emphasis.

Again?

Elienor’s heart somersaulted. Acutely aware of his hands on her shoulders, as well as his lips so near her own, she licked her lips gone dry and swallowed. Each night since her injury she’d dreamt that same distressing dream.

Had he come to comfort her those times as well?

“Again?”

His fingers recommenced massaging her shoulder, undeterred by the nails she dug into the back of his hand.

“Again,” he said, his warm breath caressing her lips.

A chill raced down Elienor’s spine. She whimpered softly, recalling the last time a man—Count Phillipe—had lingered so close. The possibility that Alarik might kiss her made her heartbeat quicken and her breath catch in her throat.

What would she do?

Looking down into her frightened face, Alarik wanted to ask what made her cry out so desperately in her sleep each night, but was loath to hear that her nightmare was of him. He tried to imagine how he would see himself through her eyes and cringed at the image. “You were weeping,” he told her, his voice strange to his own ears. “I heard and came.”

“It… was naught,” Elienor protested, her hand drawing his away from her shoulder. “As you said... naught but a foolish dream.”

“Aye,” he replied, releasing her abruptly. He surged to his feet. “You should go back to sleep.” His breath sounded as labored as her own. “’Tis early yet...”

Elienor’s heart thrummed in the silence as he gazed down upon her.

Yet he didn’t go.

He did not so much as move.

Nor did his expression shift.

The silence between them grew until Elienor thought she would shatter from the tension. Her mind searched desperately for something to say.

“Why would your father do such a thing?” she asked impetuously, agitated as much by the way he watched her as with the silence. “To his own son?” She could understand how it could come to pass that a father might abandon his daughter to the clergy, for the sake of greed, because it had happened to her. But murder outright? “Why would any father think to cast aside an innocent babe?”

Alarik had altogether forgotten that first conversation. And then, remembering, he nodded, feeling for the first time in so many years those conflicting emotions he’d experienced the first time he’d asked that question of himself. He turned from her momentarily, frowning as he went to the tent opening, lifting up the flap to peer out from the tarpaulin, into the quiet night. His face, lit only on one side by the night sky, appeared wholly sinister in the deep shadows of the tarpaulin.

Only the creak of the wood, adjusting to the movement of the sea, and the snores of his crew broke the silence.

“Because I was born too soon,” he revealed after a moment of discomfiture. He turned to face her once more, the unwelcome emotions swiftly mastered, tucked away even from himself. “Born too soon,” he reiterated without inflection, “and thus too small.”

“What stopped him?” Something in her tone made Alarik flinch. The last thing he’d intended was to stir her pity.

He wanted no one’s pity.

He straightened.

There was naught to pity.

“My mother’s weeping,” he said matter-of-factly. “’Tis the way it should have been,” he added in a tense, clipped tone that forbade further questioning. The way she looked at him in that instant, full of compassion, set his teeth on edge. “It was my father’s given right’,” he told her, his brows colliding when she continued to look his way in silence, her eyes scrutinizing him through the shadows. “Damn you—I’ve no need of your pity, wench—save it for yourself! You seem to wallow in it more than enough!”

“I have not been wallowing in pity!”

“Nei? Is that why you lie here, day in, day out, staring blindly and mutely at the ceiling of this tarpaulin?”

She flashed him a look of contempt. “And what would you have me do instead?” she countered icily, her voice rising with her anger. “Rejoice over having been taken captive by a hoard of barbarians?”

Alarik felt a rush of satisfaction at hearing the bite in her tone. If she was angry, at least she was feeling. The more she’d retreated within herself, the more guilt had gnawed at his gut. Yet quick on the heels of his relief came an overwhelming rush of resentment, for once again he mocked himself; why should he care what came of the wench?

He glanced out from the tarpaulin, his scowl as dark as the night without. To his way of thought, no wench was worthy of more than a fleeting thought, and he didn’t make it his practice to reflect on them overmuch. Nor did he idle away his time with them, save to quench his body’s cravings… and for that there was always a willing body.

Aye, there had been a few who with their expert ways and comely faces had set his mind to reeling and his tongue ready to recount any number of love words but only for a time, because once his body was sated, cold reality crept abed. He’d never spoken the words. Never would. All it ever took to set his mind straight was to remember another woman who might have destroyed so much in his life. Deceit and treachery was the way with them all.

By damn! he cursed himself. He didn’t care.

So why was it he came running to her side at hearing her cries each night? Nei, why did he wait to hear them so that he could come?

And he did, Loki take him! He shook his head in self-disgust, maddened by his conflicting emotions. Resisting the urge to rip down the tarpaulin where he stood, he turned to face her. “By the jaws of Fenri, wench, I care not what you do!” he exploded suddenly. “Go back to sleep—and next time, be certain to smother your cries lest you rouse my men! I won’t bother to answer them—ungrateful, aggravating, witch!”

Blaspheming himself next, he thrust aside the tent flap and ducked out into the night.

Witch.

The sound of that single word kindled terror in Elienor’s heart, as it never failed to.

She dared not sleep again. Dared not dream. Closing her eyes, she prayed for morning.

Chapter 12

Take care what you pray for.

Recalling Sister Heloise’s words, Elienor grimaced for the first bright rays of morning had come too early, with no regard for her body’s fatigue. Yet despite her weariness—or mayhap because of it—she felt restless.

She sat abruptly, glaring at the tent opening, hugging her knees, thinking that more than likely it was he that made her feel so cross. How dare he accuse her of wallowing in self-pity! Especially when she had every cause to do so!

She shivered suddenly, rubbing her arms beneath the blanket, remembering against her will the incredible warmth of his lips.

Don’t think of that, she scolded herself.

How could she have felt sympathy for the beast? But amazingly, she had—for the babe he’d once been, and for his mother—and along with it, she’d experienced such an incredible urge to comfort—a ridiculous notion, for he’d seemed not at all affected by his past. His face had remained an impervious mask, and if anything he’d seemed vexed with her for questioning his murderous father.

Listening to the sounds of the crew rousing outside, she wished them all to perdition—their arrogant leader most especially.

She stood, shaking off the blanket in the heat of her ire, and began to pace the confines of the narrow tent, stopping to listen to the ghoulish groans of the mast. She pounded the wooden pillar soundly with her fist, wanting it to cease once and for all.

She couldn’t bear this much longer!

And she most certainly was not a witch!

What of the dream? a little voice asked.

Elienor snorted inelegantly. “What dream?” she countered stubbornly.

Ah, Elienor, you forget so easily—any one of many—last night while he held you...

“’Tis naught but coincidence,” Elienor said petulantly, refusing to acknowledge the other accusation—that she’d allowed him to hold her. It was merely a dream. Mother Heloise had said so.

And you believe it still? Can you be so blind? Open your eyes at last, bien-aimee.

A shiver passed down her spine. “Beloved?” Something about the way the endearment came to her, the way it sounded so clearly in her head, suddenly discomfited her. It brought back memories of her mother’s soft gentle voice. She swallowed, glancing about warily.

I have been with you always, bien-aimee. You must heed the warnings.

Elienor’s heart raced and a chill passed through her, sending gooseflesh racing down her arms.

“Mother!” she said, whirling suddenly, searching for the face that went with the imagined voice.

Heed them, Elienor.

Again she spun about, spying nothing still.

Jesu Christ! Surely it was only her imagination!

It was true she oft talked to herself—but never like this! “Dear God! I am mad!” she exclaimed a little hysterically. Eyeing the blanket she’d discarded upon the pallet, she felt acutely the crispness of the air. If she stayed in this tent another moment, the madness would be irrevocable. If she didn’t freeze to death first—and it was all his fault!

“Truly, I am mad!” she whispered again. Jesu, but it was cold! She started for the blanket suddenly, intending to wrap it about her shoulders. “Mad, mad, mad!”

“I’m inclined to agree.”

Elienor practically leapt out of her stockinged feet. She spun about to face the tent opening where Alarik, the demon, stood watching her, his arms crossed, his lips twisted with ill-concealed amusement. A grin suddenly overtook his features... those sensuous lips twisting devilishly. “Who can argue with truth?” he said, his eyes sparkling with rare humor. “Without question, you’re unusual, Elienor of Baume les Nonnes.”

Elienor shot him a look of contempt, forcing her gaze from his lips.

Unusual? Precisely what was he implying? Unusual, indeed! She dared not ask, lest he accuse her of witchery again. “Beg pardon if I offend thee, my lord Viking!”

“Alarik.”

Elienor’s eyes narrowed belligerently. “Pardon again! Alarik, the demon,” she countered, daring to use her own epithet for him. And emboldened by his silence, she dared even further. “Mighty Norseman, slayer of innocents!”

He stiffened as though she’d physically struck him.

Her voice rose in renewed anger over Clarisse’s senseless death. “Alarik, the executioner!”

“Enough!” he snarled at last, his eyes warning her. “Lest you wish to join your friend?”

Elienor snorted to cover her instant of fear. “You would!” she continued carelessly. Let him do what he wished to her! She refused to forget her pride ever again.

A muscle ticked at his jaw. “Aye, wench, I would... never doubt it.” His eyes glittered dangerously.

Yet he did nothing of the sort, Elienor noticed. He simply stood glaring at her.

Tossing her head back, she eyed him with cold triumph, daring to challenge him with every fiber of her being. Only the longer he stood, the darker his look became, and the more ominous he seemed, and Elienor began to truly doubt her sanity.

What was wrong with her that she would goad him so?

He said absolutely nothing, merely stood there, his eyes glittering with barely restrained fury, and then he flung her dry kyrtle at her.

Elienor gasped as the garment cuffed her in the face. She fumbled for it, missed it, and then fumbled for it again as it fluttered to the planking. She stared down at it numbly, glancing up in astonishment.

He was gone.

That was it?

She’d pushed and pushed, yet that was all he would do in retaliation? She felt giddy with relief. For a befuddled instant, she stood there gazing down at her saltwater-stained garment, illuminated suddenly by a dazzling shaft of sunlight, and wondered in horror how she could have forgotten what she was wearing—or rather what she was not wearing! At once, she fell to her knees, seizing up her bliaut, her face burning crimson with shame, and then again glanced at the tent opening.

Sunlight shone onto her face, and she shielded her eyes, amazed at how much light he kept from the tarpaulin when he stood in the doorway. With his departure the shelter was again awash with light.

Which led her to wonder just how she’d not sensed him standing there.

Worse, how long had he stood there before making his presence known?

“The cur!” she said aloud, and promptly drew the ruined gown over her head, smoothing it over her undertunic.

The man was impossibly arrogant.

Still she couldn’t believe he’d done naught more than swat her with her gown.

Leaving her so she could dress, Alarik vowed to stay clear of her—vicious wench that she was. So much for attempting civility. Had he felt bad about the way he’d spoken to her last night?

No more!

From here on, Sigurd was perfectly capable of carrying her meals to her—otherwise she could spend her days in solitude, or content herself with her biting tongue for company.

But as the day wore on, Alarik couldn’t quite remove from his memory the caged look she’d had on her face as she’d paced the confines of the tent. Nor could he erase the image of her standing there in dishabille, ripe and luscious, and very likely untouched for all that she’d disclosed. And Loki take him if that possibility didn’t make him burn all the hotter.

It was unlikely Phillipe would have forced himself upon her with her pious upbringing and her connections—whatever they were—to Robert of Francia.

Yet another thing that bedeviled him.

Leaning back against the prow, he eyed the tent restlessly, shaking his head in disbelief. The stupid wench didn’t even have the good sense to stay covered beneath the blanket he’d given her. Anyone could have walked in and spied her standing as she was.

What galled him most, however, was that she still blamed him for Clarisse’s death. Mayhap it wouldn’t so much if, in truth, he’d tossed the baseborn wench overboard, but he hadn’t—though he damned well should have—and what provoked him most was that the Fransk she-wolf didn’t even realize the truth.

And he couldn’t tell her.

Nei, he amended, he wasn’t about to tell her.

Let the witch believe what she would of him.

“Have you told her yet that her friend lives?” Sigurd inquired from the helm, as though he’d read Alarik’s thoughts.

Alarik gave his old friend a scowl for his prying. His brow rose slightly, yet he made no reply beyond that gesture.

“You could send Clarisse in to keep her company,” Sigurd suggested cannily.

“Clarisse?” Alarik asked with lifted brows.

Sigurd ignored the taunt. “Mayhap if you told her... she wouldn’t feel so confined... and her tongue wouldn’t be so sharp.”

“You overstep your bounds, Sigurd!”

“Couldn’t help but overhear,” Sigurd said, defending himself. At Alarik’s black look, he shrugged in mock resignation, and returned his attention to the steering of the vessel.

The hush that followed mocked Alarik.

“She has two legs of her own!” Alarik barked at his friend. “If she ever bothers to come out, she’ll know. Otherwise she can assume whatever she pleases!”

Sigurd shrugged and Alarik’s attention was again drawn to the tarpaulin.

He couldn’t make out her silhouette at the moment. It was only at night, highlighted by the light within, that her lithe figure behind the canvas taunted him. And not solely him, he knew, for he’d not missed the looks his men cast in her direction.

Damn the wench, for within that tent, she had no notion what spell she’d cast over his crew.

He didn’t give a rat’s piss that she felt confined, he decided suddenly.

She was his prisoner.

In truth, he didn’t much care if she starved herself to death either—stubborn, venomous wench. It’d save him the trouble of strangling her.

Chapter 13

Stooping as he entered the tent, Alarik moved swiftly toward her, heedlessly tossing at her side the wooden platter he’d brought. It settled upon the planking with a hollow clatter. “I don’t give a whit if you’re not hungry,” he snarled at her. “You’ll eat regardless—and smile as you swallow!”

Elienor blinked at his ruthless tone, so at odds with his actions. He didn’t care... yet he brought her food?

Some of her outrage dissipated, leaving only confusion in its wake, along with a lingering dose of chagrin for the way that he’d found her this morn. Her eyes dropped to the platter. At the sight of it, her stomach grumbled.

“Don’t bother denying it, wench!” He sat back upon the enormous rounded block that supported the mast. “Even your body defies you.” He grinned suddenly. “Your belly rumbles louder than Thor’s hammer.”

To her dismay she could feel her cheeks heating. She glowered at him and averted her gaze, grateful that his smile faded, for the sight of it seemed to incite her heart to insurrection. Frowning, she glanced down at the platter, noting the assortment of cheeses and bread; she was grateful for the lack of pungent dried salmon he’d brought every other meal. To her chagrin, her mouth began to water at the sweet odors that wafted to her nostrils. She sat upright, trying to appear indifferent, yet failing miserably. Her stomach grumbled once more, and she cursed it, along with her pounding heart.

He slid down the block to sit upon the planking before her, and her heart turned over violently. Hardly able to understand what his presence aroused within her, Elienor tried her best to ignore him.

“Why is it that you don’t realize when you’re talking to yourself?” he asked with genuine interest.

Elienor looked at him, shrugging. “How should I know?”

“Has it always been so?”

“As long as I can remember,” she relented, trying to still the erratic beating of her heart. Again she cursed her tongue. How many times had she been reprimanded at the cloister? Too many to recount—and always at the hour of prayer.

After a moment, she offered, “Mother Heloise said it was because I have a restless mind.”

Feeling more agitated by the instant, she tried to discern the demon’s purpose in speaking so civilly to her, but could perceive no reason for it. Surely, there was something he wanted of her?

He nodded, apparently satisfied with her explanation, and reached for a slice of soft white cheese, surprising her by bringing it to her lips.

Elienor’s brows lifted. “You would feed me?” she asked, resisting the urge to snatch it whole into her mouth—and bite off his fingers in the process.

Alarik’s brow rose at her question. Retrieving the cheese, he tore off a modest bite for himself, popping it in his mouth. “Unless, of course, you’re not hungry?”

Elienor was, but she wasn’t about to beg for her supper. Let him eat it all if he would. She watched him chew, fascinated by the strength in his jaw... his lips... the way they appeared... so soft... and yet so hard. Her fingers went to her own lips, her brows drawing together, and then catching herself, she startled.

Forsooth, what did he want of her? That she would forget all that had passed between them in the space of an afternoon? Hardly possible.

Seeing her chin jut forward stubbornly, Alarik decided to cease with the jesting lest she starve over her stubbornness—he had not missed the confusion in her face when she’d watched him eat. The way she’d touched her own lips as she’d contemplated his sent talons of desire clawing through him. He held the cheese out once more. “A peace offering,” he suggested.

“Peace?” Elienor retorted. “Betwixt us?” Just to make certain there was no confusion as to whom she meant, she gestured between the two of them, her expression clearly disbelieving.

“Aye. I would say it was in your best interest,” he apprised.

“Mine? Since when do you trouble yourself with my best interest, my lord?”

My lord.

Not my lord Viking?

Alarik grinned, feeling a small victory at the concession.

His pewter-gray eyes assessed her and a quiver swept down Elienor’s spine, though she managed an indifferent shrug. Yet she was anything but unaffected. He had a way of looking at her that disconcerted at best. He offered the cheese again and she eyed the morsel malevolently.

“You feed all your captives this way?”

“All?” His gaze dropped from her eyes to her shoulders, to the cheese... or at least Elienor assumed it was the cheese. Something about the hunger in his eyes seemed more than just a bit carnal. “No.”

She crossed her arms, rubbing them as though to erase the gooseflesh that prickled her, and sensing that her stomach was about to betray her again, she indignantly swiped the cheese from his fingers and fought the urge to shove the tiny bite into her mouth.

“The truth is, Elienor, I keep no thralls.”

“Thralls?” Involuntarily her eyes returned to his lips. As she stared something fluttered deep within the pit of her belly.

His eyes glittered with amusement. “In your tongue… slaves.”

“I see,” Elienor said stiffly, her gaze affixed to his face as she nibbled from the cheese in her hand. “So then, what, pray tell, am I?”

Alarik’s half-grin faded, for he found himself suddenly at a loss.

What was she, indeed?

In truth, he rarely took prisoners. Every last one of the steading’s servants were freed men, hired for pay. And while slavery was indeed the way for many Norsemen, Alarik had chosen not to employ it. Mayhap it was the circumstances of his birth that kept him from it, for he wanted no bastard children born under him. He had no taste for begetting children who felt less than whole... and fancied they had something to prove to the world.

So, then, what the devil was the wench to be, if not his slave? His brow rose as he considered her question...and then he happened to recall the ring, and his gaze fell to the creamy expanse of her neck.

“I believe a more poignant question remains to be asked. What were you to Count Phillipe? Better yet, what were you to Robert of Francia… wench?”

He wanted her know with certainty that whatever her title was up to now... it was no more.

Elienor nearly choked on the cheese.

Her eyes widened, her hand flew to her breast. She flashed Alarik a look of alarm and his eyes bore into her with silent expectation.

She said nothing, merely stared at him with a look of panic.

Provoked by her silence, he gripped her suddenly by the wrist, jerking her toward him, though his other hand went to her temple, to her wound, caressing it without touching at all.

She tried to look away, but he yanked her toward him once more, annoyed by the way she studiously avoided his gaze. “Am I so repulsive to you, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, that you would fly from my touch? Does my Viking face repulse you, even now, after I’ve cared for you? Fed you? Protected you? Can you not cease to judge me for who you think I am—the heartless barbarian Norseman—and see me differently? In truth, I am not so gentle as some, but neither am I cruel. Forsooth! I am but a man,” he finished angrily. “I’d not have you look at me as though I were a fire-breathing serpent.”

Elienor managed to shake her head.

Nay, if the truth be known, she was not repulsed by him just now, but by herself, and her body’s odd response to his touch—to his very presence. But she thought she might die if he didn’t release her at once.

“I’ll not harm you, wench,” he swore. “You need not shun my touch again.”

“Nay?”

The blue flecks in his eyes deepened and his voice was softer, huskier when he next spoke. “I grant you my word that I shall take naught from you that is not freely given.”

Her chin lifted, remembering his earlier threat. “Which is it, my lord… that you shall deeply enjoy the taking? or that you will take naught unless given freely?”

For the longest instant, he was stunned enough to say nothing. “My word!” he declared. “But take care you do not offend me further,” he warned, his eyes narrowing. “You’d do well to remember that it is I alone who stand betwixt you and my men. Understand my meaning?”

He squeezed her wrist lightly, though not enough to cause pain, his brows lifting in question. When Elienor nodded, he released her at last.

Yet he held her eyes fast.

Ensnared by his gaze, Elienor rubbed her wrist absently.

From beyond the tent came a sudden roar of merriment, diverting his attention.

Suddenly his look was full of satisfaction. The ire completely melted from his gaze and the grey in his eyes turned a lucid silver.

“At last… the Gareinger Fjord,” he said. When Elienor did not understand, he added, “Home.”

Chapter 14

Her face was full of dread, but Alarik had no desire to reassure her just now—not with the havoc her beautiful face played upon his mind—not when she looked upon him as though he were some mad beast from the wilds.

Never mind that she had a right to fear him.

She seemed to realize suddenly that even after he’d released her, she’d remained within a hair’s breadth of him, for her eyes widened, and she gasped, thrusting herself backward. Her reaction to him clenched his gut.

Avoiding her gaze as he stood, Alarik left without another word. He stepped outside into the bright sunlight, wondering what it was about her bewitching eyes that made him lose all reason.

Had he truly proposed peace betwixt them? When she obviously preferred his head on a platter instead? What ailed him, indeed!

As the Goldenhawk glided over the sun-lit waters, light as a gull, the crew shouted hoarse cheers to the two smaller drakken sailing in its wake.

Not a single man aboard the sister ships could suppress their exhilaration over the sight before them. Alarik’s mood lightened considerably.

Their home soil rose white and proud on either side of the ice-scattered fjord, reaching magnificently into the clouded blue heavens.

The drizzle was heavier now, the crisp air smelling of freshly fallen snow. With much pleasure, Alarik took the fresh, cold air into his lungs until they stung from the chill. The scene before him never ceased to overwhelm him, to fill him with satisfaction. There were times the Northland’s harsh winters left him aching for the sun and sea, but inasmuch as this was so, it was also true that an interval at sea filled his heart with a fierce longing for the rugged fjord that harbored his home.

His home.

His.

All his life he’d endeavored to prove himself—first to his father, then to his people, and finally to himself. He’d sweat blood, pure and bright, for his right to hold this land. It was his now—all of it—stark as it was in winter, meager as it was in spring—as far as the eye beheld. He’d earned every last grain of soil.

Like a mother that snuggles a hungry babe to her bosom, so did the twin knolls on the horizon give refuge to his steading. He watched, the end of a snow-peppered dock appear, and as the Goldenhawk rounded the bend in the fjord, the wooden structure grew in clarity before his eyes, as though stretching in welcome. With a father’s pride, Alarik stood, relishing the sight.

No doubt, the red diamond sails of the Goldenhawk had been spied the moment they’d entered the mouth of the fjord. Long before the first drakken glided into dock, the pier was teeming with gleeful kinsmen.

Feeling much as she imagined a caged animal would feel, Elienor paced the confines of the tent, wondering how long it would be before he came for her.

And though she couldn’t possibly have waited longer than fifteen minutes, when Alarik appeared in the doorway, darkening the tent interior with his presence, she was so anxious that she shrieked in startle.

“Gather your belongings. We’ve arrived.”

Elienor bristled at his choice of words. “Pray, do you mean all my many coffers, my lord Viking?” she asked with a slight smile of defiance.

Alarik frowned at her.

“But there are so many!” she continued flippantly, lifting her chin, meeting his icy gaze straight on. “It would take hours to pack them all!”

Without warning, Alarik sauntered forward, seizing her by the hand and hauling her out of the tent after him.

Dread shot through her at the reality of this new world she was entering, so different from her own.

The drastic change in weather, the uncanny chill of the air alone was staggering. Nevertheless, she concealed her fear valiantly behind bold words. “Alas, shall I go with the dress on my back?” she asked sarcastically, wincing at the brightness of the sunlight. “Will we send for the coffers later?”

He said naught, merely tugged at her arm, and she glared at his back.

Jesu, but it was cold!

All about her there were people, embracing, laughing, joking. How could they? Elienor bristled. Certainly there was nothing joyous about this day!

Alarik stopped and turned, and Elienor gasped as she collided with his leather-clad chest. He’d been about to speak out, but halted abruptly at her cry of pain. And again, that look as he gazed down at her. She couldn’t bear to suffer his scrutiny, or his concern!

His hand went to her healing scar. “I am fine!” she said, shrinking away from his touch.

His hand froze between them, and at once his look darkened. He jerked his gaze away, and without a word to her, immediately began to bellow out orders to his men for the unloading of the vessels. And then, hauling her after him once more, he led her off the ship, up a narrow pathway that led up the cliff side.

Beneath Elienor’s leather shoes, the snow was tamped down, evidence of the rush of feet that had trod up and down the pathway to the docks this morn. Obviously someone loved these men well, though she couldn’t imagine who, or why. That they would have families who cared for them seemed inconceivable.

Halfway up the cliff side, her heart full of misery, Elienor cast a glance over her shoulder at the despised dragon ships that had brought her to this godforsaken place. And to her shock, she spied Clarisse being led onto the dock by the Nude One.

“You lied to me!” she said to Alarik’s back. When he didn’t respond to her accusation, she tugged wrathfully upon his arm. “Clarisse lives!”

“So she does,” he replied dispassionately.

Again Elienor tugged at his arm, this time with more force. “But you said—”

“I said naught,” he snapped, glancing backward at her, his eyes dark and smoldering. He tugged her forward. “It was you who said, wench. I simply didn’t bother to correct you!” He kept walking, virtually dragging her after him.

“How could you deliberately mislead me?” Elienor stumbled over her feet, unable to keep pace with his greater stride. “Stop! Stop! Let me speak to her, for the love of God!”

He stopped abruptly, and once again Elienor collided with him. Only this time, she dared not cry out, for the malevolence in his expression when she looked up at him was startling in its intensity.

“Mislead you?” he asked, his voice low and silky. He shook his head slowly. “Nei, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes, for you were bound and determined to believe the worst of me. I simply chose not to disappoint.”

Elienor blinked, uncertain of what to say in her defense, for in this he spoke truth. She had suspected the worst of him. Yet how could she not?

He turned sharply and continued up the path, again hauling her after him.

“My lord, a word please!”

Startled by the male voice so near, Elienor gasped and turned to face the bearer of it—and found herself reeling yet again at the sight she encountered. Struggling not to trip over her blundering feet, she watched in shock as the man passed her by.

A monk? Here? But nay, it could not be!

Shaking her head in mute disbelief, she once again took in everything, from his frock, tied with braided rope, to his tonsured head.

Elienor’s mouth opened to speak, though she was unable to find her voice. And still Alarik would not stop. Curse him! Instead, he seemed to walk all the faster, jerking her after him, as though he did not wish her to acknowledge the monk at all.

For his part, the monk seemed as surprised by the sight of Elienor as she was by him, for he stared in return as he attempted to catch up with Alarik.

He gave up abruptly, falling back to walk beside Elienor, his chest heaving with exertion.

“Jesu!” Elienor exclaimed at last, trying desperately to keep pace and failing miserably. “You are a monk!”

“Aye!” Alarik exploded, jerking to a halt. “Loki take you both, for the man is as much a thorn in my side as you are, wench!” Alarik turned and eyed the monk furiously. “What is it, Vernay?”

Vernay prudently ignored Alarik’s outburst. Bowing his head slightly to Elienor, he added, “I am Brother Vernay, my la—”

“By God!” Alarik exploded. “Odin has cursed me!”

“My lord!” Vernay reproached, turning to wag a finger at Alarik, the sight so ludicrous—Vernay as small as he was, and Alarik as immense as he was—that Elienor’s brows furrowed with incredulity. “You should not speaketh the name of God in the same breath with that other!”

A muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw. “So you’ve said, holy man! I weary of this and have much to do. Best you speak whilst you have my attention, or lose the occasion until it suits me.”

At that, Vernay immediately tore his gaze away from Elienor and turned to Alarik. “Ah, yes, m’lord! As to that—”

“Alarik!” another voice shouted, a feminine voice this time.

Elienor glanced upward in time to catch Alarik rolling his eyes yet again, and then she heard Brother Vernay’s answering groan. Scanning the path ahead, Elienor spied the cause: A figure descended toward them, a woman, with her long, golden hair plaited thickly and resting seductively over her left shoulder.

‘That, m’lord,” Vernay interjected quietly, “is the matter I wished to address.”

“Nissa?” Alarik asked, his brows rising.

Brother Vernay nodded, grimacing.

The woman smiled and held her arms outstretched as she came into Alarik’s reach. “Finally, you are home!” she declared in a French that was heavy with Norse inflections.

Evidently she spoke it for Vernay’s sake, for she eyed the monk sharply, yet Elienor found herself grateful that she’d spoken French, for she could hardly have borne the uncertainty of not knowing of what they spoke.

“I have worried so!” Nissa chided sweetly. But she froze as she spied Elienor standing behind Alarik, her ice-blue eyes centering at once upon the hand he held locked within his fist. Her brow furrowed softly and she retreated a step. “Of course... ’tis a woman’s lot to wait and worry, is it not?” She gestured at Elienor. “Who—”

“Someone I’ll wish you to tend,” Alarik broke in. He drew Elienor forward to stand between them. “I’d have you go and make ready for her in my chamber,” he directed.

Elienor’s dark lashes flew wide. “Nay!” she shrieked, and tried to shake her wrist free.

“In your chamber!” Nissa exclaimed.

Elienor’s gaze flew first to Nissa’s; the woman’s expression mirrored Elienor’s horror. And then twisting free of Alarik’s death grip, she spun to face him.

“In my chamber,” Alarik repeated, ignoring Elienor and looking past her at Nissa. “I’d have you bring her something to sup on, for I’ll not be dining in the eldhus tonight. I’ve much to see to first.”

Nissa shook her head, unquestionably flustered by his request. “B-But...”

“As I will it,” Alarik countered, his tone unyielding.

Nissa recovered herself at once, though Elienor didn’t miss the gleam of repressed tears in her eyes as she straightened her spine.

“As you will it,” the girl said softly. She averted her gaze. “Sleipnir awaits you at the summit, jarl,” she disclosed in a choked voice. “I... I... I shall walk back.”

Alarik nodded in appreciation. “Ride with Bjorn,” he advised. He glanced at Vernay. “You I shall speak to anon!”

Vernay nodded. “Aye, m’lord.” He glanced circumspectly at Nissa.

And then Alarik was urging Elienor up the incline once more. She stumbled but acquiesced, knowing she had very little choice in the matter. Vernay followed silently. Nissa didn’t stir, and as Elienor glanced backward at the woman, she couldn’t help but feel wretched for her. It was clear that Nissa was either mistress or wife—in either case, little esteemed and little loved.

She glanced impulsively up at Alarik, and was shocked to find herself conceding that he was a striking man, in profile even more so. But if he thought he would take her virtue without a battle, he was sorely mistaken.

“Put me in your chamber as you may—alas I’ve no choice in the matter—but rest assured naught else will come easily,” she swore vehemently.

He glanced down at her, his eyes cold. “I made you a vow, wench. You go to my chamber for your own protection,” he told her.

“Protection?” Elienor asked incredulously, though deep down she knew it was so. Still she could not bear to concede even that. “Protection from whom?” she asked bitterly.

“Care to extend me the same welcome you planned for my brother?”

Nissa was so lost in her thoughts that she didn’t see or hear Bjorn approach. She started at his husky whisper at her ear then shrugged out from under the hand he placed upon her shoulder. “Hardly!” she said petulantly.

Both watched as Alarik and his prisoner reached the summit; he placed her at once upon his horse, Sleipnir, and then hauled himself into the saddle behind her.

“I wonder if you wouldn’t happen to have my horse saddled and waiting, as well?”

At Bjorn’s question, Nissa’s humor was restored. “I wonder,” she replied lightly, her smile returning.

Bjorn grinned, though as he turned to see Alarik and the Frenchwoman disappear from view, he shook his head in disgust. “You should have seen them aboard ship.”

“Oh?” Nissa cocked her head inquiringly.

“He risked us all for that shrew!”

Red-Hrolf’s words had implanted the seed of doubt within his heart, but it was Alarik’s inconceivable need to protect her that had nurtured those seeds to root. He still could not credit the change that had come over his brother in such short time.

“How so?” Nissa’s blue eyes narrowed cannily.

“It matters not,” Bjorn snapped. “All you need know is that he did. At any rate, there is no loss to you, my love, for I’ve told you before he has no interest in you, at all.”

Nissa snorted, her brow rising slightly. “I’d take offense... yet I know what lies beneath your words.” She eyed Bjorn astutely, her smile widening. “You would still have me in your bed, Bjorn, Erik’s son,” she purred. “Would you not?”

Bjorn smiled at her usual frankness. “How canny of you, my love.”

She laughed abruptly, trying to sound indifferent. “Alas, I am loathe to disappoint you, but my father would not receive you well at all.” She moved closer, whispering into his ear. “Though truth to tell,” she relented with a sigh, “were my heart not already given... mayhap, then I would.” She shook her head regretfully. “Though as comely as you are, ’tis the position of Alarik’s wife I crave. My father wishes it so.”

“Your father need not agree to your choice of husband,” Bjorn reminded her.

“My father is not a man to thwart,” she countered. “Besides,” she added, laughing as Bjorn’s mouth opened yet again to contest her, “you forget that Alarik is the one I desire as well! After all, he is master of his own.” She poked at his chest in sport. “And you, Bjorn, cannot claim any such honor, can you?”

Bjorn’s eyes narrowed as he returned the playful poke to her breast. “I wonder if you shall open your eyes someday?”

“Doubtless not,” Nissa retorted, her hand going to her breast. She narrowed her eyes in censure. “Pardon whilst I go and do my love’s bidding,” she purred, and then turned her gaze up the cliff side, in the direction Alarik had ridden. “I believe I shall have the servants prepare him a grande fare to tempt his palate tomorrow eve. That should indubitably please him. Likely, he’s had naught more than scraps for meals aboard that beloved ship of his.”

She turned to Bjorn, fluttering her lashes coyly. “What do you think?”

Again Bjorn sighed, deeply. “An arrow never lodges in stone,” he replied, wisely. “And it oft recoils upon the sender.”

Nissa wrinkled her nose at his remark.

“You don’t listen, Nissa,” he persisted. “And you strive for naught. Alarik has never been interested.”

Nissa paid him little mind.

Bjorn doubted she’d even heard him for she turned, not bothering to acknowledge his counsel, and made her way up the cliff. He watched her go, unable to keep the bitterness from creeping into his heart. Was he always destined to have his brother’s leavings?

And in this case, he wouldn’t even get that.

Chapter 15

Alarik’s bedchamber was crude at best, no more than a large square room with no windows and thus no natural light. Skins were draped everywhere, doubtless to keep what little warmth there was from escaping.

In the center of the chamber was a small, rectangular, stone-rimmed hearth, where dying embers flickered in defiance of the dark, casting eerie shadows on the walls. Smoke escaped through a small opening in the ceiling above.

After bringing her here, Alarik had abandoned her forthwith, without so much as the courtesy of a parting explanation—not that Elienor would have cared to bandy words with the man! She wished she’d never need speak to him again, though it was doubtful she’d be so fortunate. It wasn’t likely he’d take her back to Francia in the near future—and curse him if he didn’t speak the truth: He was her only protection against these barbarians.

Shivering, her gaze settled once again upon the bed—an immense oaken piece, intricately carved with birds of prey—hawks, she believed, though they were much too embellished in form to be certain. At the sight of the bed, she began to pace anew, refusing to consider whether she’d occupy the monstrous berth herself come nightfall.

Glancing about uneasily, she wondered if night had yet fallen. With no windows to peer from, it was impossible to judge time, yet there was naught to be gained in fretting over it, and so she dismissed the bed from her thoughts, once and for all.

She ran her fingers across the rich grain of the oaken walls. There were skins draped next to horrifying weapons suspended from pegs—weapons of every ilk: axes, swords, spears. At the sight of them, Elienor couldn’t help but shudder—such a passion for violence! And little could she comprehend why. What glory could possibly be had in a warring life, and death?

Her gaze was drawn across the room, to the coffer of wood that had been carried in earlier by servants. Atop it lay a coat of mail, the same Alarik had worn that first night, she surmised. The links glimmered like brilliant diamonds in the light of the dying fire. Above it, dangling by a peg, hung a rounded shield, painted blood red with a gilded hawk soaring through its middle.

Mesmerized, Elienor stared at the hawk... trying to recall what it was about the shield that was so eerily familiar. Had he carried it that first night? Likely so... yet it was something else that plagued her...

Something from her dream? But what?

Sweet Jesu, what could it be? Rubbing her arms for warmth, she shook her head, thrusting her musings away. She couldn’t remember, and in truth, didn’t want to!

At once, her eyes reverted to the thick oak door. Tempting as it was, she’d already tried it and found it locked. Yet surely there’d been no need to lock her within. Alas, where would she have gone?

“Home,” she murmured wistfully, her eyes burning.

Mother Heloise would have heard by now and would be wringing her poor hands raw with worry. But what of Count Phillipe? Her uncle? Had they forgotten her already? Elienor felt like weeping, for it was likely so. Never had anyone exacted judgment upon the Northmen with any measure of success. It was one of the reasons they were so feared, for oft there was no worthy recourse to be taken against them. They came swiftly to wreak their brand of terror, and disappeared more swiftly yet, into the unknown. Only this time, Elienor had vanished along with them.

Would anybody care?

“Nay,” Elienor whispered softly, aching.

Nobody but Mother Heloise had ever truly cared for her, she thought mournfully. Hugging herself, her gaze fell to the floor, her eyes stinging. God help her, but she was unable to stifle the tears that trickled past her guard. Yet she refused to cry aloud, refused to let them witness her defeat!

Her gaze returned to the bed, and she vowed again to fight him to the death if need be. Throwing herself upon it, she buried her face into the mattress to stifle her tears.

She fell asleep worrying over what the Viking would do if he found her in his bed.

Alarik understood now what it was that Brother Vernay had been trying to tell him. It seemed that from the moment he had walked out of his chamber, he’d been assaulted with a bevy of complaints, requests, and accounts—nearly all concerning Nissa. He shook his head at the thought of speaking with her, for of everyone, she was the one person he never looked forward to seeing.

Ejnar’s daughter was a bother at the least, with her ceaseless questions and meaningless banter, and a detriment at worst, for Alarik knew very well the risk he took in permitting her to remain when he had no intention of ever accepting her as his wife. But it seemed that every time he’d attempted to inform her father of that fact, Ejnar the Dane found a way to make him reconsider his eldest daughter. And reconsider Alarik had, more times than he cared to count; yet no matter that he did, he still could not stomach the thought of her in his bed—not that she wasn’t comely. In truth, she was exceptionally fair to the eyes, but that alone did naught to recommend her, for Nissa was also a terrible shrew who had no qualms over using the artifice of tears when her tongue did not gain her what she wished.

Abruptly, a vision of Elienor as she’d appeared within the chapel came to him. The little vixen had stood proudly while he’d appraised her, with no trace of tears. In comparison, how many times had he cursed Nissa for hers? More times than he could count. And how many tears had he seen her shed over petty things?

Elienor had given him none of the expected.

Nei, but Nissa had used every artifice available to her for far too long. His lips screwed with disgust. What age was the shrew now? Twenty? Far too old to be holed up in his home, and yet he’d be damned if he could find a single man to take her off his hands. He sighed wearily, raking his hand through his hair as he entered his hall and made his way past the high seat to his chamber.

He was grateful, at least, that until he found someone willing to wed the shrew, she was able to earn her keep by caring for his household. Though he’d be damned before he gave the woman control over his house! He’d need to speak to her as soon as possible, for he wasn’t about to allow her to continue ordering about free men and women. His people knew their duties well enough, and he’d given her no leave to discipline them, nor to reassign them.

He unlocked the door impatiently and entered his chamber, noting at once that it was dim and growing cold. The fire had evidently long since extinguished, and he frowned, for he’d not meant to leave her alone so long. His eyes scanned the room and found her at once, nestled within his bed, her tiny form enshrouded by the bulky furs.

Moving silently, so as not to disturb her, he went to the hearth, stirring the embers, but the effort proved fruitless. The fire was cold. From a pile of timber stacked in the corner he chose new wood, placing it within the hearth, and having done so he left the bower momentarily to retrieve a torch from one of the wall braces on the facing wall.

Using the torch to ignite the wood, Alarik waited to be sure the orange-blue flames climbed and licked a path into the new wood. Once he was satisfied the fire would thrive, he returned the torch to its brace and then closed the door behind him as he entered, going to the bed. He stood over her, watching her sleep. She seemed so serene, yet he could still see evidence of her tears. His hand went to her cheek, cupping it delicately. She stirred slightly and the gesture became a caress.

She moaned softly and his body responded with a vengeance, yet he forbade himself even the thought of waking her.

He’d sworn to protect her, had vowed to take naught she didn’t freely give...

However, he’d said absolutely nothing about lying down beside her, and that he would not deny himself, for he determined that one day soon, vow or no vow, she would welcome his loathsome Viking touch.

Again the dream.

Again the same; first Mother Heloise held her in the safety of her arms, then Alarik, so tenderly, gazing down upon her with those steel-gray eyes—confusing eyes, for the emotion nestled within their murky depths was unknown—like no other her own eyes had e’er beheld.

Then abruptly, that unnamed emotion was fled, and so were the gray eyes. Now they were as violet as her own, and sorrowful. There was no face to frame the eyes, still Elienor recognized her mother in them.

“What?” she asked desperately, for the eyes seemed to be warning her. But of what?

Again, she withdrew her hand from about Alarik and once again discovered blood.

Betrayed.

The shield... she saw it again so clearly, the bright sun striking against the majestic gilded hawk... and there was Alarik at the helm of his longship, no longer at her side. Defiantly, he cried out and leapt into the sea. Elienor watched in horror as his shield followed him beneath the surface. With morbid fascination, she watched as the hawk’s wings spiraled beneath the churning waves and disappeared completely. She glanced at her hand—the blood remained.

All about her were shouts and threats and ships jarring together, hundreds of them. Steel against steel.

Yet in that moment, all sound seemed to pass away, for suddenly Elienor understood.

It was war they were at...

And Alarik would die.

Chapter 16

“By the hounds!”

Alarik bolted upright at the scream.

His mind sleep-fogged, it took him a befuddled instant to realize it came from Elienor, and another to discern that she slept still, her rest fitful, though unbroken.

His heart still hammering, he settled back down, incredulous that she could slumber through such a shriek—regardless that it was her own. Hella’s curse, it had been shrill enough to wake the bloody dead!

Raking his fingers across his scalp, he wondered with a weary sigh what demons tormented her so ruthlessly that she failed to sleep peacefully even through one night. And in the quiet of the moment, as he considered that question and listened to the sounds of her stirring beside him, he became fiercely aware of his nudity... as never before.

Never had it given him such gratification.

Never had the bedsheets seemed so cool.

His skin so hot, despite the chill.

A vow so despised.

She whimpered and his arms reacted of their own will, drawing her into his embrace, soothing her with a hand at her shoulder, the small of her back, caressing her. It was a mistake he realized far too late, for his hand was suddenly upon her thigh where her chemise had ridden up, her skin silky smooth beneath his fingers. His pulse quickened as his fingers caressed her ever so delicately, relishing the feel of her flesh.

Soft...

His heart felt as though it would erupt from his chest it thrummed so savagely. Slowly, languorously, his hand slid upward, between them, across her abdomen, his fingers sensuously spanning her belly before moving down to skim over her woman’s mound.

Of their own will, his fingers gathered up her gown, until he could feel at long last the soft curls of her womanhood beneath his knuckles.

Was he mad?

Aye, he was—and lost as well! With no will, at all. He was weak, and worse...

He was a liar.

He tried to convince himself he had to cease his foraging, forcing himself to recall his vow to Elienor. Yet in utter defiance that self-same hand slid to her luscious bottom. He groaned with pleasure at the sensation of her filling his rugged palm. Groaning, he drove her hips forward to crush against his groin, his eyes closing in pleasure, his head thrust backward with carnal relish. Spurred onward by a heady, sleep-induced drunkenness, he found himself undulating softly into the sweet warmth between her thighs.

Elienor felt as though she were wavering between darkness and light, alternately descending through the deep blackness, only to ascend and grasp for the golden stream of light that teased her senses. She tried to lift her heavy lids, failing miserably, and moaned with pleasure, her mind engulfed by a velvety haze.

Somehow, Alarik had returned from the murky depths of the ocean, somehow, he was holding her, cherishing her as she’d never been cherished before...

But wasn’t it just a dream?

His mouth hovered above her own, ready to kiss her as Count Phillipe had, only she’d felt nothing with Count Phillipe—not like this.

Desperately, she concentrated on those movements beside her that seemed so earthy and tangible and sighed in her sleep.

If this was a dream, she never wanted to waken.

Never had she known such pleasure!

She didn’t attempt to deny herself, for it wasn’t real.

It was naught but a dream... a hazy... pleasant... dream.

Alarik’s hands worked quickly to lift her gown, revealing the dark tips of her breasts against luminous white flesh in the flickering light of the chamber. Instinctively, his lips moved toward them, seeking out their heat, desperate to suckle like a babe of her milky softness.

Feeling himself harden fully, he rolled her backward, and followed, his knee settling between the softness of her legs as his lips suckled her. There he hovered, fighting a fierce battle against his will. Yet even as he vied for control, the hand that had grasped her bottom moved upward to the small of her back, holding her still for his lip’s devotion. Feeling the nipple harden upon the tip of his tongue, he groaned and brought it fully within the heat of his mouth.

And in that moment he dared to imagine the woman in his arms awake and aware, eager to let him spend his passion deep within her.

He dared to persuade himself it was so.

Almost feverishly, his lips moved to her neck, nibbling the flesh there as he kneaded one breast with his free hand. He wanted to devour her.

God—was he daft to be loving an insensate woman?

Ah, but what a beautiful one she was.

For the briefest instant he thought he felt her undulate along with him and it gave him the most incredible burst of euphoria.

He thought he would explode in that moment, yet still he burned.

Intensely.

He eased himself down upon her, half-mad with need, beads of perspiration dotting his brow as he worked himself into a gentle but unstoppable rhythm.

Did he truly care that she was unaware of his loving?

Did he care?

She felt so good, and he needed release—it had been too long... too long...

He muttered unwittingly in answer, for he knew that in truth, it did matter. He could not continue in this without Elienor’s awareness at least...

Else he was no better than Red-Hrolf.

That sobering realization discouraged him enough that he shoved away from the woman beneath him and turned onto his back.

By damn, it did matter.

And he didn’t like it one whit!

What ailed him anyway?

Sensing that morning was near enough, he heaved himself up from the bed, dressed in the dim light, and stalked from his chamber, delivering himself from temptation once and for all!

Stretching beneath the blankets, Elienor wondered dazedly of Clarisse. How did she fare? She wondered if she would have the opportunity to speak with her today, and then suddenly... she recalled the dream—all of it, and her face burned crimson with shame.

Sweet Jesu, she’d dreamt of him in the most shameful manner! And now in the light of day she could not bear to recall it. She glanced about the chamber suddenly and found it brightly lit, and then spied the reason why and came fully awake, but too late to avoid it. Elienor gasped as frigid water struck her full in the face, cutting off her breath.

“Lazy thrall!” Nissa hissed. “Here we cannot afford to lie abed all day!”

Sputtering, Elienor opened her eyes to find Nissa poised above her, an empty ewer within her clutches, her gaze accusing. She pitched the ewer vehemently, barely missing Elienor’s face and striking the wall behind her.

“I said get up! Do you think to lie about like the French whore you are? I vow you will earn your keep if I have to have you beaten!”

Elienor’s heart tumbled. From Nissa’s expression she could very well believe the woman would do just as she claimed. She scrambled from the furs, trying to comply as quickly as she was able. No sooner had her feet lit upon the wooden floor than Nissa seized her by the arm, jerking her forward.

“Go, bitch!”

Elienor tugged her arm from Nissa’s grip. “You need not abuse me!” she said.

Nissa eyed her balefully but said nothing, and Elienor began walking in the direction indicated, grateful that she was dressed, at least, for the contemptible woman had not even given her the opportunity to straighten the wrinkles from her gown—not that it mattered how she appeared to these barbarians. She cared not what they thought of her!

Nor did she care how Alarik saw her.

Liar! a little voice mocked.

They found the great hall deserted.

As in the bedchamber, a stone-lined fire pit sat in the center of the hall where smoke billowed and curled in an attempt to escape through a narrow shaft in the wooden ceiling. Flanking the pit were tremendous wooden tables, lined with benches that were carved with small heathen figures. At the furthest end of the chamber sat the dais, with its great high seat. She imagined Alarik there, and paled when she saw for the briefest instant... the image of herself sitting there beside him.

Nissa didn’t linger in the hall. She hurried through, booting a runty pup from under foot. It wailed pitifully and scurried beneath a table with its tail tucked between its legs, its eyes sad and somehow looking as desperate as Elienor felt. Resisting the urge to stop and soothe it, Elienor wondered at Nissa’s skittishness, for if Elienor didn’t know better, it seemed Nissa was glancing about as though afraid to be caught.

The kitchens, Elienor found, were located in a separate building, not unlike the kitchens at Brouillard—likely as a safety against fire. Also like the kitchen at Brouillard, it was crowded and overheated. At the largest table Nissa released her, shoving her forward.

“You will work here today,” she informed Elienor curtly. She lifted up a large kitchen blade and buried it into an unplucked hen.

Elienor swallowed, stepping away. Her eyes must have betrayed her apprehension, for Nissa smiled thinly. After a lengthy moment, she gestured toward the table.

“I told you. Here everyone must earn their keep! You will pluck hens, and if you manage to finish—” She sneered as though she doubted the possibility. “Then you will go to Alva. She will know where to send you next.” She gestured toward a plump, dark-haired, older woman, who wore the strangest expression as she glanced in Elienor’s direction. “Do you understand?”

Elienor nodded, her gaze reverting to Alva. The older woman shook her head at them, made a face, and sighed.

“Good,” Nissa said, and satisfied that Elienor would comply with her wishes, she left to supervise other duties. Elienor felt only relief watching her go. At once she set about the task assigned to her, lifting up the hen.

“She’s a haughty one!” a voice declared. Elienor glanced up to see the one called Alva ambling to her side. “Thank goodness the jarl has returned!” the woman exclaimed. “He will return the shrew swiftly to her place.”

Elienor couldn’t help but flash a smile at that very accurate description of Nissa. “Set her in her place?” she ventured. “Who is she, then... if not his wife?” She ignored the tiny jolt in her breast as she asked the question. She knew better than to be so intrusive, yet if this was to be her home, she would know her situation.

It had absolutely naught to do with her curiosity over whether the jarl had a wife.

She didn’t care.

Liar!

At any rate, she doubted Nissa was his wife... unless here men and women didn’t share the marriage bed.

“She’s Ejnar the Dane’s daughter,” Alva revealed, peering up at the door where Nissa had departed. “Her father has long sought a union betwixt the jarl and his daughter, yet the jarl has never shown the least interest in her. Still, her father is a powerful man and ’tis best not to make discord with Nissa.”

Elienor glanced at the door as well. “She’s not his mistress, then?”

“Humph!” Alva exclaimed, gratefully overlooking the unseemliness of the question. “Not his mistress, nor his bedmate—though certainly not for her lack of trying! The woman’s as ceaseless as the sea! Still,” Alva relented, “one must grant her allowances. I believe she’s not so wicked deep down—mind you, you wouldn’t know it to speak with her, though I fear she is as vulnerable as you are, my dear.”

As vulnerable as she was? Snatched from her home—forced to share a bed with a man not her husband. Unlikely! “How so?”

Alva shook her head a little sadly. “She seeks so desperately to please her father—and to no avail. The man is cruel.”

“Why do you tell me this?” Elienor asked.

The woman glanced at her slyly, and said cryptically, “The jarl has never brought a woman home before.”

“I’m his captive, nothing more!”

The woman raised her brows, nodding. “Of course you are, my dear.” She chuckled, glancing down abruptly at the chicken upon the table. “Here,” she said, seizing the hen from Elienor to demonstrate what to do with it. “I would venture to say you’ve never done such a chore as this before. ’Tis really not so difficult—”

“But I have,” Elienor broke in.

The woman looked at her a little skeptically.

“It has been a time,” she ceded. “But I remember only too well how ’tis done.”

Alva raised both brows. She drew Elienor’s hands into her own, turning them for her appraisal. “I see,” she said approvingly, “well, then, ’tis best to busy yourself. Until the jarl can speak to Ejnar’s daughter, she will make your life miserable lest you comply with her wishes.”

Elienor glanced at the door and was momentarily surprised to see Clarisse being led in by Nissa.

Nissa pointed the girl in Alva’s direction, and then watched to be certain Clarisse obeyed. In that instant, Elienor met Nissa’s gaze. At once she looked away, unwilling to provoke the woman further. It was obvious Nissa liked her not at all.

“How is it that Nissa has the right to remain unwed in Alarik’s household?” Elienor asked Alva when she could.

“Alarik?” Alva smiled knowingly at the way Elienor addressed him. “Nissa abides with her eldest sister who is wed to Ivar Longbeard, one of the jarl’s men.” When Elienor’s brows drew together, she added, “She came here to Gryting years ago to help with her sister’s birthing, and stayed—to everyone’s dismay!”

“A... Alva?” a soft voice inquired.

Elienor set the hen she was working on down upon the table and glanced up at Clarisse, heartened to see that the girl was truly well.

“That is me,” Alva said cheerily. She turned toward the white-faced Clarisse. “You are to work with me, I presume?”

“Aye, madame,” Clarisse replied quietly, her gaze shifting uneasily between Alva and Elienor. “M’lady,” Clarisse said, her face screwing pitifully as her eyes pleaded with Elienor to understand. “I am sorry to have caused you so much pain!” She hung her head in shame.

Elienor resisted the inclination to embrace the girl, for she knew Clarisse would feel ill at ease to accept the affection. Alva watched them. “Oh, nay, Clarisse! I am pleased that—” She glanced at Alva.

Alva nodded for them to continue. “Don’t mind me!” she said cheerfully, yet she kept her gaze locked on them, willing to miss nothing of their conversation.

Annoyed at the prospect that her life might never again be her own, Elienor’s gaze reverted to Clarisse. She placed a consoling hand upon the maid’s forearm. “Truly, I’m only pleased you are well. I worried so!”

Clarisse’s face lifted, her expression remorseful. “I’m sorry, m’lady! I awoke to find you ensconced within the tent, and I wanted so desperately to go to you, but Sigurd would not allow it.”

“Sigurd?” Alva asked, her brows rising higher. “Truly this discourse grows more interesting by the instant—and yet…” She bent to whisper, “if you value yourselves you will work all the while you gossip.” She gestured toward Nissa, who was watching them intently. “Snatch yourself a hen, Clarisse.” Clarisse hesitated. “Come, come—don’t just stand there, my dear. Choose yourself a hen and set yourself to work!” Alva offered a smile. “Go on!” she prompted again.

“Aye, madame!” Clarisse exclaimed, and complied at once. “Verily, I’m sorry!”

“Humph! You are much too sorry!” Alva said reprovingly. She glanced sidelong at Nissa. “Yet won’t we all be sorry,” she said with a sigh, “if we do not busy ourselves at once. Come, come now! Work—work—both of you!”

Chapter 17

If Elienor had thought the kitchen simply warm when she’d first set foot within, she was sorely mistaken. Hades couldn’t be so torrid! Wet strands of hair clung to her face and nape as she worked. She brushed them aside, smearing her face with the chicken grime from her fingertips.

Blinking to give her eyes respite from the heat, she glanced longingly at the walls, unable to believe there were no windows at all. Simple vented openings in the ceiling slicked up what smoke would be freed, and in this building, unlike the other, the walls were made of stone, trapping every last bit of heat.

The only wood to be found were the work tables, and those were set as far from the ovens as possible as a precaution against fire. Elienor felt utterly consumed by the intense heat. Hours later she felt near to swooning from the stress of it, yet she dared not rest under Nissa’s watchful eye.

She glanced at Clarisse and heaved a weary sigh. She’d spoken only sparingly to the girl, despite the fact that Alva seemed not to mind, and in truth seemed to encourage it. As Elienor watched, the older woman meandered from table to table, supervising, giving guidance, and laughing merrily with the women while they worked. From the way they all looked after her when she departed their table for another, it was obvious they regarded her highly, unlike the abhorring glances they sent Nissa’s way.

Yet, if Alva seemed overly friendly, no one else ventured near them. They proffered glances now and again, some amicable, others not; Elienor made an effort to befriend them all from afar—if not for her own sake, then for Clarisse’s, for it was evident Clarisse would not smooth the way for herself.

Elienor had long since decided that she’d be best served to concede to her circumstances, for despicable as it was, this was now her new home, much as she resented it, much as she wished it elsewise. Aside from that, it was best she showed a good example for Clarisse. Lamenting their circumstances at this point could do naught to ease either of their lots.

It was only in the one matter Elienor swore she would never yield—despite her traitorous mind and body.

Sweet Jesu, how dare she dream of him so shamefully!

And how dare she contemplate his kisses! If possible, her face burned hotter at the recollection of her dream. Against her will, she compared Count Phillipe’s clumsy attempts, the way his tongue had nearly gagged her. Truth to tell, he had disgusted her—her husband to be!—yet in her dream, she had dared to crave her enemy’s lips!

Her enemy.

Bones of the saints! What was wrong with her?

“’Tis but natural, m’lady,” Clarisse ventured. “You should not blame yourself for being attracted to the jarl.”

Startled, Elienor glanced up at Clarisse. Again she cursed her tongue, and shook her head. “I... I don’t know what you mean,” Elienor replied, her face coloring traitorously. She glanced down at her hen, working zealously to remove the feathers.

“He’s a fine looking man,” Clarisse stated matter-of-factly. “’Tis the truth that I berated myself, too... at first...”

Elienor’s eyes widened as she met Clarisse’s gaze. “You cannot mean...”

“Sigurd,” Clarisse replied, without regret, nodding timidly. “He cares for me well, m’lady—in truth, better then I was treated at Brouillard. Verily, I am sorry for you... but for me...” Her eyes pleaded for understanding. “I can feel naught but glad they came.”

Elienor knew not what to say.

How could Clarisse so easily forget?

She sighed as her thoughts turned to Mother Heloise. Likely only the gentle Abbess would continue to fret over Elienor, for the old woman had been the closest thing to a family Elienor had.

She closed her eyes with pain over the memory of her mother’s execution and burial, and inadvertently, her fingers went to the place where the ring had lain against her breast. She wanted it back so desperately, but was afraid to bring it up to Alarik lest he ask its origin. She sighed, feeling an incredible emptiness over its loss, and made the mistake of glancing at Nissa in that instant.

The animosity in the woman’s eyes snatched Elienor’s breath away. She reverted her gaze at once to the bald hen in her hand, not wishing to provoke the woman any more than she seemed to have done already.

“She does not like you much, I think,” Clarisse gambled.

It was more than obvious, Elienor thought as she plucked the final feathers, cursing Alarik yet again, for her fingers were growing more raw by the instant.

Alarik stood in the doorway of the eldhus, one hand braced above him on the door frame, as he tempered his anger. He’d left the steading early to seek out Ejnar the Dane, only the harder he’d ridden, the more fiercely thoughts of the little Fransk had nipped at his heels. As it was, he’d failed to locate Ejnar, but was more resolved than ever to rid himself of Nissa—especially now that he could see to what extent she was willing to go.

She dared to counter his command that Elienor be left in solitude?

After finding Elienor missing from his chamber, he’d searched everywhere only to find her here, under Nissa’s watchful eye. The hair at the back of his nape prickled in anger as he stepped into the kitchen and made his way toward Elienor, giving Nissa a look of warning as he passed her.

“Who has set you to work here?”

Startled, Elienor glanced up to see Alarik advancing upon her, his gait menacing. She bit her lip nervously as she glanced about and found everyone staring. What? What had she done now? She set the hen upon the table and took a step backward in defense.

“Who?” Alarik demanded once more.

He wore a black kyrtle and leather-skinned breeches that hugged his legs indecently. Even his boots left naught to the imagination, for they were made of the softest leather and were naught more than laces that bound his well-muscled calves. Elienor could not help but stare. “N-Nissa,” she answered, unsure whether it was the right thing to say.

Nissa had followed Alarik and now halted behind him, watching.

Alarik turned to her, somehow sensing she was there. “You have put her to work here?”

“Ya,” Nissa admitted, backing away warily. “I did wrong?”

“Who gave you the order to do so?”

“Why... n-no one,” she stammered.

“From here on,” he informed her, “you will give no orders at all, Nissa. In fact, you will gather your belongings. As soon as I may speak with your sire, you will leave Gryting once and for all!”

“But why? What have I done?”

“You’ve overstepped yourself,” he said somewhat less harshly, though still unyielding. “You’ve gone too far,” he told her. “Aside from that... ’tis time you made yourself a home...”

“But—”

“Elsewhere,” he told her firmly, his eyes spearing her.

Nissa shook her head, her hand flying to her mouth. The color draining from her face, she turned, but not before casting one last baleful look at Elienor. Without another word she fled the kitchen.

Elienor’s gaze reverted to Alarik. She was wide-eyed with fear, for if he could banish one of his own, what would he do to her? She still had no notion what she might have done for him to look so wrathful.

“Come,” he demanded of her, his gaze foreboding, and without another word, he led her out from the kitchens and across to the great hall, now filled with boisterous men at drink and sport.

The moment they entered the hall, Elienor’s eyes focused upon his chamber door, behind the dais. Every step brought her closer, and with every step her heart felt as though it would fail.

What could she have done?

She could think of naught.

From somewhere within the hall came a pup’s wail. Elienor’s eyes scanned the proximity at once, searching for the whimpering animal. She found it caught by the hind legs like a rabbit after the hunt, hanging from a strong pair of arms. Her gaze flew from the man’s arms to the man’s face, and to her dismay she recognized him straightway—Flame Hair. Her breath quickened painfully, her heart twisting with terror. Sweet Jesu, how could she have managed to forget him?

His coarse red hair was a fright, one side of it standing upright while the other laid reluctantly flat. His tunic was stained with foodstuffs and his breeches rode up one leg, caught near to the knee by untidy cross leggings. The other pant leg was laced neatly down in perfect order. He’d merely been sporting with the mongrel previously, but he smiled cruelly when Elienor met his gaze and crushed the small pup’s legs within his fist. Elienor cringed, for his meaning was clear. He would have preferred those legs to have been hers!

Suddenly the hand upon her shoulder tightened. She’d not even realized it was there, but she looked up and was startled to see the fury that danced in Alarik’s eyes as he gazed down at her.

“Red-Hrolf!” Alarik snarled, his gaze returning to the flame-haired man. The hall fell immediately silent. Drinking horns settled onto the tables. Some arrested in midair.

Alarik had not missed the warning meant for Elienor, and intended to put an end to this situation once and for all. “Come forward!” he commanded.

After a long awkward moment, Red-Hrolf sauntered toward them, staggering every few feet. He stopped at one of the lower tables, seizing a man’s drinking horn, gulping from it deeply before slamming it down. That done, he again made his way toward them, leering at Elienor.

“You dare defy me yet again?”

There was no response from Red-Hrolf save to turn his head disrespectfully and spit the ale he’d retained within his cheeks upon the floor at Alarik’s feet. Beads of ale caught in his beard and dripped slowly through the coarse strands, alighting in tiny droplets upon the tip of one boot. His eyes narrowed wrathfully as they returned to meet Alarik’s. “I’ve been awaiting this moment,” he admitted finally, slapping a fist to his chest. “Aye, I dare!”

Alarik’s eyes narrowed, furious that Red-Hrolf would dare force his tolerance beyond the threshold, cursing the fact that he would now lose a good warrior because of it. Red-Hrolf knew very well that he could not deliver such challenge without requital. It was a point of pride to a North man to be led only by the strong. As jarl, he could not afford to lose the respect of his men. He’d not planned to match with Red-Hrolf, but Red-Hrolf had set the method of his punishment with his open challenge and Alarik was determined to carry it out.

He nodded, and from his war belt he released Dragvendil. The metallic hiss as it cleared his scabbard sounded like a death knell in the silence of the hall. He stretched the shimmering tip of the fine Frankish blade close to the rising knob in Red-Hrolf’s throat as he whispered in low tones, “Because I fear the drink may have addled your brain, I grant you one last occasion to ask my pardon.”

Red-Hrolf raised a mocking brow, emboldened by the pardon Alarik offered. “Ho, now!” he taunted. “Does my mighty jarl quiver like the feeble maid at his side over the thought of matching blades with Red-Hrolf?”

Alarik glanced briefly at Elienor, who though not cowering, was indeed wide-eyed with fear, and then turned to lower the tip of his longsword from Red-Hrolf’s throat to his distended chest, forcing it to penetrate the fine wool tunic until it pricked blood.

His eyes smoldering with fury, he turned once more to Elienor. “Get you to my chamber,” he said slowly, softly, his eyes gleaming with warning. “Now!” he asserted, when she did not move quickly enough to suit him. And then he turned abruptly to Red-Hrolf and declared, “By your words, then, so be it, Red-Hrolf! You would do well to prepare yourself for Valholl!”

From the corner of his eye, Alarik watched Elienor back away from them, slowly at first, her expression one of horror and disgust; then she turned, and he was keenly aware of her feet racing across the skali.

His chamber door opened and shut, the unspoken flag for the battle to be joined.

He gave not a whit that she thought him barbaric!

She simply did not understand the precarious hold a jarl had upon his people. There were many who were fiercely loyal to him, but there were always a few who would test the boundaries, who craved the high seat. Alarik had striven too long and hard to gain it—never would he yield it!

Hrolf’s gaze returned to Alarik’s and he backed away cautiously. As he retreated, he drew his weapon of choice, his trusty axe, and swung it menacingly, snickering.

“If you were sober,” Alarik vowed. “I would cut the heart from your treasonous body, here and now.”

Red-Hrolf’s eyes glazed with drunken malice, “Ya? Well, I’m sober enough—let us all see you try!”

He swung his axe at Alarik.

Alarik dodged it too easily, and that fact enraged him all the more. His face contorted with disgust. “I thought to only punish you lightly,” he said angrily, parrying with his sword. “But...” He stalked Red-Hrolf, letting his threat hang menacingly in the air between them a long moment, aware that all eyes were fixed upon them by now.

Suddenly Red-Hrolf lunged at him, clutching his axe with both hands as it sliced through the air. Instead of dodging it, Alarik snarled and with a war cry leapt at him, striking the side of the axe blade so violently and unexpectedly with his left arm that the axe flew out of Hrolf’s grasp, the battle ended before it had begun.

At once, Hrolf bent to retrieve his axe from the ground, but Alarik’s enraged bellow halted him. “Leave it! You’re no longer worthy.” He shook his head in revulsion. “You cannot even meet me in combat like a man of honor. Drop it!” he snarled, when Red-Hrolf’s fingers closed about its handle.

The axe clanged noisily as it dropped to the floor. Red-Hrolf straightened, his eyes blazing with animosity.

His jaw twitching in anger, Alarik thrust his blade in the locale of Red-Hrolf’s heart, holding it just shy of his tunic as he spoke. “You shame me, Hrolf Kaetilson. Can you no longer even fight long enough to break a sweat?” His eyes darkened wrathfully. Slicing his blade across Red-Hrolf’s tunic suddenly, he rent it, though he scarcely penetrated the surface of his flesh. “Go with this!” he charged. “My reminder to you! My warning to those you would serve! Get out of my sight!”

Red-Hrolf’s look was that of outrage, yet he’d barely flinched when he’d received the gash that now marred his chest.

“If ever I see your treacherous face again,” Alarik snarled, “I would take great pleasure in carving the blood-eagle from your useless body!”

Instinctively, Red-Hrolf placed a hand to his half-bared chest. “’Tis not yet done betwixt us, Alarik! Bastard son of Trygvi’s French whore!" He turned to go, making certain to meet Alarik’s angry eyes one last time before turning and stalking from the skali.

Alarik went at once to the symbolic high seat, but he did not seat himself. He stood behind it, his legs spread apart in challenge, his sword still in hand. “First Nissa,” he said, “then Hrolf—does anyone else have a mind to challenge me this day?”

A few shook their heads in negation. More sat arrested, gawking at their drinking horns in contemplative silence. The skali remained deathly silent as Alarik anticipated who else might dare betray him.

No one dared move.

No one met his gaze.

Chapter 18

Sigurd burst into the hall and paused, disconcerted at the uncanny silence he encountered upon his entrance.

Having no notion why Alarik scowled so darkly, he nevertheless perceived the gravity of the situation and said naught; instead he stood waiting anxiously until Alarik turned to acknowledge him with a nod. “Riders approach by way of the fjord!”

Impatient to speak with Elienor, Alarik’s irritation multiplied tenfold. “How many?”

“Too many to count, my lord! It appears to be Olav,” Sigurd said. “Though we cannot be certain. What would you have us do?”

Alarik sheathed his sword, muttering silent curses. Just what he needed this moment—Olav, the very man at the heart of everyone’s discontent. As though he didn’t have enough discord already. Regardless, Olav was his brother and he would make him welcome. “Let them come,” he declared with a sigh, and stepping down from the dais, he followed Sigurd from the hall to await his half-brother’s arrival.

Outside, snow fell as dry and light as whispers.

Against the stark white landscape, the shapes and colors of the approaching forces grew in clarity. After a long moment, Alarik was able to identify his brother’s sorrel from the immense party that accompanied him.

The animal, with its pure white mane and tail, had a regal prance all of its own, and Alarik would know it anywhere. He’d long admired the beast. With Olav’s consent, he’d bred the horse with one of his own two years past. As of yet, there was only another puny mare for the effort—exquisite in form, yet much too diminutive to be of much service to Alarik. Like as not, he’d fall flat on his back if he so much as attempted to mount the beast.

Contemplating the animal, he was unable to prevent his thoughts from straying to Elienor. Proportionately, she was just right for the mare. He found himself envisioning her upon the sorrel—her long chestnut hair fluttering in the breeze, the sun in her face... perhaps in the spring he would present the animal to her as a gift. Aye, that’s what he would do... when came the spring... perhaps by then she would have grown accustomed to his home.

To him.

A shuddering coursed through him at the thought.

He was completely unaware of the long minutes that elapsed until Olav and his men had entered the compound and dismounted before him, bringing him out of his reverie.

Olav’s arms flew out at once to embrace Alarik. “Mine bror!” he bellowed cheerfully.

Alarik grunted, returning the embrace.

Olav punctuated the greeting with a number of whacks upon Alarik’s back.

Not to be outdone, Alarik whacked him back, none too gently, then embraced him more heartily, conceding with a grumble that he was glad to see his brother—even if Olav’s timing was ever poor.

“Come, old man, let us go in ere we die of exposure,” he suggested.

“Old man?” Olav exclaimed. “You’ve more years on that body of yours than I can claim.”

As they walked together, Alarik awarded Olav a disgruntled glance. “Only tell me, Olav, how is it you always seem to know when I’m newly arrived? And why is it,” he wondered aloud, giving vent to his frustration, “that you always show up in time to usurp mine bed?”

Olav placed a hand upon Alarik’s shoulder, grinning. “I couldn’t wait to see you, of course,” he exclaimed with a hearty chuckle.

Alarik offered him a dubious glance, his eyes sharp and assessing. “That so?”

Olav chuckled and ceded, “The truth is that while I never miss the opportunity to see mine faithful bror, I was, indeed, looking for your ships to arrive.” He cleared his throat. “I rather hoped you would join me in a small voyage. Tyri wishes—”

Alarik snorted. “And how is your lovely wife?” His eyes glinted with sarcasm.

Olav scowled at him for the quip and then conceded. “I’m afraid time finds her more bitter than ever,” he grumbled. He heaved a hearty sigh. “She would have her lands in the Dane’s mark returned to her and has pressed me to retrieve them. I should say... she’s immensely displeased not to have holdings in the Northland as befits a queen of her station, and I find myself wondering if, mayhap, she might be right.” He lifted his brows in question, and Alarik knew full well he sought agreement.

Alarik refused to give it.

His own brows knit in disbelief. “As your wife, Olav, Tyri wants for naught and still she whines for more.” He shook his head and cautioned, “You know where I stand where she’s concerned—let us not find reason to quarrel this night. I take it,” he said, shifting the topic, “that this voyage you wish me to consider is significant enough to you that I should consider leaving the comfort of mine steading mere days after arriving?”

Olav sighed. “It is,” he assured, looking weary.

Alarik shook his head, thinking that Tyri once again led his brother on a merry chase. Yet better Olav than him. He shuddered to think how close he’d come to binding himself to the harridan himself. “Then I shall consider it,” he yielded. “However... until I decide, I’ll not be giving up mine bed to you!” In truth, he’d been able to think of naught other than the sweet torture he’d experienced the night before. Why he should seek to subject himself to it again, he couldn’t fathom, yet in time, he determined, she would learn to accept him...

Aye, he’d sworn not to force her—and he’d keep that vow. Still... there were ways...

“You won’t?”

Alarik glanced at Olav, his brows lifting. “Won’t what?”

Olav cocked his head curiously, wondering what had Alarik so preoccupied. “Give up your bed?”

“Nei,” he asserted, once and for all shaking his mind free of the little vixen awaiting him in his chamber. “Not this time. You’ll need find yourself another bed to snore in, for I’ll not be giving up mine.”

“Though I did not ask you to!” Olav protested. “Not for your kin—nor your king!” he added plaintively. “Even if I did gift the accursed thing to you!”

Alarik’s lips twisted wryly. “As of yet, you’ve not asked,” he asserted, giving Olav a narrow-eyed glance. “And in truth, the only reason you gave me that accursed bed was that your precious Tyri would not take her rest where you’d bedded your mistresses.”

Olav placed a hand to his heart, yet he grinned shrewdly. “Ever you wound me, mine bror! I tell you I was not going to ask that you give up your bed. Tyri is not with me, as you can see, and so I shan’t be imposing.”

Alarik’s eyes sparkled with mischief. “I didn’t notice the virago missing,” he said lightly.

Olav’s brow furrowed. “She’d not like to hear you say such things. As it is, she believes you’ll never forgive her.”

“Tis likely she’s right,” he allowed.

Olav’s face contorted suspiciously. “But you no longer care for her?”

“Nei,” Alarik answered without hesitation.

“Yet still you won’t forgive her?” Olav asked, beginning to take offense. “I’m not certain I relish hearing what I think I’m hearing from your lips,” he said tightly.

Alarik heaved a weary sigh and offered his brother a frown. “Nei, Olav, ’tis not what you think. I believe you know very well that I care little that Tyri chose your miserable hide over mine. In truth, I thank Odin at every opportunity!”

Olav winced at Alarik’s choice of deities. “Aye, well! Thank the God of Abraham instead.”

“Whomever. What I do care about is that she gave not a thought about coming betwixt brothers.”

“I see,” Olav said, and then teased, “so then you will always dislike Tyri because you cherish me so much?” His brows rose.

Alarik chuckled. “Cherish?” He shook his head. “’Tis your word, old dog, not mine!” Yet he was forced to concede to himself that he valued both his brothers more highly than he did any other living soul. It was simply not his way to acknowledge such things aloud.

Olav chuckled heartily, his sense of humor returning. “Well... ’tis more likely Tyri did not feel a mere half-brother worthy. You know mine bride—only the finest!” He stole a look at Alarik. “In fact I’ve oft wondered how she even considered you at all?”

Alarik lifted his brows, grinning, thinking that it was more likely the other way around.

“At any rate, ’tis the truth she did not expect we would be so close,” Olav revealed. “I do not believe she meant to come between us. She simply did not realize, is all.”

Alarik gave him a dubious glance. His own opinion of Tyri was not so benevolent. Like Nissa, while she wasn’t malicious outright, she had no qualms over using whatever means necessary to gain her purpose.

Olav placed an arm about his shoulders as they entered the enlivened hall. “At any rate, mine bror... I’ve heard a rumor... won’t you tell me about this wench you’ve brought with you from Francia...”

Chapter 19

Elienor had been eager enough to comply. Why she’d felt a momentary qualm over leaving Alarik’s side she had no notion, but she was grateful now that he’d ordered her to his chamber. She had no wish to witness their barbarous contest. Still the temptation to listen at the door had been much too great.

What if he lost? What would become of her then?

She shuddered to think of herself at Flame Hair’s mercy, and couldn’t help but say a fervent prayer that Alarik would win. It was appalling that she should be reduced to praying for such a thing, yet here she was, nonetheless! She told herself firmly that it was only for her own protection that she cared who won, or that she’d hesitated to leave him to begin with, for otherwise, he could take himself off to Viking purgatory for all it concerned her!

Unaware that she held her breath, until the sound of the scuffle was over and her vision blackened at the edges, she slumped against the door, sighing in relief, hardly able to explain what had just happened.

Jesu Christ—her head ached!

Had he truly banished his man?

For her?

Surely not.

After an interval, she sat upon the bed to wait, pondering his motives. Yet half an hour later, he still had not appeared, and Elienor’s nerves were fraying fast; she had expected to see his scowling face come bursting into the chamber at any moment.

A female servant arrived to stir the fire and serve supper, and then she left without a word, and still there was no sign of him. Lying back upon the bed, Elienor dared to hope that she would be spared his appearance... and thus his fury, for she still could not discern what had angered him so.

Eventually he would need to come to his bed, though, and it was that she dreaded most.

But she refused to think about it just now.

At once, she envisioned his lips hovering above hers, so close, daring her to yield, and again she could not help but compare Count Phillipe’s sloppy kisses. In deference to her uncle, Count Phillipe had never done more than simply kiss her, but sweet Jesu, deny it all she may, never with him had she felt such... such... anticipation?

Even now she felt a strange fluttering deep down at the merest thought—and Alarik had yet to even touch her in any manner at all—much less an intimate kiss! In truth, he’d not so much as looked at her as though he would kiss her. And still she could not expunge the vision of his lips from her mind.

Forsooth! Did she require further evidence of her insanity?

“I shall make it right,” Bjorn crooned, thrusting his fingers into Nissa’s disheveled hair. Leaning against the storage building, he drew her gently into his embrace.

“But mine father!” she cried, resisting him. “Oh, Bjorn, I’m ashamed! I have failed him!” She shook her head woefully, her eyes swollen with tears, the crown of her head covered with icy flakes. “He’ll be so displeased with me!”

Stroking her quaking back with his fingers, Bjorn compelled her to lay her cold cheek against his pounding chest. Reaching up to brush the snow from her hair, he closed his eyes in pleasure and laid his own head back against the rough timber, allowing the fresh snow to sprinkle down upon his face. He couldn’t be more exhilarated by the turn of events—despite the fact that the woman he loved was weeping in fear and pain. He truly believed Nissa loved him too—had always loved him, as he had her. It was only her driving need to satisfy her unpleasable father that made her think otherwise.

“I’ll speak to Ejnar, myself, Nissa. You’ll see... everything will work out for the best. You don’t love Alarik!” he told her. Finally, something sweet would come his way. He intended to convince Ejnar the Dane to award him his youngest daughter, and then he would spend the rest of his life building her a home. “I swear it!”

Nissa turned her tear-stained face up to look at him. “I swear it!” he whispered again, more fervently, and his body jolted with elation as she returned his embrace. He stared at her a long moment, trying to discern whether he’d understood correctly.

Nissa stared back, nodding.

Bjorn needed no more encouragement. At once he hoisted her up into his arms to carry her within the reserve hut, at last to make her his.

From the high seat, Alarik watched as the runty pup Red-Hrolf had tormented lifted its curious head, then stood and stretched before limping toward the high table. He tossed the pup a scrap from his own plate, and recalled the way Elienor, at hearing its whimper, had been prepared to leap to its defense. She seemed to have a propensity for mothering both man and beast alike—seemed to need to protect—and, in fact, leapt at every opportunity.

Olav slammed his fist upon the wooden table suddenly, arresting his attention.

“I tell you no matter how hard I try, those accursed rebels will not give! They protest that the new God will weaken them—turn them into whimpering fearful little creatures who flee at their own shadows. Bah! I say to them, for they need only look at me to know ’tis not so. How much more strength need I show?”

Alarik glanced at his brother, his face impassive, for he recognized the mood. “Mayhap that is the issue, Olav. Mayhap a lighter hand will gain you more?” he suggested, and then sighed when Olav shook his head adamantly. “If I know you... you did not take their refusal lightly.”

“Nei—nei, I did not. Most assuredly I did not!” Olav leaned forward upon his elbows to stare into his tankard. “Can they not comprehend how much it would profit us if we united with the empire?”

“Have you explained as much?”

“The fools will not listen!”

“And what did you tell them?”

Olav said nothing, merely continued to stare into his tankard.

“I must know if I am to support you, Olav.”

Olav’s head jerked up and his canny green eyes locked with Alarik’s. “Then you have decided?”

“Nei,” Alarik said with a weary sigh. “I have not. Yet you know I would back you regardless, for you are mine brother. What did you tell them?”

Olav’s face reddened with remembered fury. “I commanded they acknowledge the Christian God by baptism... or be sacrificed to Odin!”

Alarik winced. “And?”

“None of the fools accepted my challenge, of course,” Olav gloated.

“Well... what is done is done, but I’d be willing to wager that none will take your challenge lightly. Guard yourself,” he advised his brother, for neither a jarl’s nor a king’s power was absolute. Leadership was not simply gifted to a man for his birth status; rather, the position of jarl or kingship was exacted by the most able and revered, otherwise Alarik would not have achieved half of what he had, for as a bastard, his bloodline was far from noble.

Olav threw a hand up in condemnation. “Bah! Let them perish in the offal of their heathen gods, then! Now... tell me more of the girl,” Olav demanded, shifting the subject drastically. “You say she was raised in a nunnery?”

Alarik nodded, lifting his tankard to his lips. He glanced backward at his chamber door. They’d come into the skali long hours ago—had been here so long he’d finally had to send repast in to Elienor—and he was rapidly growing impatient with the company at hand. Curse Olav and his rotten timing! “So she claims,” he muttered, drinking deeply of his ale.

Olav heaved a ponderous sigh. “You know I do not wish discord with the church. Alarik, are you listening?”

Alarik swung back toward his brother. “Mmhhh.”

He wondered what she was doing.

He’d not set eyes upon her since ordering her to his chamber.

“I’ve simply come too far to risk contention over a wench, of all things.” Olav placed his hand upon Alarik’s shoulder in appeal. “Mayhap, if you did not care for her overmuch?”

Alarik’s scowl darkened, for the last thing he wanted was to become a beleaguered husband. He shuddered suddenly at the turn of his thoughts. Husband? Since when would he even have considered a thrall as a candidate for wife? Since when had he considered a wife at all? “I don’t.”

Olav’s mood lightened, satisfied as he was with the expected response. “Well—I didn’t think so! At any rate,” he continued, “mayhap for the sake of peace with the church, for me, you will return her to...”

Alarik slammed his tankard down, shrugging Olav’s hand from his shoulder. “Nei! She stays!”

Olav scratched his chin, tilting his head in stupefaction. “Yet you don’t care for her?”

“Nei,” Alarik maintained, his jaw taut.

Olav chuckled suddenly, his green eyes dancing. “I see.”

Alarik glowered at him and shoved his tankard away. “You see naught, you pompous old dog!” He rose abruptly from the table. “I’m going to bed,” he said irascibly.

To that declaration, Olav merely threw his head back and roared with laughter. “And yet he says he does not care for her?” He turned to elbow Brother Vernay.

At Olav’s unexpected jab in the ribs, Brother Vernay choked upon his ale, uncomfortable at taking his meal with so many hostile eyes upon him.

Alarik ignored the quip, shoving away from the table.

Brother Vernay cleared his throat. “Er... my lords?” He raked his chair backward and stood along with Alarik. “If I might be so bold?”

Alarik turned from Olav, to the pestering monk his brother had cast into his life, his face contorting with impatience. It was the bane of his existence that Olav adhered to the one extreme, Bjorn to the other. “Go on,” he prompted, his brow furrowing suddenly as he scanned the hall. Bjorn was nowhere to be found, and he wondered idly that he’d not missed his youngest brother ere now. Nevertheless, Bjorn’s absence surprised him not, for the animosity between he and Olav was palpable, oft splitting Alarik between the two.

“You said the demoiselle was raised in a nunnery?”

“Aye,” Alarik affirmed. “If her word is true.”

“Well, then—if I may be so bold to advise—I believe I know a way we might appease everyone.”

Both men stared expectantly.

“Aye, well,” Vernay continued. “My lord, Olav, I know how much you would like for me to record for you l’ ecriture sainte, and if the demoiselle can copy, then she might be the answer to our quandary!”

Both men continued to stare blankly, unaware there was a quandary.

Brother Vernay cleared his throat and tried again. “You know I cannot write,” he reasoned. “Though the demoiselle would be perfectly suited to the task. Surely they would have taught her letters at the priory. And jarl?” he prompted, appealing to Alarik’s desire to keep the girl. “Wouldn’t that be the perfect persuasion? If she thought this were God’s will for her? Having been raised in the priory, she couldn’t possibly disagree. If only she were to realize how much she was needed here!”

Alarik nodded, considering.

“And my lord, Olav… I believe the demoiselle might even prove to be a suitable... er... influence, shall we say, for... he inclined his head subtly toward Alarik, “... us all?”

“Aye!” Olav exclaimed, warming finally to Brother Vernay’s meaning. “Aye! I believe she would in fact be the perfect solution! ’Tis settled then!” he said, excited.

“Er... not quite, my lords,” Brother Vernay broke in once more. His brows rose apprehensively. “There are those who would need to be appeased—her family for instance—but I would be delighted to speak in your behalf!”

“Very good!” Olav exclaimed.

“I dare say, we should hear no objections from the church,” Vernay added. “And I’m certain that in itself will hold tremendous sway with her family. Surely they can have no objections when informed by the church of the exceptional task set before her? Know you who they might be, my lord?”

Alarik’s gaze riveted on the monk as he considered the ring. He glanced at his brother and knew without a doubt that Olav would be less inclined to approve of his keeping Elienor if he suspected that a man as influential and pious as Robert of Francia was her kin. “Nei,” he said after a moment, averting his eyes. “She has not said.” Again, his gaze returned to spear the monk. “And your only interest in the wench is merely to guide her in copying the holy writ?”

Brother Vernay’s lids lifted, and his eyes widened in stunned surprise as he caught Alarik’s meaning. “Of course, my lord! I assure you my passion is with God alone!”

Alarik nodded. “Very well then, she can begin on the morrow...” He turned to consider his brother. “If Olav has no objections.”

Olav shook his head, his mouth contorting as he considered the way Alarik had so easily yielded to his request. Never had he so easily. “Not at all,” he assured. “In truth, it would please me greatly.” He ran a speculative hand across his jaw and reclined further within his chair, considering what had just transpired.

Brother Vernay, on the other hand, beamed. “Well then! Will you summon her now and speak to her, jarl, or would you have me appeal to her in your stead? She could not deny me, I assure you!”

Alarik’s scowl returned, for he disliked being manipulated. He grunted with irritation and said sharply, “I shall speak to her, myself, though not just now. I grow weary and would seek mine bed!”

“Then I look forward unto the morrow.” Olav proclaimed, straightening as Alarik turned to leave. “Oh, and Alarik?”

Alarik turned, beginning to think it a conspiracy to keep him from his chamber. He tried to keep the impatience from his face and tone, but felt as agitated as a stallion in a brood mare’s stall, separated from his obsession by mere walls and the will of others. He stole a look over his shoulder at his chamber door. As the stallion with the mare, he was keenly aware she was there.

“What might be the name of this wench I’ve not yet met?”

“Elienor,” Alarik answered on a sigh, “of Baume-les-Nonnes.” He turned to go, vowing no one would keep him from his destination this time. “God natt, Olav!”

“Rest well, mine bror” Olav returned.

Brother Vernay nodded approvingly. “Baume-les-Nonnes!” he murmured. “My lord! Somebody must have valued her highly, for it took good coin, I warrant, to ensconce her within those walls.”

“Aye,” Olav agreed, settling back as he watched Alarik stoop to pick up a small yapping pup before continuing on to his chamber.

“My lord?” Vernay said more quietly. “I believe we may finally have found the perfect way to persuade your brother!”

Olav nodded, again smoothing his hand along his jaw, watching shrewdly as Alarik carried the animal within his chamber. “Mayhap,” he agreed. “Mayhap we do, at that.”

Chapter 20

Elienor awoke in the midst of the nightmare, uncertain whether the sound that had roused her was her own whimper or that of the door opening. She made an effort to orient herself, for the chamber had grown dim with the fire’s waning, and after an instant she could discern the sound of footsteps. She knew it would be Alarik, yet she dared not move in hopes that he would think her asleep and leave her in peace.

He made his way across the chamber, and Elienor watched through her lashes as his dark form stooped along the way to set something upon the floor.

He sensed at once she was awake.

Elienor watched with bated breath as he came nearer, his silhouette dark and forbidding against the dull orange glow of the firelight.

He stared down at her for an interminable moment.

“Did you dream again?”

Elienor averted her gaze, terrified that despite the darkness, he would discern that she had, and worse, he would inquire of it. How could she tell him? And yet how could she not? Her fingers twisted the bedsheets. She understood now what the dream revealed—had dreamt it so often that she could recall every vivid detail.

According to her divination, Alarik would die, betrayed, though that part of it she could not yet discern.

In truth, she should have been elated at the notion, yet she wasn’t. She was terrified.

He hovered silently above her, waiting for her to reply. Swallowing, Elienor avoided his question, distracting him with another. “You... you banished Nissa and Red-Hrolf?”

“’Tis none of your concern!” he declared.

Why was it that his response seemed to deflate her spirit somehow? And why had she thought he’d banished them for her? Because he’d held her so tenderly in her dream—silly fool! she berated herself. It had been no more than a dream, after all. There was naught between them. Naught.

Naught!

“Tell me, Elienor...”

Elienor swallowed, averting her eyes, sensing what he was about to ask yet again. She turned to her side, clutching the blankets to her breast.

“What demons haunt you so that you cannot sleep through the night?”

Elienor’s grip upon the bedsheets tightened. She balled it within her fist, daring to say nothing, not trusting her voice. His shadowed eyes seemed to peer directly into her soul.

“Surely something?”

“Nay,” she croaked, swallowing. “I... I merely dream of my mother,” she improvised. Not wholly a lie, yet not the truth, either. She reminded herself that it was a sin to lie, yet rationalized that the truth might very well find her burned at the stake.

And she was a coward.

“Your mother?”

“Her death,” Elienor murmured in explanation. “It was senseless.” Guilt plagued her. How could she, in all good conscience, let a man perish when God, or Lucifer, had seen fit to forewarn her of his death? Shouldn’t she use her gift to the good of mankind?

Mayhap it would be for the good of mankind did he die, she argued.

Yet was she much better than he was though she simply allowed him to perish without a single, solitary warning?

Her heart leapt in confusion and growing desperation. Her mother had been courageous enough to speak freely of her visions. Why couldn’t she?

Because you’re a coward!

She glanced up to be certain she’d not spoken the self-depreciating accusation aloud. His expression was unchanged, brooding, and she couldn’t help but wonder if he sensed her lie.

She suddenly heard a faint whimper, and her brows knit as she watched Alarik bend to the floor and lift something up. To her surprise, he placed a whining pup upon the bed, and her eyes widened as she recognized it as the same one Nissa had booted and Red-Hrolf had abused. She peered up at him in surprise.

“I thought you might like to have it,” he disclosed in a husky whisper, his eyes spearing her through the shadows.

Her heart hammering, Elienor said naught, yet the hand that clutched the bedsheets suddenly released their hold and reached out to accept the pup. She drew it into her arms protectively and sat up to examine each leg for injury, finding none.

Alarik watched. “Do you loathe me so much?”

Elienor’s heart turned over, her breath choking her. He could not know, she assured herself—could not know of the dream—could not know that she’d chosen to deny him the knowledge that might save him! In reality, how could she even be certain that her dreams were anything more than her own fancy, she reasoned.

Mayhap it was only coincidence, after all?

The silence between them lengthened.

“How is it you came to be raised in a nunnery?”

Elienor dared not look at him. His presence beside her was becoming much too disconcerting. Releasing the dog, she raised the bedsheet and scooted backward in self-preservation—not that she supposed he might harm her. They’d been alone enough that she knew he’d not. She simply felt undone with him so near, was all. The dog followed her, whining as it reached up to lap at her lips, begging for affection. Elienor couldn’t suppress a soft giggle at its effort, and at once she recommenced stroking its head and back.

Her unexpected laughter jolting him, Alarik watched Elienor’s fingers move gently over the pup, his body quickening as he imagined those same fingers moving just so over his own flesh.

He had no notion why he’d carried the accursed animal in, only that the image of her with her anguished expression when Red-Hrolf had abused it had prompted him to it.

Keeping him centered was the simple fact that she would not even look at him—and that if she did, her smiling expression would revert at once to that of loathing. No matter how he treated her, how he spoke to her... that he kept his vow, she saw him only as she saw fit—as a demon, butcher, slayer of innocents. No matter how he strove to, he could not seem to banish the sound of her accusing voice from his thoughts... and now her laughter lingered; the two sounds were incongruous, yet equally tormenting.

“Why do you wish to know of my days in the priory?”

“Simple curiosity.”

“I entered the priory when my mother died,” she relented.

“And you say ’tis her death you dream of?”

“Aye,” Elienor replied.

“You need not speak of it... if it pains you.”

Elienor nodded.

“But... there is something I would have you tell me,” he prompted, settling upon the edge of the bed. Her violet eyes watched him warily. “I would know your relation to Robert of Francia.”

“He is my uncle,” Elienor said.

Without realizing he did so, Alarik exhaled in relief. The tension in his body eased.

Again the uncomfortable silence.

“Would it please you to know we have a kirken here?” he asked suddenly.

Her brows knit. “A kirken?”

“A church.”

Elienor snorted. “A heathen church!”

“Nei, Elienor, not a heathen church... a Christian church.” He was silent a long moment, weighing his words, and then continued. “You will discover it soon enough... mine brother has taken your faith.”

Her eyes widened at the revelation, though she seemed to recover herself at once and inquired, “Your brother? Not you?”

Alarik grunted. “He was converted by a soothsayer in the Scilly Isles,” he explained, “and confirmed with the English king Ethelred as his godfather.” His eyes seemed to smolder as he looked down upon her, assessing her reaction to his disclosure.

“I see,” she said stiffly, raising her brows. “Am I supposed to feel at ease now that you’ve revealed this to me? Because I do not! You’ve taken me far from everyone I’ve loved, everything I—”

“So you loved Count Phillipe?” he asked sharply, his eyes piercing her through the shadows.

“Nay,” Elienor snapped, glaring back at him. She shrugged. “How could I? I did not know him long enough to love him. You saw fit to that!”

Sensing that further interrogation would gain him naught and stir up much discord, Alarik decided to forego further questioning. Instead, he informed her of Brother Vernay and the holy writ to be copied for Olav. Elienor was so astounded by the request to aid the monk that she remained speechless, gawking at him, her lovely face flustered.

“You wish me to copy for you?”

“For Olav,” Alarik amended. “Do you know how?”

“Aye,” she murmured softly. “But...”

“Should you agree to the request, then you’ll spend the majority of each day with Brother Vernay... at the kirken,” he revealed. “The rest of the time you will spend with me, tending mine needs.”

Elienor’s chin lifted, heartened by the knowledge that he could argue all day it was God’s will, but if she chose not to assist Brother Vernay, then he could never force her. Mayhap Alarik had spared Clarisse, but she could not forget Stefan. “And if I do not agree?”

His lips twisted wryly. “Then you’ll spend the majority of each waking day tending me, instead.”

Elienor quivered. “Then I shall be delighted to assist Brother Vernay!” she relented at once, choking on her pride. “May it never be said I resisted God’s will,” she ceded ruefully.

“’Tis settled then. You shall begin in the morning,” he told her. Something about his tone made her feel that he was somehow displeased with her reply... yet he’d gotten what he wished of her, hadn’t he? He withdrew her ring from about his neck, his look sullen. “You’ll be wanting this back, I think,” he said, offering it to her.

When Elienor merely stared at it, stupefied, he dropped it over her head and watched as it settled at her bosom. Her fingers went to it at once. “Did your uncle give it to you?”

Elienor closed her fist about it, her eyes locking with his. “Aye,” she murmured.

“An acknowledgment of your kinship?”

“In a manner of speaking.” She glanced down at the ring in question. “For my eyes alone, for I can never be acknowledged as my father’s issue.” She glanced up, assessing his expression.

“Why?”

“Because I was disinherited at the age of four in the eyes of both church and state—my mother as well—so that my father might take to wife an heiress more suitable to his needs.”

Her lashes lowered, black as midnight against her pale flesh, and once again Alarik wondered that one so dark could be so fair.

At her forlorn expression, Alarik felt an overwhelming compassion for her, a kinship even, separate from any carnal emotions he’d possessed before; yet he couldn’t afford those sentiments and so he dismissed them, severing the moment abruptly.

“You should go back to sleep,” he suggested, commencing to undress at once. “’Tis late.” He lifted his tunic up over his head and tossed it upon a coffer and then began to unlace his breeches.

Elienor gasped, averting her eyes. “Where shall you slee...”

The aversion in her voice twisted his gut. “Atop you if you don’t move yourself over!” he said impatiently, and his stomach turned as she propelled herself to the far side of the bed, going so far as to place the pup between them.

Chapter 21

In her dream Elienor endured Phillipe’s sloppy kiss. It was her duty, she told herself. Her body grew taut, and she endeavored not to cry out in disgust, counting herself fortunate that he never did more than this. Still, it sickened her and she worried how she would abide it when they were wed. She’d find a way, she was determined.

She’d find a way...

It was a long befuddled moment before she could rouse herself sufficiently to realize it was not a human tongue at all, for it was much too large—and wet!

Her eyes flew open to find an eager pink tongue lapping at her face. Sputtering in surprise, she sprang upward, grappling with the clumsy animal that seemed suddenly all the more determined to devour her face!

A soft chuckle reached her ears. “I wondered how long it would take you to rouse,” a husky voice remarked.

Elienor’s eyes found him at once, leaning casually, arms crossed, against the chamber door. To her alarm her first emotion was relief—relief that it was him, and not Count Phillipe.

Yet that was ludicrous, was it not?

He was dressed, though scarcely, wearing mere linen breeches and a tunic thrown over one shoulder, and she caught her breath at the sight of his bare chest, so immense. Seeing him thus was unsettling, to say the least.

An arrogant smile curved his lips as he noted the direction of her gaze, and his silver eyes gleamed. The thought of him standing there, scrutinizing her in sleep while she was entirely unaware of it, unnerved her. Elienor nudged the pup aside peevishly. “Why didn’t you simply waken me?”

“Because you needed rest.”

Elienor’s brows knit. How was she supposed to continue to loathe him when he said such things? Worse, how was she supposed to forget her nightmares? Though she couldn’t be certain the dream was prophecy, she reminded herself. Self-preservation kept her silent. The memory of her mother’s persecution, for so much less, plagued her.

She met his gaze boldly, trying to seem unaffected by him. “I’d have thought you’d have better things to do with your time, my lord Viking,” she said with easy defiance, “than to watch your prisoners slumber?”

“The name is Alarik,” he asserted, his sensuous lips curling as though on the edge of laughter. “And nei, I’ve naught better to do at present, Elienor... though you do.”

He broke into a smile at her confused expression, but said only, “I’ve arranged for a bath.”

Elienor tried not to notice the bridled power in his arms. “A bath?” Against her will, her eyes returned to his bared chest, and she swallowed, feeling a new wash of shame as she stared at the satiny smooth flesh there. She swallowed, trying to speak past the lump in her throat. “I... I would very much appreciate a bath.”

Amusement flickered in the eyes that met hers. “Come,” he demanded softly, shoving away from the door abruptly.

Had Elienor any choice but to obey? As she thrust away the covers and stepped out of the bed, he opened a small coffer, lifting out a crimson mantle. “You’ll be needing something more than your kyrtle,” he disclosed, wrapping it about her shoulders. And then without bothering to cloak himself, he snatched her by the elbow, leading her out of the bedchamber and through the skali.

To her surprise, he led her outside, and from there to a small outbuilding where smoke drifted up through the rooftop. He opened the door revealing a well-lit chamber within and an immense sunken tub in its center, grand enough for at least six people to sit and bathe. Eight flickering torches, each set in beautiful ornate iron braces, illuminated the chamber. On the right wall, two torches flanked an enormous hearth, and dancing beneath the smoke-blackened kettle in its gaping mouth burned a torrid fire. Elienor surmised the kettle was there to warm the bath water. Additionally, luxuriant furs were strewn about the floor and fresh drying rags were stacked upon a single wooden stool.

Elienor shook her head, awestruck by the sight. “I have never seen the like!” she whispered, forgetting for an instant that they were supposed to be bitter foes. She knelt by the tub, shrugging the cloak off and thrusting her hand within the water to test it. As she suspected, it was heated. Turning to catch Alarik’s amused expression, she told him, “In the priory we did not bathe...”

His tawny brows shot up in surprise.

“Oh aye, but we did!” Elienor amended, “though not in such luxury!” She flushed suddenly, chagrined by her impetuousness. “The church does not sanction such... opulence.” She glanced down hastily into the misty water, swaying softly, blaming her sudden dizziness on the heat of the chamber and not the way he stared at her.

His eyes glowed with a savage inner fire as intense as that within the hearth. “A private bathing chamber is also an extravagance in the Northland,” he assured her. “The design is merely one of many I’ve encountered in mine voyages to the east. In fact, most steadings do have but a single bathhouse for all to share... but then, this is not most steadings... it is mine.”

Elienor inhaled deeply in an attempt to harness the fluttering in her breast. “I see,” she replied, swallowing the lump in her throat. Suddenly anxious to be within the cleansing water, she straightened her shoulders and waved a hand toward the door. “Now that you’ve enlightened me, you may leave. Certainly, I can manage adequately!”

Alarik’s good humor spread clear into his lively silver eyes.

“I see naught so amusing!” Elienor replied at once, her hackles rising.

To her dismay, he merely chuckled softly. “Wench. You’re bold to order me out of mine own bath chamber,” he remarked blithely.

Elienor stiffened, bracing herself for the upcoming confrontation.

“You never cease to amaze me, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he said, huskiness deepening his tone.

Elienor merely glared at him, unnerved by the way he said her name, with so much dark promise. “Surely you realize, my lord...” She repressed the epithet that by now came automatically to her lips, determined to master her tongue for once. “Surely, you realize that I cannot bathe with you present?”

Once again he chuckled, the sound wholly disarming. “Oh, but you can,” he disagreed softly, “and you shall, for I plan to stay.”

Alarik watched with unconcealed amusement as her eyes widened abruptly. ‘Trust me, Elienor—” He averted his eyes momentarily, but his gaze returned with startling intensity. “I made you a vow,” he continued grimly, “and I shall keep it.”

Elienor lifted her chin, emboldened by the shred of guilt she detected in his countenance. “Aye, but you’ve made me vows a’fore,” she reminded him, “and you’ve broken them as easily!”

He flinched visibly, his jaw taut. “I said I’d not touch you… unless you desire it to be so?”

Elienor snorted, rising abruptly to her feet. As dirty as she knew she must be after so long at sea with no bath, and wearing the same garments as she had, she refused to bathe in his presence! He’d have to force her. “You are the last thing I would ever desire!”

Liar! her conscience accused her.

“Regardless!” Alarik thundered, losing his composure for the briefest instant. He took a moment, tempering his tone, if not his words. “I told you last eve I would require your services, and I’ll not forego that dictate simply because you’re too squeamish to undress in mine presence. If you wish not to, then simply do not, but assist me, you will,” he avowed. “Within the tub,” he explained. “Alas, it is your gown to ruin if you please.”

With that declaration, he jerked the tunic from his shoulders, tossing it atop a stack of towels upon the stool. The force of the impact toppled the heap to the furs. His gaze piercing her, he said, “At any rate, ’tis not as though I’ve not seen you unclothed, is it my little Fransk? Nor is it likely you would have been spared this task, even had you wed your precious count. As mistress to Brouillard,” he reasoned, “would you not have been expected to bathe your lord’s guests?” His eyes glittered coldly. “Think of this just so.”

Elienor took a step backward even before he took his first forward, sensing his determination. She knew without a doubt that arguing her point would gain her little. The demon before her would simply do as he pleased and naught less—yet she could not in all good conscience simply disrobe and bathe before him! Nor could she bear the thought of looking upon his intimidating nakedness—regardless that it was a duty she readily would have embraced as mistress of Brouillard.

Retreating another step as he unlaced his breeches, she stumbled backward into the tub.

He chuckled deeply, his eyes shimmering like molten silver. “Does the sight of me affect you so?”

Elienor straightened. “The sight of you does naught but offend me,” she countered. But her face heated with the lie. About her limbs the water was fiery, yet she dared not extract herself from the bath. Lifting her skirts as much as she dared in a futile attempt to save them from ruin, she raised her chin proudly. To her dismay, he continued to disrobe, discarding his breeches with conviction and ease, his silver eyes sharp and confidant.

“I cannot bathe you!” Elienor declared with growing hysteria, shifting indignantly from foot to foot. Her gaze darted about the room.

His lips parted, displaying straight, white teeth. “Can you not?” he asked, and then suddenly he was fully revealed before her.

Elienor didn’t wait to see whether he would follow her. She turned and raced toward the far side of the tub, floundering in her haste. To her horror, the further she went, the deeper the water became and the slower she moved. She shrieked as she heard water splash behind her and could almost feel the strength and purpose of his stride. Abruptly she was caught by the arm and was whirled about to face him. She squeezed her eyes shut, vowing that if he would force her hand in this, then at least she’d not look. He could not force her in that!

He chuckled low in his throat, and the unholy sound sent a ripple of alarm tearing through her. Elienor’s heart felt near to bursting.

It took every ounce of will Alarik possessed not to rent her clothes from her back, so revealing was her wet gown.

She had fine hips and shapely thighs, and at the glimpse of them desire, like molten iron, slid through his veins, arousing him at once. Partly because she seemed so frantic at the thought of seeing him unclothed and partly because the state of his body dictated at least a modicum of modesty, he did not coerce her to open her eyes. “Have it your way, little Fransk,” he murmured.

“Were I to have it mine own way,” she hissed, “’tis you who would be skewered instead of Stefan!”

His fingers closed about her arm and Elienor gasped as they slid down to her wrist. Turning her palm up, he pressed something small and hard within her hand, and then in the other... a cloth? Soap? Jesu! she swore silently, quivering anew at the thought of touching him.

“I... I...”

Her protest ended with a gasp as he hauled her blindly toward him. With deliberate precision, he placed her hands upon his chest, and a terrible jolt burst through her. “Wash me!” he demanded.

She tried once more to voice a protest, opening her mouth. Nothing came. Her chest constricted as he began to guide her hand, along with the soap, across his satiny smooth flesh. Tiny hairs sprang at her touch, and to her horror she imagined them wet and gold and glistening beneath her fingertips. That image made her quiver where she stood.

Dear God, but she was warm! She could actually feel wisps of steam waft by her face, could almost smell the heat. And him. Sweet Jesu, she thought she might swoon! His flesh must surely be made of steel not to be affected by the heat? Yet it didn’t feel like steel at all; it was disconcertingly soft to the touch, but solid.

Her fingers, scalding and soft, set fire to Alarik’s flesh wherever they touched.

It took him a staggering moment to discern that she’d begun to wash him of her own accord, her movements progressively slower with each stroke; when he did he released her, dropping his fists to his sides. Her heart might loathe him still, he concluded with satisfaction, but her body reacted with a will of its own, and her body did not loathe him. He knew she was not conscious of the instant when her scrubbing became exploration, but he was. Acutely. His breath quickened as she turned her face up instinctively, and the profound expression she wore took hold of him and clenched his gut. Lust, in its most guileless form. She had no notion, he was certain, what it was that she was experiencing, for her countenance wavered between innocent desire and utter confusion.

Her face was arresting, irregular for the willful chin he’d come to know, her cheeks flushed rose, her lashes long and sooty. She had no notion how beautiful she appeared with her face upturned and her hair dragging the water behind her, her slender white neck arching with passion. His fingers traced the Scar at her temple—even it failed to detract from her beauty.

Mingled with the steam, the feminine scent of her was utterly intoxicating. Instinctively, he drew her closer, his heart leaping a little when he realized she did not resist him. He began to stroke her back, though lightly, not wishing to break her concentration. He could almost imagine her garments vanished, for clinging to her as they did, they left little to the imagination.

Alarik’s breath came more labored with each delicious stroke of her hands, his reasoning more convoluted. His better judgment warned him to resist the need that clawed him like a wild unreasonable beast, yet his body could not concur.

Would not.

His goal today had been merely to initiate Elienor into her duties with the most intimate of tasks—to make her as familiar with his body as he craved to be with hers. He was sick unto death of seeing the revulsion in her eyes and wanted merely to force her to bear the sight of him.

But he’d gotten much more...

His head fell back with a groan as her hands flitted, light as feathers, down his too sensitive sides, halting at his waist. And then suddenly, they began a new descent, and he moaned, a mixture of torment and pleasure, unable to stop her.

If she desired it, then who was he to interfere?

His hands slid to the small of her back, forcing her into closer contact, relishing the feel of her cool wet garments against his burning flesh, and then he bent to cup his palms around her luscious bottom, pressing her up into his throbbing loins. His body jerked when her fingers lit upon his own buttocks, emulating him, and then she suddenly stiffened and made some choked sound in the back of her throat, as though only just realizing.

Her eyes flew wide, the vivid violet piercing him with their anguish, yet he refused to release her. They stood in that bent position, their bodies arcing so close they might have been one, their faces intimate...

Just as it had been in her dream...

Elienor closed the distance between them, boldly touching her lips to his. God forgive her but she could not keep herself from it. She was faithless, and wanton, and... and she didn’t care in that instant that her body had betrayed her!

Never had she imagined she would desire this joining of mouths.

Never had Count Phillipe’s sloppy kisses made her feel so brazen, so exquisite.

The shocking contact sent the pit of her stomach in a wild tumult. Alarik returned the touch, caressing her mouth more than kissing it, and shivers of delight assailed her at once. In that mindless instant, Elienor returned the kiss with reckless abandon, her blood leaping from her heart and pounding into her head.

She dropped the soap, the rag, and her hands slid up, her arms winding themselves about his neck of their own accord. Moaning, she sought more of him and felt his knees weaken as his fingers kneaded her bottom, sending delicious spasms through her entire being. Desperately, she clung for support, afraid that if she released him, she would drown in her own passion!

Never could she have imagined when Phillipe was kissing her that it might be so blissful. Would that she had known, yet she sensed somehow that it wouldn’t have been the same at all. There was a dreamy quality to the moment, and at once recollecting what came next, she followed Phillipe’s example, sliding her tongue along Alarik’s firm, sensual lips. He groaned, and emboldened, she offered her tongue into his mouth, pleased that she had recalled correctly.

For the briefest instant, she thought she would die from the titillating pleasure. It didn’t matter that they were enemies. She found to her dismay that her traitorous body didn’t care at all!

It took Alarik a full instant to realize what she’d done, so lost was he to the carnal pleasure—that the invasion of his mouth was forged by none other than her eager little tongue—but the instant he did, he growled, thrusting her away in startle. He spat, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, spitting again.

Elienor landed on her backside, splashing down into the bath with a shriek of surprise, and then came up sputtering.

“Forsooth, wench!” he swore. “Spend one accursed night with the little mongrel and you respond in kind!”

Elienor was so staggered by his unanticipated response to her kiss that she said nothing, only stared, her eyes wide, her lips burning where his had been.

Certainly with Phillipe it had never ended this way.

To her dismay, he turned from her abruptly and lifted himself up from the tub. As he did, water cascaded from his husky form, falling in rushing streams all about him. Despite the horror of the moment, Elienor allowed herself to look upon him fully; his backside was rosy from the warmth of the water, his golden skin glistened with moisture.

Sweet Jesu! How could she have been so wanton? Her face burned, yet try as she might, she could not avert her eyes. She still didn’t comprehend what had happened, could not fathom what she’d done wrong. Only belatedly did she realize she was ogling him, and averted her eyes, instantly ashamed.

He seized a towel from the furs and briskly rubbed it over his scalp, and then throwing the towel across his wide shoulders, he tugged on his breeches and stalked out, not bothering to speak as he departed.

As the door slammed, Elienor’s fingers went to her mouth where the heat and the taste of him lingered still. She licked her lips, her face heating in shock at the memory of her own eager response to his touch. By the heavens, she could not even claim he’d forced her, because he’d merely asked to be washed.

It was she who had given so much more!

Chapter 22

Her face burning fiercely, Elienor completed her bath, not bothering to remove her gown. It was ruined already.

Aside from that, she had no notion whether Alarik would return, and she’d reacted shamefully enough as it was. She preferred not to be discovered exposed, as well.

As she finished soaping her hair, the door opened, and she glanced up to find Alva clucking her disapproval.

“You’ve ruined your gown—all for silly modesty!”

“I fell in.” Elienor lied, refusing to admit what had so shamefully transpired within the bath chamber only moments before.

“Well!” Alva said, the cheer returning to her voice, “what is done, is done, and the jarl has sent you another, and a fine one it is, I might add!”

Resisting the urge to seize the gown in question and rip it to shreds, Elienor averted her eyes and said instead, “I’ve no wish to don someone else’s garments, Alva.” Her chin lifted as she met Alva’s twinkling eyes. “You may return it to your demon master, and tell him I said...”

“But the jarl is not my master,” Alva demurred, politely disregarding the epithet Elienor had given him in anger.

Elienor’s brows lifted, curiosity overcoming her anger. Still, she couldn’t quite keep the contempt from her tone. “Nay?”

“Nei,” Alva avowed. “He is my nephew. And this gown,” she added saucily, “well, it belongs to no one, save yourself. ’Tis true,” she swore at Elienor’s skeptical look. “He came to me yesterday and bade me fashion something of his good Byzantine silk.”

“Silk?” Elienor asked in startle. Her gaze returned to the blue cloth, scrutinizing it for the first time. “He would clothe a mere slave in silk?”

Alva chuckled. “It would seem so.” Her shrewd eyes crinkled with merriment.

In that instant it wasn’t difficult for Elienor to see the kinship between them. That irritating smile! “So Alarik is your nephew?”

Alva nodded, setting the rich blue cloth down upon the stool. She then proceeded, without being asked, to help Elienor rinse her hair. “His mother and Bjorn’s perished of fever four years past,” she revealed. “But whilst she lived, there could have been no finer son than Alarik. He was good to my sister Mathilde unto her dying breath.”

Elienor said nothing.

Was she supposed to think of him differently with that revelation?

“Would that Bjorn had cared so much,” Alva declared, sighing a little sadly. “I’m afeared Bjorn was my sister’s greatest sorrow. She oft worried he did not possess Alarik’s strength of character, and alas, ’tis true for while Alarik has long overcome his birth circumstances and has gone on to forge his way to become jarl over his people, Bjorn has never done aught but grumble over his station in life. He bears such bitterness in his heart for what he lacks, and resents both Olav and Alarik for it as well—Olav more so!”

“I see,” Elienor replied softly, having gained more insight into the three than she’d ever cared to own. Still, she couldn’t help but be curious. “Did all three share the same mother?”

“Nei,” Alva disclosed. “Mathilde was Trygvi Olavson’s slave—freed upon his death. As you were, she and I were begot in Francia.”

Elienor’s eyes widened at the revelation.

“’Tis the only reason I know the tongue so well, of course,” Alva declared. “We were both taken during a sacking there.”

“How long now?” Elienor asked in horror. The testimony shouldn’t have surprised her, she told herself, but it did.

‘Too many years for this old memory to recount! They took Mathilde because she was too fair and beautiful to resist... and I, alas, as dark as I am... well, because Mathilde would not abandon me with our mother and father both slain. Now, Astrid,” she continued, returning to the previous topic, “she was Olav’s mother and Trygvi’s rightful wife—and Bjorn... well, he shares no kinship at all with Olav, save through Alarik. He and Olav share neither the same mother nor the same father, for while my sister was Bjorn’s birth mother, his father was not Trygvi Olavson. ’Tis confusing, I know,” she said apologetically.

Dazed by the muddled history Alva had so quickly recounted, Elienor focused on the one thing she’d heard clearly. “I did not realize it was a sin to be dark,” she said crossly, offended not for herself but for Alva.

Alva sighed a little sadly. “Ahh, well, for you ’tis not, my dear, for you are fair enough in other ways. For me ’tis different. Nevertheless, grieve not for me, my dear girl, for I have been content all these years.”

Elienor was too stunned by all that Alva had disclosed to reply. It was inconceivable that she could be so content when she’d been brought to the Northland under such similar circumstances as had Elienor.

Wouldn’t acceptance of her lot have been a betrayal of her mother and sire?

Elienor pondered that a time, and once her hair was rinsed, Alva assisted her out of the tub, wrapped a towel around her head, and then again, without being asked, proceeded to strip her of her wet gown. “I can manage!” Elienor declared at once.

“Nonsense!” Alva rebuked. “I came to assist at the jarl’s request, and assist I will. Besides, look at you. You’ve a fine figure,” she announced. Her brow furrowed in reproach as she lifted the wet gown up and over Elienor’s head. Elienor crossed her arms, unaccustomed to being tended so. “No need to conceal yourself, my dear.” Alva rebuked. “Why,” she said with a chortle, “I can no doubt see why the jarl hoards you for himself. You should be proud ’tis so. The jarl is a fine specimen of a man!” she asserted, when Elienor’s brows collided. ‘That, and gentle besides, I’m told.”

“Gentle?” Elienor was unwilling to grant him a single redeeming quality, nor was she willing to consider what had very nearly transpired in this accursed bath chamber—and her own shameful part in it! She shivered, uncertain whether it was the cold, or the memory of the kiss she and the demon had shared... his lips so soft...

“More gentle than most,” Alva maintained, giving Elienor a curious look.

“Mayhap so,” Elienor ceded ruefully, “but I cannot say as I’ve known his gentleness.”

Alva’s brows furrowed.

“The man took me per force, for the love of God! And upon his ship... he caged me within his tent, ne’er to see the light of day! Moreover, he slew an innocent boy before my own eyes—aye, he did—and then led me to believe that he’d tossed the maid Clarisse into the ocean—alive! To be devoured by the creatures of the sea! Not once did he bother to relate the fact that Clarisse lived, even knowing full well that I loathed him for it.”

Alva cocked her head curiously, staring up unabashedly into Elienor’s angry violet eyes. “Nothing more?” she asked in surprise.

The question struck Elienor as impudent. Her brows rose as she tilted her head in challenge. “Should I require aught more to despise him?”

Alva made some choked sound, her hand covering her mouth. “Could it be?”

Elienor’s face flamed under the older woman’s scrutiny.

“You mean to tell me that he’s taken no... that he’s not—well, ’tis no wonder his mood is black!” she declared aghast.

It was not that it had been such an unpleasant thing, this sparring of tongues, Alarik mused.

Merely unorthodox.

In truth, he’d shoved Elienor away more in surprise than in disgust, for the lingering taste of her teased his senses still.

As a man, it was his place to lead, and she’d mentally unbalanced him. That she’d made the initial gesture had been enticing in itself, but she’d somehow usurped his self-control with her brazenness, and that was not so easily dealt with.

Moreover, it led him to wonder where she’d learned such whore’s tricks, and it was that which disturbed him most. Though he’d heard talk of such tongue play, it was the first time he’d encountered it himself. That Elienor would know of it burned at his gut.

He needed time to think. And to that end, he’d saddled Sleipnir, as he was wont to do when his mood was black, and had ridden half the morn in pursuit of peace. Yet, returning now, he found that his mood was no lighter for the endeavor.

Nor had he been able to discover anything about Ejnar’s whereabouts, and he was more determined than ever to remove Nissa from his keep. Truthfully, he was beginning to wonder if Ejnar had determined his intent and had resolved not to be found, for he was well aware that Hrolf had found him easily enough when he’d looked. He’d received word already this morn that the flame-haired Hrolf had joined with Ejnar’s band—another reason for the darkness of his mood.

“I wish you to give Nissa consent to remain at Gryting!” Bjorn appealed at his back. Alarik had not heard his approach, and that fact only irritated him more. Damn, he couldn’t afford to lose his faculties. In these times there were many who would gladly cleave his back in two for the honor of his high seat alone—not to mention his kinship with Olav. He didn’t bother turning; Bjorn quickly overtook Sleipnir’s sluggish gait.

Alarik tugged back on the reins, bringing Sleipnir to a halt. “I cannot.”

Bjorn glared up at him. “Cannot... or will not?”

Alarik shrugged. “Makes no difference. Will not, if you please.”

“Loki take you, then!”

“She oversteps her boundaries much too far already,” Alarik contended. “And the blame falls to me for not removing her sooner. Forsooth, Bjorn, Nissa creates discontent where’er she goes! Already she tries to usurp Alva’s authority, and Brother Vernay—”

“She cannot abide Brother Vernay!” Bjorn interjected in her defense. “He assumes—and not so subtly either—he will convert every last soul to Olav’s accursed faith! ‘Tis for that reason Nissa did not allow him within the hall whilst you were gone.”

Alarik eyed his youngest brother irascibly. “I would remind you, mine bror, that it is not Nissa’s hall to banish him from. ’Tis mine, as you seem to forget, yet I understand she also kept Vernay near imprisoned within the kirken during mine absence. I ask you now... what right had she to assume such a thing? ’Tis little wonder Vernay did not take his complaint directly to Olav rather than wait to address it with me.”

“And since when do you concern yourself with Olav?” Bjorn raged. “Ever have you walked your own path. Might Hrolf be right? Might you have fallen for that witch and her spine-weakening faith? It seems to me you have changed,” he accused, and without waiting for a reply—knowing he would get none if Alarik chose not to give it—he stalked away.

Alarik whirled his mount about. He sat rigid in the saddle. “Wed with her, then, Bjorn!”

Bjorn halted, his back stiffening, and turned, his hands on his hips, his legs spread insolently.

“Wed with the shrew—take her off mine hands—and then I just may consider your request.”

The brothers stared at each other, at an impasse; Alarik because he could not afford to relent more than he had, and Bjorn because he knew Nissa would stay only did Alarik request it. She would not wed with him so easily as that, and they both knew it. And he could not woo her once she was back under her father’s thumb; she craved her sire’s approval far too much to walk against him, nor would Ejnar so simply accept Bjorn’s suit. Bjorn had little to offer Ejnar’s daughter. Olav was king to a nation, Alarik master of his own, but what did he have to claim?

Not a cursed thing!

“There you are!” Olav bellowed as he approached them.

Both Alarik and Bjorn turned at the sound of his voice. “I wonder if you two bickering old women might join me in a jaunt to the kirken? I wish to meet this Elienor, at last!”

Alarik’s eyes narrowed.

“Alas, you cannot fault me for being curious,” Olav defended.

“By your leave?” Bjorn interjected, the courtesy anything but. His eyes were wild with resentment and anger. He and Olav had never embraced as brothers, and he wasn’t about to begin now simply because Olav chose to include him for once. Pivoting, he made his way toward the longhouse, declaring, “I believe I shall decline.”

With furrowed brow, Olav regarded Bjorn’s retreating back an instant, and then his gaze returned to Alarik. “You see that I try, to no avail,” he complained. “What ails the whelp this time?”

Alarik’s silver eyes shadowed. “The same as which drove you to wed Tyri, mine brother, and Longbeard to Nissa’s sister... our sire to Astrid.” Alarik had no care to add himself to the despicable list. He’d sworn he would never be led by his groin, yet here he sat, striving not to appear overly eager at Olav’s request to meet with Elienor. He’d been trying to come up with viable excuses to stop in at the kirken to no avail. What possible reason could he have conjured when everyone, including Vernay, knew fair well that he took great pains to keep his distance from the little church he’d erected merely to appease Olav?

The only possible reason was that he wished to see Elienor, and that he was unwilling to cede.

Even to himself.

Especially to himself.

Chapter 23

“Dominus vobiscum.”

“The Lord be with you.”

“Et cum spiritu tuo.”

Elienor was silent a moment, not because she could not recall the meaning of the phrase, but because she was tiring of Brother Vernay’s ceaseless interrogation—at least that was what she felt it to be. She took in a fortifying breath. “And with your spirit,” she replied wearily. “Brother Vernay!” she protested, her eyes pleading. “I assure you that I know this! How much longer must we go on?”

After her bath, Alva had dressed Elienor and plaited her hair and then had escorted her the short distance to the vale where the small church of which Alarik had spoken was erected. Dressed now in the exquisite sapphire silk Alva had brought her, Elienor felt more like a Jezebel than a servant of God. In truth, never had she felt so distant from her spiritual self, and though at the moment she longed for the simplicity of her flowing white novice’s garb, and the safety of the cloister, she resented her presence in this mockery of a church!

Brother Vernay shook his head apologetically. “I beg your pardon, my sister. ’Tis but that I cannot read much myself, and I must be certain you fully comprehend the tongue before we can begin transcribing. You see, I cannot be certain I can verify all your letters,” he explained gravely. “I could not allow you to copy erroneously for ’twould be a sin to alter scripture so. I, for one, would not relish burning in the fires of hell for such an avoidable transgression, and alas, neither could I bear the thought of you consumed by those flames as well! Alas, we must continue!”

He lifted up the volume he’d been reciting from, opening it to a familiar page—Elienor could tell by the comfortable expression upon his face. Then he set the tome down on the bureau before Elienor. “Read to me here,” he demanded, indicating with his finger.

Put so Elienor could not refuse him. She sighed, scrutinizing the page before her a long moment, her vision slightly blurred for the hours she’d spent staring at the papier ‘a lettres.

“Domine Deus...” Her voice faltered with fatigue. She rubbed her temples. “... Agnus Dei, Filius Patris: qui tollis peccata mundi, miserere nobis.”

She lifted her gaze to find that Brother Vernay had moved behind her and was now peering over her shoulder.

“Very good,” he commended. “Now do you perceive what it means?”

Elienor nodded, and translated without bothering to reexamine the paragraph, “‘Oh, Lord, Lamb of God, Son of the Father: who takest away the sins of the world, have mercy on us.’ ’Tis from the Gospel of John, I know it well. How is it, Brother Vernay,” she expressed with exasperation, “that you can recite from memory—can even know where each can be found in your volume—yet you claim you cannot read?”

Brother Vernay moved away from her, his face reddening. He turned his back to her. “I can read,” he disclosed softly, hesitantly, turning to face her somewhat diffidently. “’Tis merely that I sometimes confuse my letters. They do not always appear the same to mine eyes,” he added plaintively. “And so, because it confuses me... I read little and remember much.”

“Oh?” Elienor replied, chagrined over the accusation that had darkened her tone. “]e m’excuse for questioning so discourteously,” she said, running nervous fingers across the page; she could almost feel the letters rising up from the hallowed parchment. “There was a time when I made these words my life,” she told him pensively, her voice distant. “I suppose ’tis that I take exception to being forced to read them now.” She lifted stark violet eyes to find Brother Vernay staring, his head cocked in compassion.

“God doth have his own plan, my sister,” he said cryptically, studying her a long moment. “Alas, you must listen to your heart. ’Twill not mislead you, I think.”

She shook her head miserably. “I wish it were so,” she replied softly, blinking away the sudden sting in her eyes, “but I fear did I listen to my heart, Brother Vernay, then I would perceive naught but hatred.”

And did she listen to her treacherous body, she amended silently, averting her eyes in shame, she would be nothing but the Jezebel she felt to be in this leman’s gown!

Elienor was confused.

She could not comprehend what it was she was supposed to be, to feel. Everything had been so clear... until this morn. And now she was afeared she knew naught, she trusted naught. Nevertheless, there was some comfort to be had in the familiar scriptures, and she vowed to put her heart into it from here forth.

If naught more, it would save her from foolishly giving it elsewhere.

The door opened suddenly, startling both Elienor and Brother Vernay, though upon seeing Alarik, Vernay at once eased and smiled in welcome.

Elienor’s face flushed at the sight of him, yet she did not avert her eyes in shame. She dared not, for Brother Vernay had turned toward her and was watching them curiously. She tilted her chin up deliberately, fighting the urge to turn away as Alarik’s tawny brow rose. He said nothing as he removed his crimson cloak, this one not so fine as the one he’d given her to wear. Behind him entered another man who Elienor sensed watched them both, as well. For a disconcerting instant, the silence of the chapel was interminable as she and Alarik stared at each other.

And then the stranger spoke. “Do we make progress?” he asked of Vernay.

Elienor turned to regard the man at once, and at the sight of him her heart vaulted into her throat. To her shock, he was near the image of Alarik—like him in most every detail but for the darker shade of hair and his startling green eyes. She shook her head, doubting her sight, and blinked. When the pair did not unify, she squeezed her lids shut until she was certain the vision had vanished.

“Why,” the man said. “I’ve not seen one so dark and yet so fair since mine days in the Danelaw!”

Elienor opened her eyes, her face growing more pallid with each second.

The man laughed. “Forsooth, bror! I’ve seen many a look accorded us for our semblance, but never one so terrorized! What have you done to the poor girl?” he chuckled. “She looks as though she might perish at the notion that there are two of you.”

Hours later, as Elienor paced the length of Alarik’s chamber, she still could not compose herself.

Jesu, but the likeness between them amazed her! And now she was more confounded than ever—the dream; who, then, would die? Mayhap it was not Alarik, after all. Mayhap it was Olav instead? And then mayhap neither?

She fumbled for her ring at once, holding it desperately within her fist, grateful that Alarik had thought to return it. “Mother.” She whispered miserably. “How did you bear it?”

As though in response to her question, a mournful whine came from the vicinity of her toes.

Elienor glanced down to spy the pup sniffing bashfully at her feet. No sooner had she stooped to stroke it behind its ears then the door clicked opened. Alva entered. Startled, Elienor sprang to her feet, leaving the pup to paw at her soft leather shoes in protest.

“I’ve brought you another garment along with your own clean ones,” the older woman announced, coming forward to offer the neat stack of finery into Elienor’s arms. “The silk is splendid, to be certain, but ’twill hardly keep you warm enough in this clime.”

Sighing, Elienor accepted them, her reply no more than a cheerless nod.

“I understand you met Olav today?”

“Aye,” Elienor replied. “The likeness between them is remarkable.”

“’Tis true,” Alva agreed. “That it is why Olav could never deny Alarik as his blood kin the first time they met, yet there are many differences betwixt them if you’ll but see them,” she suggested. “Oooh, what a vexing mongrel!” she declared, spotting the stubborn pup at Elienor’s feet. “Always into everything. Away!” She shooed it, waving her hands indignantly. “I’ve not an inkling what possessed the jarl to bring the mongrel into his bedchamber!”

Elienor had wondered the same, yet she had been pleased he had, for she felt a bond with the poor beast.

As though discerning that he was the cause of Alva’s tirade, the pup scrambled away, ensconcing himself beneath the bed.

As Elienor watched its ears droop unhappily, she felt more than a touch of kinship with the animal—not that Alva was unkind. Elienor had found her anything but, yet this was not her home, and she did not feel especially welcome. Save for Alva and Brother Vernay—and Clarisse, of course—no one was overly welcoming. And Clarisse, she understood, would be leaving the steading before long, for Alarik had given her to Sigurd. Still, Elienor sensed that the time had come for her to forget the past and make the most of the situation at hand.

Like it or nay, this was her future.

“I suggest you change for bed,” advised Alva. “I heard the jarl say that he and Olav were to leave early in the morn—something about gathering men for Olav’s voyage. If ’tis so, he’ll be in directly, I think, for he’ll be wanting his sleep.” Having revealed this, Alva took her leave, though not before imparting one last bit of advice. “Best you hie to it lest he comes in and you be forced to undress before him.” She stifled a giggle as she closed the door, for Elienor immediately thrust the bundle from her arms onto the bed.

Having been forewarned, she quickly divested herself of the loathsome silk over- and undertunic. And then, after snatching her own garments from the pile upon the bed, she donned them hastily, leaving herself concealed only by the frail linen undertunic. Before she could scurry into the sanctuary of the furs, however, the door clicked opened once more.

“Do mine eyes deceive me?” a husky voice remarked with levity. “Or are you truly so eager to share mine bed tonight?”

Elienor froze, her heart beating frantically as she turned to face him. She crossed her arms as Alarik closed the door, concealing herself. Her face flamed under his scrutiny. He took a step forward and she instinctively took one backward, reassuring herself with the simple fact that he’d yet to force himself upon her.

It was unlikely he would begin now, she told herself.

And in truth, after this morn, she wasn’t certain he wasn’t as repulsed of her as she claimed to be of him.

Her brows knit suddenly.

Claimed?

Nay, she amended silently, was!

She was repulsed of him!

So why did she feel so strangely excited by the possibility that he might desire her? Averting her eyes to the floor, she stammered, “A-Alva said—sh-she said you planned to seek your bed. I-I only thought to...”

“Conceal yourself before I arrived?” Alarik asked dryly, his gaze riveted, despite her lack of dress, upon her lips.

Elienor swallowed, her heart turning violently at his question. His eyes, like shards of molten silver, impaled her as he took a step forward.

To Alarik’s annoyance he’d been able to think of nothing else all day, even in the face of Olav’s political concerns. Hella’s curse, even now he remained in a state of painful arousal with the merest thought of those warm, sweet lips upon his own.

Her gaze returned to him, and the deep violet pools lured him closer. He took another step forward, diminishing the distance between them, fearing he’d finally reached the point of madness, for his reason had all but fled now that he was in her presence once more. “Have I given you so much cause to fear me?” he asked huskily.

Elienor managed to shake her head in response.

“Have I taken the slightest liberties with you?”

Again Elienor shook her head, for in truth, he’d not.

She had been the one to take them, for he’d asked only to be washed this morn. Naught more.

Elienor’s breath quickened, for his eyes impaled her still, burning with something wholly carnal as he came even closer.

“In certainty, who forced whom this morn?” he challenged, as though he’d read her thoughts.

Or had she spoken them aloud?

She couldn’t discern.

“’Tis you who forced me!” Elienor replied a little hysterically, retreating until the back of her legs encountered the bed. The look of purpose in his wintry eyes alarmed her. “I... I did not ask to bathe you,” she asserted. “Nor did I...”

He stopped before her, reaching out casually to lift her thick plait into his palm, and Elienor gave a little shriek.

He slid his hand up the length of it and back, admiring the healthful shine, holding her gaze. “Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, a quiver snaking through him as his eyes finally acknowledged the rest of her. “I vow, you’ve bewitched me,” he said softly.

His fingers slid to the end of her plait, and at once commenced to unraveling it.

Elienor shivered at the charge, closing her eyes to steady herself, suddenly feeling so light-headed and weak-kneed that she feared she might swoon before his eyes.

It was said that her mother had bewitched her father...

She refused to tread in her mother’s shoes—refused, for she could not abide the repercussions!

“Tell me who taught you to use your tongue so,” Alarik demanded, his whisper faint but warm upon her face.

Her heart racing, Elienor opened her eyes to find him staring intently at her lips.

Jesu, did he wish to kiss her now? After spurning her this morn? Surely not?

“Answer me.”

Elienor swallowed, trying desperately to think what it was he was asking. “I... I...”

She could not compose her thoughts, yet she sensed it had something to do with the kiss by the way he stared so intently at her mouth. “I... I did not mean to!” she cried suddenly, shaking her head. “I...” Her voice faltered. “I swear, I...” Her mouth snapped shut, for his face was suddenly so close to her own that she feared even to breathe lest they vie for the same breath.

“Who taught you to use your lips so?” he demanded once more.

“Ph... Phillipe,” Elienor replied honestly, her chin lifting. “I... in my country ’tis the custom for lovers—”

His fingers gripped her plait and he rocked backward upon his heels, as though buffeted. “Lovers?” His eyes slitted. “Were you lovers, Elienor?”

His look unnerved her, yet Elienor could not wrench her own gaze away to save her life.

Nor could she calm her raging heartbeat.

Or the sudden heat that flared within her at the memory of his powerful body beneath her fingertips. The fact that he was fully dressed now did little to banish the sultry image of his smooth chest, glistening bronze with sweat and steam from the bath chamber.

A muscle twitched in his jaw as he anticipated her response. “Were you lovers?” he demanded once more, his tone soft but ruthless, nonetheless. Elienor glanced at his hand uneasily, her heart quickening, for with her plait unraveled, he stroked a lock of her hair between his fingers. If she angered him, what would prevent him from using it to subdue her?

She shook her head in answer.

A look of fierce satisfaction came over his harsh features. He brought the lock he was caressing to his nose, breathing deeply of its scent. “That pleases me,” he told her, his gaze softening considerably. His fingers moved to tangle deep into her hair, and a quiver swept Elienor’s spine as she felt them curl about her nape. Had she wanted to flee him, she couldn’t have, for he held her firm now. His other hand lit upon her hip, and she started with a gasp of surprise. He smiled, squeezing gently before sliding his arm about her waist. She cried out as in the next moment she found herself hauled forward and crushed against the incredible heat of his body.

“I’ve known kisses afore,” Alarik said bluntly, his eyes glittering strangely. “Kisses of homage betwixt men...”

He touched his warm lips to each side of her face, lingering as though to savor the scent and taste of her skin. Elienor’s blood rushed into her head at the delicious sensation. Instinctively she knew that never were those kisses he spoke of so lingering and spine tingling as this one had been.

“Kisses of promise,” he continued gruffly, “those meted behind the backs of fathers... or between lovers,” he added pointedly, pecking her lips softly.

When their lips parted an eternity later, Elienor felt a heart pang over his disclosure. Yet why should she object that he’d shared such kisses with others, she asked herself scornfully. He was her enemy, she reminded herself.

His smile deepened. “Never,” he revealed fervently, his molten silver eyes penetrating her defenses, “have I thought to taste so deeply.”

Elienor looked up at him questioningly, and he shook his head slowly, his provocative mouth inching closer, his lips brushing hers as he spoke. Elienor whimpered at the soft caress, and his grip firmed upon the back of her neck as though to keep her from escaping him. “Never have I even considered it,” he told her, “for ’tis not our way. Yet I find the flavor of you lingers, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes. Lingers,” he whispered, “like exquisite Fransk wine—strange to the palate… intoxicating nonetheless.”

Mesmerized by the heady sensation of his lips so close to her mouth, Elienor’s limbs weakened, yet as his lips pressed into her own, her sanity returned enough that she shoved at his leather-garbed chest in confusion.

Alarik merely grinned. “I’ve had babes give more of an effort,” he told her bluntly. “Mayhap you are undecided?” His silver eyes mocked her.

A quiver raced down Elienor’s spine, yet she managed to lift her chin as best she could. “Unhand me!” she cried softly.

“Elienor,” he whispered, relishing the sound of her name on his lips. His brows flickered a little, his eyes growing openly amused. He chuckled deeply, and the sound made Elienor’s senses scatter. “Ever you amaze me, my little nun. Men tremble before me, yet you seem not to fear me at all.” He crushed her to him once more, a demonic smile curving his lips. “Still, you cannot think to entice me,” he advised, a glint of wonder in his eyes, “only to deny me later.”

Elienor felt a flush rise to her face. She opened her mouth to protest, but nothing came. Suddenly, and without warning, he swooped to take her mouth as though he were famished for the taste of her.

Alarik groaned in satisfaction as Elienor allowed his tongue to sweep across the soft fullness of her lips.

Resistance came only when he attempted to enter the silky warmth of her mouth. She whimpered and pressed her lips together to deny him entrance—a last dire effort, he knew, but he refused to be denied.

His body quickening with the feel of her in his arms, he reveled in the taste of her sweet lips, nipped them, lapped them, feasted upon them, coaxed her to open unto him. When that failed, he lifted her abruptly to the level of his face. Too long he’d waited, and now there was no more patience, no more reason. “Open for me, Elienor,” he demanded, his breath ragged. By the blood of his father, he’d sworn to take naught she did not freely give, but he couldn’t be certain what he would do if she refused to yield…

Elienor cried out, her heart leaping into her throat. She clung to Alarik for support, her eyes closing in desperation, and obeyed at once, her lips parting softly.

God forgive her, but she found she could not help herself, could not deny him.

At once Alarik reclaimed her lips. Half-insane with the desire to taste her, his tongue drove in at once to explore the velvety recesses of her mouth. His heart hammered.

Loki take him! She was more delectable than he remembered.

The pit of Elienor’s stomach responded with a tumultuous swirl as his moist, firm mouth demanded a response. To her horror, even as she called herself wanton, fool, and shameless, she reveled in the kiss.

Like liquid fire his tongue stabbed into the warmth of her mouth, drinking of her as though his soul demanded it... and the saints protect her, she delighted in it, radiated with it. The thought crossed her mind in that instant that she’d never been cut of holy cloth, for surely no bride of Christ would respond so eagerly to a mortal man.

Much less her sworn enemy!

Her heart twisted.

He was her enemy.

Alarik nearly came where he stood as Elienor offered her soft little tongue. Yet he thrust it back savagely with his own, determined to retain control this time. And then suddenly he paused and drew away.

“I...” Alarik swallowed, unaccustomed to asking for aught. Nevertheless, he would have her willing, or not at all. “Elienor... I would show you what else these lips... this tongue of mine can do.”

She opened her eyes, looking up at him, half-dazed.

Elienor’s heart flew into her throat. She said nothing—dared say nothing, for she feared that if she spoke, the answer would come forth as aye, when she knew it should be nay. It had to be nay! She could not, in all good conscience, simply give herself to her enemy!

“Elienor!” he implored, plunging her to the bed abruptly.

Elienor felt a scream catch in her throat as he trapped her between his arms. Yet his lips did nothing more than to seek out hers and brush them in a surprisingly gentle kiss—hot and persistent, coaxing, tormenting, burning.

“Elienor?” he hissed between her lips.

All thought of protest vanished when his tongue slipped into her mouth once more, this time finding easy entrance.

Was she so faithless? So wanton?

Her heart ached at the thought. She gasped as Alarik lowered his body to cover hers. This time she managed a whimper of protest, and turned her face in vain.

It stopped him not at all. His lips sought her neck instead, nibbling feverishly, consuming her... and to her shame, Elienor found herself responding in ways she’d never conceived possible.

Her body arched of its own will. Desire, like molten fire, flowed through her veins, coloring her cheeks with mortification. Yet to her dismay, she simply moaned in pleasure as his hands cupped her face and he sought her mouth once more, his tongue stabbing in, and out, then in, out, in, the rhythm mesmerizing. With each thrust her heart leapt higher.

With an oblivious groan, Alarik suckled Elienor’s tongue, greedily taking everything she would give. His body hardened more fully with each taste of her, and so did his resolve; he would have her—tonight, by Odin! He must have her.

Or grow mad.

Her passionate whimpers melded with his groans of desire until that sweet melody was the only sound to fill his ears, spurring him onward, exciting his senses.

All the while, her hands stroked him unconsciously. He doubted she was aware of that, nor that her body writhed beneath him in virginal frustration. When her pelvis careened into his instinctively, he rocked forward ruthlessly in answer, eagerly pursuing what she so naively offered.

More than aught else, he yearned to bury himself deep within her—she was so soft... so soft and supple in his arms.

He swore beneath his breath.

She tilted her pelvis once more, and the desire he’d harnessed for so long erupted violently within him. Need clawed him like a wild beast, stealing reason. Yet despite his instant of oblivion he found a moment to lift himself, to remove his boots, discarding them hastily upon the floor beside the bed. At the same time, before she could regain her senses enough to protest, his fingers slipped up her gown, until he found her, and he quivered with anticipation when he felt her wet to the touch.

Elienor cried out, starting at the unexpected touch of his fingers in her most intimate place.

Slowly, seductively, his head thrusting backward in sheer pleasure as he discovered her, he stroked her, wanting naught more than to rip the gown from her body and feel her more intimately beneath him. Yet he restrained himself, knowing patience and cunning would gain him more. A sheen of perspiration broke forth, bathing his flesh with the salt of his body as he drove his finger once more into the depths of her, stroking the nectar within, preparing her for the size of him. When she closed her legs instinctively, he nudged them apart with hands that trembled, so potent was his lust.

Elienor moaned, her body twisting. She opened her eyes, the turmoil clear in her eyes.

Indisputably, those eyes were the most bewitching Alarik had ever beheld. He stared, mesmerized by the violet-blue pools. “Truly, you are lovely,” he whispered huskily, teasing her still. He watched her breast rising and falling, her breathing quickening as she gazed at him, and in that moment he understood that she acquiesced with her startling blue eyes... and her silence. The knowledge filled him. His body quickening, he parted her once more and slowly inserted a finger. She cried out, tilting for him, her eyes glazing with passion.

He smiled mercilessly, shuddering.

Elienor whimpered, a helpless sound deep in the back of her throat and twisted in frustration. “You... you... promised not... not to force me,” she said feverishly.

“So I did,” he admitted. “So I did.” His eyes glittered. “You wish me to stop, then?” His eyes flickered knowingly and his lips curved slightly when her eyes widened.

She forced herself to speak. “Aye!” she cried out, uncertainly, twisting on the bed.

He withdrew, smiling devilishly.

Elienor’s heart plummeted. Her face flushed, for rather than feel relief that he had adhered to her wishes, she yearned only for the return of his touch. She berated herself that it was a sin to lie with a man without benefit of matrimony, yet at this moment she feared she craved just that.

Mayhap it was the simple fact that Francia, Phillipe, Mother Heloise, and the priory were so far away, or mayhap, if she could be honest with herself, it was simply because she desperately wanted that certain something his kisses tendered, the promise of fulfillment.

Was it so wrong to seek it?

She’d despaired that she would ever know a man—indeed, had never dared to consider it until Phillipe. Yet now... She feared she craved it with a madness that was shameful.

There was absolutely no guile to his little nun at all, Alarik acknowledged. Her eyes indisputably asked him to continue, yet he would hear it from her own lips. His own eyes narrowed ruthlessly. “Say it, Elienor.” She’d given him a taste of her passion, had shown him how sweet it could be.

He wanted her willing.

Or not at all.

Elienor shook her head.

“Say it,” he demanded, his knuckle returning to graze her curls. She cried out at the shock of his touch. “You want this,” he whispered huskily. The gray of his eyes smoldered as he looked down upon her.

The beat of Elienor’s heart quickened.

She could not—would not look into his knowing eyes! Squeezing her lids shut in surrender, her traitorous body tilted into his fingers.

Alarik shuddered as he watched her respond, his male flesh straining at his breeches. Swiftly, he unlaced his ties with his free hand, easing the confining garment downward. “Elienor,” he murmured thickly. “Lovely, lovely, Elienor.”

Elienor trembled softly as she opened her eyes to see him peeling his tunic up and over his head. He flung it aside, his eyes scrutinizing her, yet she knew she would not protest when he lowered his body to hers once more, touching his hardness to her softness. Aware only that the pressure now was different in that place, she whimpered in the back of her throat, and her eyes fluttered closed.

Slowly, so slowly, he entered her, and so easily, Elienor was lost once more.

His heart thrumming in his ears, Alarik shifted, making certain not to penetrate any deeper than was necessary as he pressed her down into the furs.

He withdrew slightly, and drove forward gently, knowing he would need go slowly, for he wished to cause her no pain.

Yet whereas he managed to harness his passion in the one sense, it erupted fiercely elsewise. His hands took hold of her filmy linen undertunic, and in one tug, rent it impatiently from her breast. His lips curled with satisfaction as before his eyes the rosy peaks grew to pebble hardness.

For an instant he could only look, for she was perfection. And she was his.

Elienor stiffened, her eyes flying open.

Alarik vowed to give her no chance to protest. He was glad she watched, for he wanted her aware of everything he would do to her.

“As I promised,” he murmured, his eyes brilliant with purpose as his lips lowered to her breast. He seized both her wrists, pinning them above her head as his lips continued their descent. He relished the sound of Elienor’s gasp as his teeth gently closed about the tip of one nipple, tugging delicately. He felt her arch beneath him... and heard her whimper as he penetrated a little deeper.

Alarik fought to regain control as he felt the barrier of her maidenhead. His hand trembled as he thrust it behind Elienor’s back to keep her steady. He suckled fleetingly at her breast, and then glanced up at her through dark lashes, his eyes shadowed. He blew softly upon the wetness he’d laved upon her breast.

She shuddered, closing her eyes, and Alarik had no inkling whether it was a reaction to his loving, or fear. Yet fear would only hinder the passion he so wished to taste of her, and so he held himself steady within her. Lifting himself slightly to look into her beautiful face, he braced his weight upon his elbows and waited.

When she opened her eyes, he grinned, for the war in her soul was there for him to see.

And the tide was turning. “Now,” he whispered, “to show you those pleasures I promised...”

Chapter 24

Elienor gasped as his lips again found her breast.

For the longest moment it seemed she ceased to breathe as tendrils of heat spread through her loins... along with every wicked sensation she’d never imagined. Her flesh burned wherever his fingers and lips stroked her, and still her body yearned for...

What?

“More,” she whispered.

She closed her eyes to fight her fear, for even through the haze of pleasure she could not forget what Mother Heloise had told her about the pain that would come with her first coupling.

Suddenly he stilled.

Elienor opened her eyes to find him staring down at her, his dark eyes fixed upon her, scrutinizing. Curse him! she thought, for his face showed nothing of his thoughts. Surely there had to be more? Something left undone?

Her eyes filled with confusion, for she’d not felt the pain, or neither the pleasure! Even as she called herself wanton, she lifted her chin, willing him to touch her again, willing his lips to return to her flesh, but they did not. He merely chuckled deep in the back of his throat, the unholy sound sending a thousand quivers down her spine.

Outrage flowed through her suddenly, stripping her of the last of her reserve—outrage that he could play her like a lyre, so skillfully, and then leave her to quiver in frustration—outrage that he would bring her so far only to leave her thwarted—outrage that she would allow it!

Well, she thought, her eyes narrowing wrathfully... two could play at this game as easily as one. He was not immune to her, she now knew.

Her lips curved with a secret smile as she reached out to mimic the way that he’d touched her, her fingers alighting upon his chest, soft as butterflies. She stroked the sparse golden hair, her own body quickening at the feel of his warm flesh beneath her fingertips. As she watched, his eyes darkened, flickering with amusement, yet Elienor continued, vowing to show him what it felt like to be left unfulfilled. He shuddered and groaned as she searched out and found the tiny nubs upon his chest, his dark lashes fluttering closed, then open. She smiled in victory, and continuing as he watched, lifted herself to replace her fingers with her lips. She cried out as her own maneuvering drove him deeper still, the thickness both aching and delicious—pulsing inside her, though not painful enough that she didn’t crave him deeper still.

Elienor’s fingers clutched at his shoulders as she arched her head backward instinctively. As though in a vision, she felt her hips undulate shamelessly, impaling herself deeper still, though slowly, her heart pulsing wildly, for it was beginning to grow tender. Sensing there was more, she willed him deeper yet.

The gentle sliding motion filled her with heat that consumed her.

It seemed she would die from the pleasure.

Even aware that it was she alone that moved, her hips continued to undulate of their own accord, seeking something...

More.

“Please!” she beseeched of him, her head thrusting to one side.

“Please what, Elienor?”

She gasped. “I... I don’t know!”

Alarik had fully intended to let her set the pace, but now he feared he could not. He’d held himself back, but succumbing to her pleas, he rolled his pelvis slowly, gently, taking over the rhythm where she left off.

“This,” he said, his voice thick with restraint, “is what your tongue-kiss recalls me to.” He continued to fill her, withdrawing, teasing, and filling her again, deeper each time.

Elienor’s fingers tangled in his hair, urging him forward, drawing his head to her lips. She raised her hips suggestively and moved restlessly against him, drawing him deeper.

Alarik’s heart pounded with the knowledge that he had won her surrender. Reveling in her body’s unabashed response to him, he groaned, at once sliding his hand down to cup her full bottom. He lifted her hips.

At the same instant that he bent forward to thrust his tongue into her mouth, he thrust forward ruthlessly, fusing their bodies at long last. His own body convulsed with pleasure at the incredible virginal tightness of her.

Elienor responded with an outcry of her own. She arched from the bed, quivering, her eyes darkened with passion. It seemed every last trace of Alarik’s will exploded in that instant. Like a man gone mad, he drove forth again, and again, and again, burying himself deep within her, and deeper still.

She was sweet.

She was passion.

She was his!

His arms encircled her, and his tongue stabbed her mouth with the same furor and rhythm he created with his body.

The feelings that exploded within Elienor were inexpressibly delicious, and she held on for dear life, losing her soul in the tempest.

To her shock there had been only pleasure, intense pleasure—no pain at all.

Her fingers clawing his arms, she gave back full measure as his hands stroked her body and his tongue stroked her mouth. Mindlessly, she tried to return the caress, her hands gliding along the length of his back, but she grew too delirious with the pleasure he was giving her. She reveled in the breadth of his arms, the strong tendons in the back of his neck, and all the while her body responded with an ardor of its own.

“And this!” he rasped, moving within her, “is what your kiss evokes me to!”

As though spurred by his words, something shattered within her. Elienor cried out, her body convulsing madly.

With a last powerful thrust and a savage cry, Alarik spilled himself with a deeper gratification than he’d ever known. Yet even when it was done, he could not stir from atop her, so great was the need to stay joined. He buried his face into her nape, smelling her hair, smelling her flesh, and groaning his pleasure.

After a moment, when his breathing returned to normal, he rolled to lay beside her, drawing her into his arms. She didn’t resist, and unable to deny himself, he pecked her nose, her eyes, her brow, smoothed her hair back away from her lovely face.

He understood nothing of the bond that joined them, and though he’d never feared anything before, he was unnerved by the powerful sensation that filled him suddenly. Love was for fools, he knew, and so he gave his emotion the name of desire.

Yet he was, at least, honest with himself in admitting that he lusted for no one else.

Elienor haunted his every waking moment, his every dream, and only when he was with her did her image cease to torment him.

Elienor snuggled into Alarik’s embrace. Her breathing slowed. Alarik lay wide awake listening to her faint breathing.

She’d given him all he’d hoped she would, and more, and now she slept as sweetly as a babe in his arms. He didn’t dare move and wake her, so he kept his vigil and waited for the candles to snuff themselves.

And still he could not sleep.

There was, in his heart, a strange sensation he’d never known ere now. Was it possible to lose one’s heart so quickly and completely, even against one’s will?

He thought so, for if not—then there was no explanation for the way that he felt—no explanation for why he seemed to need to guard her.

Why he burned for her.

And only her.

In her dreams, Elienor saw the majestic dragon ship once more, cloaked in mist. Alarik, or mayhap Olav, stood at the prow, his foot propped upon the wooden serpent—serpent, not hawk? his sword held firmly in his hand. From the mist came another dragon prow, and then another... and another...

Gasping for breath, Elienor struggled to free herself.

Alarik had only just drifted and was roused by Elienor’s outcry. He drew her into his arms and still she struggled.

“Let me soothe you,” he insisted.

At once she ceased, but instantly began to weep, and his heart pricked him.

And then his lips thinned as he acknowledged the irony of his request, for he was very likely the terror of her dreams.

He was her nightmare.

Moonlight reflected upon the pale snow, giving Bjorn ample light to find his way. He dared not carry a torch lest it be detected from the manor. Nor did he dare go mounted, for he needed no telltale prints exposing him.

Grateful to Thor and to Odin that snow still fell to cover his tracks—for it was late in the season for snow—he plodded onward, looking over his shoulder every so oft. Caution served, though without a doubt he knew that the gods were with him this night—after all, it was his summons that had brought Ejnar the Dane.

Not Alarik’s.

The messenger had come to him in private, had bid him meet with Ejnar in the vale, and it was there Bjorn made his way now. Bitter laughter escaped him suddenly, for the thought occurred to him that he would always have Alarik’s leavings and naught more.

Never more.

Soothing at least was the fact that Nissa shared in his anger. Still, in the back of his mind simmered the fact that she had, in reality, preferred his brother to him. He’d not been her first choice, and he could not quite obliterate that truth from his mind, regardless that Nissa had agreed to wed him if her father condoned it.

Once he reached the concealment of the pine and birch trees, he used their cover to make his way to the sacrificial stone, a runic inscribed altar where sacrifices were made to Thor, the God of thunder—his patron. No matter that Olav would have it otherwise! By Thor, his faith was the one thing in his life he retained control of, and Olav could blind himself before Bjorn converted!

And that was another thorn in his side, for he was well aware that his sole protection from Olav’s iron fist was Alarik, the brother whose shadow ever obscured him. For this one thing, at least, Bjorn was indebted. So long as Alarik kept the old faith, Olav would not risk forcing Bjorn, despite the fact that Olav would coerce his own mother for his cause.

Arriving in time to see the last of the rites performed, Bjorn stepped boldly into the group of waiting men.

“What took you so long?” a voice snarled. A russet-haired man stepped forward from the gathering, making himself known. He was Ejnar the Red, blood cousin to jarl Haakon. Beside him stood Hrolf Kaetilson.

Bjorn acknowledged Hrolf with a tilt of his head and then turned to meet Ejnar’s shrewd gaze. “I could not come in the broad light of day and chance being followed,” he explained. “Mine brother seeks you—did you not know?”

Ejnar peered over Bjorn’s shoulder. “So I’ve been told.” He gave an indifferent shrug, glancing briefly at Hrolf. “He will not find me, I think.” He turned back to Bjorn, smirking. “You are certain you were not followed?”

“Very certain,” Bjorn said, his gaze distracted momentarily by the two men removing from the old stone an animal carcass that had been sacrificed. “Mine brother is blind to all save his French whore,” he confided. He gestured toward the stone. “You are bold, Ejnar, to sacrifice under Olav’s very nose. Did you not realize he was in residence as well?”

Ejnar nodded, his eyes boring into Bjorn’s. “I did. Why else do you presume ’twas done? You have a qualm with it?”

Bjorn shook his head.

“’Tis good,” Ejnar asserted, pleased with the anger and envy he perceived in Bjorn. “What is it you wish of me, then?”

“Nissa,” Bjorn replied bluntly. “I wish to make her mine wife and she refuses me lest I should gain your approval.”

Ejnar’s red brow arched. He shrugged and opened his mouth to speak.

“I would have your consent,” Bjorn avowed before he could be refused. “Whatever it takes!”

Ejnar’s brows shot up. He nodded, contorting his mouth, considering. “Whatever it takes?” He cocked his head with newfound interest. He rubbed his chin. “Mayhap something could be arranged. But go now, ere we are discovered. I shall advise you soon of my decision.”

Bjorn stiffened. “When?”

“When it suits me,” Ejnar declared, taking a rigid stance. “Go on, now, and I will summon you when ’tis time.”

Bjorn nodded, elated with the way the meeting had gone. He turned to go, his lips curving into a smile.

“Oh, but, Bjorn?”

Bjorn’s shoulders straightened as he turned once more to face Nissa’s father.

“Touch mine daughter in the interim and I will lay you next upon that stone.” He waved casually at the stone in question. “Understand?”

Bjorn’s smile faded. “I do,” he said resentfully.

Ejnar nodded, and Bjorn spun on his heels, making his way back to the longhouse.

What he wouldn’t give, just once—just once!—to have the advantage.

Chapter 25

Squeezing her eyes shut, Elienor refused to waken.

Jesu, she’d given herself—willingly—to her enemy! Shame tore at her, and she would have cried in misery, but she was determined to feign sleep in hopes that Alarik would leave before she was forced to open her eyes and face him.

Sweet Jesu, how could she?

It was unthinkable! She had lost herself in the heat of the moment? She was faithless! Wanton! Wicked!

“Aaaarghhh!”

The angry snarl roused Elienor at once.

With a startled shriek, she bolted upright, and any shame she’d felt over the night before vanished at the sight of Alarik springing from a stool like a demon enraged. With a cry of surprise, she ducked under the furs as he suddenly hurled the boot he held in his hand. It missed her, striking the floor somewhere near the bed.

“Flea ridden mongrel!”

It took Elienor an instant to discern that he was speaking of the pup, not of her, and that furthermore the pup was racing toward the bed, whimpering as it skidded beneath the bed. Petrified for the animal, Elienor scrambled toward the edge, and poking her head out, thrust her hands down to snatch the pup into her arms.

“Did you see what the little cur did to mine good boots?” Alarik bellowed.

Blinking at the question, Elienor drew the cowering pup under the covers beside her. Both stared out from beneath the covers. Alarik continued to stare expectantly, and she shook her head in answer.

“Damned witless beast!”

Alarik bent, retrieving the boot from the floor where it landed. “I’d like to return the favor—chew his accursed hide!” He waved the boot lividly at the pair huddled together beneath his furs—his furs!—though he was appeased somewhat by the way the pup trembled at the sound of his voice. Elienor, on the other hand, merely stared at the mangled boot sheepishly.

He snarled as he glanced again at his ruined boot, tossing it aside in frustration. Like as not, the pup had gnawed all night to have ravaged it so completely.

And he’d slept soundly like the exceptionally sated.

He pivoted abruptly, heading for the coffer across the chamber.

Elienor gave the pup a reproachful glance. “Look what you’ve gone and done!” she whispered.

Muttering, Alarik jerked open the coffer. The wooden lid struck the wall so violently that it bounced back, catching his fingers. “By the jaws of Fenri!” he exploded, snatching his fingers out of the way and waving his hand in pain.

Elienor gnawed at her lower lip to keep from giggling. At the instant, rather than appearing threatening as he did so oft, he seemed more like a sullen boy who’d lost his favorite toy. Strange that during his moments of cold ire and calculating aloofness, she’d dreaded this explosion of tempers, yet to see him in the throes of it now did naught more than amuse her.

“I’ll skewer the accursed beast!” he threatened, thrusting a hand into the coffer, yet somehow, as Elienor glanced down at the calming pup, now lapping at her hands in gratitude, she didn’t believe him. Her brows drew together. He wouldn’t harm the dog... she sensed that as strongly as she did the knowledge that something more than mere coupling had occurred between them last night. He would rant and he would rave, but he wouldn’t harm the pup... or her. The realization jarred her.

He would threaten, and he would frighten... but he had kept his promise.

As much as it shamed her to acknowledge it, he’d taken nothing from her without her consent. Nay, he would never harm her. He’d protected her all along.

Hadn’t he spared Clarisse by her word alone? Banished his man because of her?

As she stared in wonder, he snatched out another pair of boots and sat upon the stool to lace them, all the while continuing to curse the dog... nevertheless accepting her protection of it... despite the fact that he could easily have taken the dog from her.

With his boots on, he stood, giving them both a black look before stalking from the chamber without another word.

Elienor glanced from the door as it slammed, to the boots, to the dog, and never felt more bewildered.

So now what was she supposed to feel?

As the days wore on, so did the uncommon cold.

The manor fell into a routine; Elienor, as well. Slowly, she was becoming accustomed to the Norse habits. For one, they ate only twice a day instead of three. As she was accustomed, they broke their fast with dagver, the morning meal, but then ate only once more during the day. That mealtime they referred to as nattver. Yet she found to her surprise that this new schedule suited her just as well. Be it the clime or the strange hours they kept, she never experienced hunger pangs between meals.

Alarik spent most of his time with unresolved domestic issues. But that suited her as well, for she’d yet to determine what her feelings were for this enigmatic man. Olav, on the other hand, spent much time in the kirken with her and Brother Vernay, sometimes merely listening as Vernay dictated and Elienor transcribed. Other times, he asked Elienor about her past, her life in the priory, and such. Elienor thought she liked him, though she sensed in him a fever raging nigh out of control. He was impassioned when he spoke of Christ and the church, yet his eyes held little compassion for those who renounced it.

The combination did not bode well.

Elienor listened quietly, trying to determine what, if aught this quest had to do with her terrible vision.

Something, she knew... but what? She would discover it soon, she was certain, for it seemed to be hovering just out of sight. She only hoped it was not too late when she did.

This morning as she made her way to the kirken, frost billowed about her face. This, she thought, was one thing she would never become acclimated to—the incredible chill. Had she truly thought Francia cold? Forsooth, even within the heated manor house it was unbearably frigid. It was no wonder Alarik risked the possibility of fire to have heat within his own chamber. A simple brazier would never have sufficed!

Snow fell so incessantly that men were forced to scoop away mounds of it periodically in order to excavate the entryway, lest they be trapped indoors. Only the servants dared brave the storm, for with the storehouses set apart from the manor, they had no choice.

Nor did Elienor.

Bundled tightly in Alarik’s mantle, each day she walked the short distance to the vale. Not a soul ever spoke to her along the way. It was as though they saw in her something vile, for the look in their eyes spoke volumes as she passed them by. They blamed her for something... but what?

It was she who had the right to cast blame, after all.

She might have felt bad, but these were not her people—let them despise her if it was their bent! While she no longer had Clarisse, she did have Alva, as well as Brother Vernay—and God. He was with her, she was certain.

And then there was Mischief.

A smile trembled at her lips as she drew the mantle more securely about herself and the pup snuggled within her arms. She giggled, thinking that he’d surely earned his name. No sooner had Alarik left the bedchamber the day his boots had been ravaged when the pup was once again into devilment. Elienor had risen to dress and had been preoccupied only a moment before she’d found him excavating the fire pit! Already clothed in the blue silk, Elienor had hoisted up her skirts and had coerced herself into the pit to clean up Mischief’s mess before Alarik could return and find ashes and earth scattered to the four corners.

And now, with the little church in sight, she again lifted her skirts, and holding the pup close, ran the distance to it, eager to be out of the cold. As she opened the door, her breath coming in white puffs, Brother Vernay smiled brightly in welcome. She liked him, she’d decided. He tested her sorely, but she liked him, for he reminded her in many ways of Mother Heloise. Olav, too, was present today. He came forward to take her mantle as she removed it, chuckling heartily as the pup bounded out to the floor.

Upon inspection of the fjords, it was evident no one would be sailing before spring thaw. In mere days, the ice had begun to thicken again, so that the ships were now forced aground. Despite the fact that Alarik had not relished the thought of setting out so soon after returning, the knowledge that he could not, even if he’d wished to, set his teeth on edge.

Or mayhap it was more the fact that once again he was lured to the kirken like metal to a cursed lodestone!

That, along with the probability that he would find Olav there before him, spurred his black humor.

Having abandoned his men at the manor, he rode with the fury of a maelstrom toward the confounded little building that had caused him so much strife, his crimson mantle swirling behind him with a wrath like unto Hel itself.

“’Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house,” Vernay announced.

Elienor blinked. “What?”

Vernay waved a hand in admonition. “Copy! copy, ma petite! ‘Let your light so shine before men’”

Elienor blinked again, in puzzlement. “Let my light—”

“Nay, nay! Again from the beginning, ‘Neither do men light—’ “

Her gaze fell. “Je m’excuse, Brother Vernay—I simply cannot think to copy today,” she apologized.

“You are so unhappy, Elienor?”

Elienor turned toward the sound of Olav’s voice, her blue eyes growing suddenly liquid. Alarik’s zealous brother sat in the shadows, upon a small bench, his hands linked before him. “What think you, my lord?” she asked softly, her eyes beseeching him to understand. “Having been taken against your will... to a strange land not of your choosing... could you be content?” Her heart twisted even as she voiced her predicament, for it made it all the more true.

Olav shrugged, his hand going to the hilt of his sword in an absent gesture as he stood. “Alarik’s mother came to the Northland just so,” he pointed out. “As I understand it... she even came to love my father.”

Elienor’s gaze fell momentarily. “My lord... surely I cannot speak for Alarik’s mother,” she told him. “But for me...”

Olav held up a hand to stop her. “You need not say it,” he told her, coming forward. Sighing, he placed a comforting hand upon her shoulder, patting her, and then moved behind her to peer at the parchments spread before her upon the small writing table. “I suppose I understand.”

He scrutinized the pages a long moment, immensely pleased by what he saw, despite the fact that he’d yet to truly learn the Latin tongue. Feeling as though he should repay her somehow, he announced suddenly, “I tell you what I would do. Grant me your word you will copy until all is complete here, and then mayhap I could persuade mine brother to release you.”

Hope flared within her breast—hope that she refused to dampen by acknowledging the immediate pang of loss she felt at the thought of leaving Alarik. She peered over her shoulder at Olav. “You would do such a thing?” she asked, stunned.

“I would... though I can promise nothing save that I will speak to him. I fear mine brother has a mind and will of his own. The truth is I cannot force him where he will not.”

“My lord!” Elienor exclaimed. “That is all I could ask of you!” For her conscience, for her soul, she needed to go home.

“Tell me,” Olav prodded. “Have you someone to take you in... if you were to return to Francia?”

“My uncle!” Elienor proclaimed at once. She fumbled for the leather string about her neck, lifting her beloved ring up out of her gown. She then raised it over her head and handed it to Olav. Olav accepted it, examining it.

“If you give my Uncle Robert that ring... he will know that you tell him true.”

Olav stared at the ring a moment longer and then his gaze returned to Elienor. “And if mine brother refuses to set you free?”

Elienor’s gaze dropped to the parchments. “Still... if you would somehow give that ring to mine uncle,” she entreated, “I would be so grateful.” She glanced up at him suddenly, her eyes pleading. “By it, my lord, he would know that I live... that I am well. I beg of you.”

Olav nodded, moved by the melancholy in her tone. “Very well,” he relented. “So it shall be done. I shall speak to him soon.”

Vernay cleared his throat suddenly. “Er... my lord?”

“Mmmhhh?”

“The day escapes us. Shall we continue now?”

“Hmmm? Oh! Aye!” Olav gave Vernay an apologetic glance. He stepped away from Elienor just as the door burst open, whisking in a swirl of snowflakes. The cold blast scattered pages before Elienor, yet she could not move to retrieve them. Mischief bounded up from his comfortable spot on the floor at her feet, and upon seeing Alarik, began to snarl.

Brother Vernay sighed in defeat. “My lord?” he said, somewhat less than enthusiastically. “Have you come to watch, too? I assure you all is in hand. The demoiselle copies very well, if we but had time...”

Alarik didn’t bother to reply. He glanced briefly at Olav, his brows colliding with displeasure at finding him present, and then his wintry eyes sought Elienor’s violet-blue ones, holding them fast. Elienor’s breath caught in her throat as she waited for him to speak, though she prayed he would leave before doing so.

Did he not know what his presence did to her? That she hated herself for what her body wanted of him? He’d not touched her since that night, and she never wanted him to touch her again. She had no wish to feel this way for her captor.

She wanted peace. Her mind and body simply would not give it with him so near.

Nor even with him far, she acknowledged.

It was wrong to submit to his loving, wrong to crave it, yet she could think only of that as she gazed into his stormy dark eyes. She tried to cast the memory of his touch from her mind, but could not. Lowering her gaze to the bureau, she wished she could vanish from the face of the earth.

Truly, she was shameless.

How many years were wasted in the cloister?

None wasted, bien aimee.

Elienor’s gaze flew up at the words spoken so clearly in her mind, meeting Alarik’s piercing silver eyes. Was she mad? Was she truly mad now?

How could she allow herself to love her enemy? A man possibly fated to die if her dreams held true.

If she allowed herself to yield to it, would she be compelled to tell him aught?

And would she die for it?

For the longest moment, there was silence.

Alarik flung his mantle behind him in an agitated gesture, telling himself he cared not a whit for the woman whose stark violet eyes slashed into his soul.

It was merely lust.

Lust that tore at his gut.

Lust that made her face haunt his thoughts.

Lust that made him want her in every moment of his life.

Lust. And no more.

She was a woman, he reminded himself, and he refused to lose his mind and command over any female—Bjorn being a perfect example of the former for his brother seemed unable to think clearly for love of Nissa, and Olav of the latter, for Tyri seemed to rule his every decision.

The hard glint in his eyes held a shred of caution as he turned to Vernay, ignoring Olav. “Your work is concluded for the day,” he informed the monk curtly.

“Not precis—”

“It is concluded,” he maintained, his eyes gleaming.

Vernay glanced at Olav and finding no help from that quarter relented. “Yes, my lord. Very well... if ’tis your wish.”

Appeased, Alarik turned toward Elienor, his expression veiled. He refused to concede that he needed to be with her. Refused to concede anything at all. He straightened to his full height and took a step toward the woman who bedeviled his every waking thought. Yet before he could speak his intent, Mischief bounded upon his boot, growling insanely, nipping as though possessed. “Hel’s hounds!” Alarik exploded in surprise, rocking backward upon his heels. “Demon dog!”

Olav hooted with laughter.

Elienor gasped, springing from her chair to restrain the dog.

“’Tis as though he abhors you, my lord!” Vernay exclaimed, stifling a chuckle.

Elienor went to her knees at Alarik’s feet, prying Mischief away from his boots. “Nay! Mischief!” she reproached when he twisted loose and charged at Alarik’s boots once more. It never ceased to amaze her, the vehemence with which Mischief raged at him, particularly since Alarik did nothing but curse at the dog—ever. Never had he laid a finger upon it in malice—not ever! Nevertheless, she believed Mischief sensed Alarik’s aversion toward him, and responded accordingly. Nor did he seem to appreciate Alarik’s boots!

With no small measure of envy, Alarik observed the way Elienor soothed the animal. Would that she would touch him so sweetly... of her own accord... instead of with such disaffection. He wondered how it would feel if just once she would look upon him in pleasure—not in fear, or bitterness... or defiance. “It does seem so,” he conceded to Vernay.

“You would think the cur would bear him some small measure of affection,” Olav declared, chuckling heartily. “Its mother was the man’s favorite hound, after all.”

With the pup secure in her arms, Elienor peered up at Alarik. “Was?” she whispered, her expression anxious.

Intuitively, Alarik understood what she asked of him. “Is,” he assured, giving Olav an admonishing look. His gaze returned to Elienor. “She is mine favorite hound, Elienor.”

Elienor’s brows drew together. “Where is she? Why does she spurn him? ’Tis my guess that the poor mite is scarcely past the age of suckling.”

Alarik’s brow lifted. “Poor mite?” he debated. His jaw tightened in remembrance of their discourse over his own birth circumstances. “I’ve told you, Elienor, the Northland is ruthless. Only the strong survive. The pup’s mother lives only because she knows this, and she fends for herself.”

Brother Vernay came forward to deliver the unruly dog from Elienor’s arms. “’Tis the truth the jarl tells you, my sister. This land is harsh to those not hale enough to endure it.” He nodded when she glanced at him. Olav nodded as well.

Nevertheless, Elienor took exception to those words flung at her once again. She glared at Vernay, letting him know that she considered his siding with Alarik a betrayal of sorts—regardless that she likely had no right to feel so. Vernay might be her own countryman, and a brother in Christ, but like aught else in this forlorn place—including herself—he belonged to Alarik. Her eyes narrowed as they returned to Alarik. “Mayhap instead of casting each other off, as though life were no more precious than offal from a refuse pit,” she suggested, meeting Alarik’s gaze boldly, “the strong might be wiser to aid the weak. You, my lord, above all men, should realize that oft times the weak become the strong... and the strong become the weak.”

Alarik’s jaw tightened as he gazed down into Elienor’s eyes. He was quickly coming to regret telling her aught about his life, yet despite her renewed vehemence against him, the sight of her kneeling before him ignited him, heated his blood until white-hot desire ripped through his veins. He glanced at the pup, safely ensconced within Vernay’s arms—it yelped at him, curse its mangy hide!—and then back to Elienor, uncertain of what to say to restore the frail bond that had only begun to form between them. “You named him...” he fought the urge to blaspheme the ungracious mutt, “Mischief?”

“Aye,” Elienor replied.

He cleared his throat, but the hoarseness lingered. “The name suits him.”

“Aye,” Elienor answered once more, though this time somewhat warily.

She held his gaze.

In that moment, as they stared at each other, Alarik forgot where he stood, forgot Vernay, forgot everything and everyone but the intensity of his own hunger and the woman kneeling at his feet.

Did she realize she brought such turmoil to his senses?

He shuddered, disturbed that a mere look of hers could make him lose so much composure. It was as though she bewitched him with those magnificent violet eyes.

A rush of feeling overtook him suddenly, a wanting like he’d never experienced in all his days, and along with it panic and fear—he who’d never felt such weakness—fear that Elienor held him in a grip from which he could never escape. He fell to one knee, his hand going to her arm in an attempt to regain his edge, his reason. His fingers closed about the soft silk of her gown. As he stared into her stark, violet-blue eyes, his own eyes darkened.

Elienor averted her gaze, her heart skipping a beat at the intensity of his stare. She could not let it happen again. Sweet Jesu, she could not live with herself as it was. Yet she shook her head at her own foolishness, for how could she deny him when her own Judas body cried out that he lift her up and sweep her away? That he take the decision from her hands.

“Tell me, Elienor,” Alarik said softly, gruffly, his gaze unrelenting, “does Mischief’s lady abhor me, as well?” She lowered her face and he forced her chin up with a finger, though her lashes remained stubbornly upon her cheeks. “Does she?” he demanded.

Elienor’s gaze flew up, her eyes misting. Her heart cried out in agony for shameless as it was, she’d given herself freely and of her own accord. To her enemy. She shook her head miserably, resenting the truth with all her heart, yet unable to deny him the answer he sought.

At her reply, the harsh lines softened in his face. A shuddering took him. “You please me,” he told her gruffly. He rose abruptly, drawing her up with him.

Elienor cried out as he drew her against the hard strength of his body.

His face lowered to hers. “What can I do, Elienor of Baume-les-Nonnes,” he murmured silkily, “to please you in return?”

Vernay cleared his throat discreetly, afeared that the situation would advance in an unseemly manner. “My lord?” he objected softly, his eyes remaining downcast.

Mortified, Elienor’s gaze flew to the monk—the pate of his head shone back at her—and then to Olav.

Olav looked pensive, saying nothing.

She spun back to Alarik, her spine stiffening in humiliation to have been spied in such a shameless embrace—by a man of the cloth, no less! Olav, she could bear, for he and Alarik were two of the same, but Brother Vernay—it was miserable!

“You could take me home,” she appealed brokenly, her eyes stinging with tears. “Take me back to Francia.”

Before I lose my soul, she appended silently.

Alarik shook his head, his eyes narrowing in displeasure at her suggestion, for it made him consider himself without her—empty, less than whole. And damn him, for he could less bear the thought of being without her than he could the debilitating fact that he should need her at all. “Nei, Elienor!” he said. His fingers gripped her arm in frustration. He shook her. “Ask of me something I can give! I wish to please you!”

“I want naught else!” Elienor declared fervently. “Please, let me go!”

“My lord?” Vernay interjected, rubbing his own arm as he observed the possessive way Alarik held her.

Still Olav said nothing, only watched the scene unfold, tucking everything away for later.

Alarik glared at Vernay, then at his brother, who sat silently across the room, his expression strange.

He straightened suddenly, as though checking himself, and his expression was guarded as he released Elienor’s arm. “You say your work is complete for this day?” he asked Vernay without meeting the monk’s gaze, nor Elienor’s, but still looking directly at Olav, warning his brother without words to stay away from the kirken... from Elienor.

“If ’tis your wish, my lord.”

“It is,” Alarik asserted. The fine line of his control redrawn, his gaze returned to Elienor, his eyes shadowed with a hunger no amount of self-control could dispel. “Fetch your mantle, my lovely little nun... I find I’m in sore need of a bath,” he told her bluntly.

Olav roared with laughter.

Vernay choked.

Alarik’s gaze returned to the monk, disregarding his brother completely. From the corner of his eye he noted with satisfaction that Elienor hurried to recover her cape as he bid of her. “You have objections?” he asked Vernay.

Vernay’s brows clashed, but he shook his head quickly. “Nay, my lord! ’Tis but that…”

“Good!” Alarik declared, cutting him off. When Elienor returned, he snatched the cape from her hands impatiently, placing it about her shoulders. That done, he opened the door and ushered her out, assuring Vernay that she would return at her appointed hour on the morrow.

He said nothing to Olav.

“Mischief!” Elienor exclaimed, remembering the pup as Alarik drew the door closed behind them.

“Vernay will see that he makes it safely to the manor. He won’t be able to keep up.”

Elienor made no more objection as he led her to his horse, lifting her upon its back. And then, in one fluid motion, he mounted behind her, driving his heel into Sleipnir’s flank.

In a little time they reined in before the bath house, and all Elienor could think was that Mischief truly wouldn’t have been able to keep pace. Alarik had ridden as though demons cleaved at his heels.

The realization swept over her suddenly that she wasn’t going to be able to stop this.

She wasn’t even certain she wanted to!

Dismounting hastily, Alarik drew her down to her feet. Elienor’s knees faltered, but he steadied her, and then opening the door to the bath house, he ushered her into the shadowy interior. He’d not even taken the time to have Alva restore the fire, and the dying embers glowed eerily.

“My lord!” she protested, in panic. “’Tis day yet! There are people about!”

He kicked the door closed, his lips curving diabolically. “We’ll not be disturbed,” he told her with certainty. Taking her by the arm, he swung her about sharply, until her back was to him, and then proceeded to undo the brooch at her right shoulder, not needing to see it to undo it, his fingers deft at their work.

Her gown slid down on the right side. Crying out, Elienor clutched the silk to her breast, halting its descent. “’Tis cold!” she protested.

“Not for long,” Alarik promised at her nape, his breath warm as it hissed across her flesh. The determination in his voice sent a quiver down her spine. He unfastened the twin brooch at her left shoulder, and with a gentleness that belied his strength, drew the gown down.

Elienor whimpered, her eyes squeezing shut as the silk was pulled out of her grasp. But he wasn’t satisfied, for no sooner was the silk overgown discarded than he began to undo the laces of the matching undergown. That done, he drew it up over her head and tossed it aside, baring her wholly to his hungry gaze.

It settled with a whisper upon the furs.

With a sigh of intense pleasure, Alarik traced a finger down her spine, content for the moment merely to gaze at her perfect form. The flush of her skin was perceptible even in the shadows of the dying firelight. She gave a startled whimper and stumbled back against him, and his heart somersaulted like that of an unseasoned youth with the unexpected contact.

“Elienor,” he said through clenched teeth, his eyes closing. He shuddered with pleasure at the feel of her bare skin against him. “Do you know what you do to me, my little nun?”

“Do you know what you do to me?” she said quietly, as though he weren’t meant to hear.

He chuckled, pleased, and his arms encircled her waist. He embraced her a moment, and then his hands drifted upward to seize the prize he’d exposed, his fingers lightly skimming her ribs.

“Please,” Elienor moaned. “I... I...”

Alarik tensed in anticipation of her protest. Although after her whispered declaration, he knew it would take little to sway her—she seemed to have little, or no control over her wayward tongue—at times, this time, it played to his advantage. He bent to place a long lingering kiss upon the delicate swell that crested her shoulder. She said nothing, only whimpered softly in the back of her throat, and he inhaled deeply in satisfaction.

The sweet, heady fragrance of her hair accosted him, lingering in the air, enshrouding him. He found it near as potent a potion as the sound of his name on her lips. With an oblivious groan, he buried his lips within the softness of her hair, and hearing her faint exhale only heated his senses more.

“Elienor,” he moaned. “Elienor... Elienor... Elienor…”

Elienor ceased to breathe at the intensity with which he spoke her name. She dared not turn to face him—lest he see the hunger in her own eyes—dared not speak, lest her words and voice betray her.

She fought a fierce battle with her conscience as he held and caressed her body. It felt so right, so right, yet she knew it to be wrong!

As his hands slid beneath her breasts, cupping them with hard but sensitive palms, her body exposed her for the wanton she was. She shivered expectantly as rugged hands fondled her and inflamed her senses, made her burn. She swallowed, her heart leaping into her throat as his lips touched her bare shoulder once more. “I... I thought... I thought you wanted me to aid you with your bath?”

Alarik smiled at the uncertainty in her voice. “I do wish you to aid me,” he told her provocatively, bending to whisper into her ear. “But I fear the bath will have to wait, my exquisite little Fransk.”

Elienor gasped as she became aware of the hardness of him pressing her back. Her heart pounded violently as she fought a battle with her will. Gently, he swept the length of her hair aside, placing a kiss upon her other shoulder.

She trembled, feeling herself losing, losing—not just the battle, but the war itself.

Her resolution to deny herself the pleasure he could give ebbed with every expert touch of his masterful hands and lips. As his fingers gently kneaded her bosom, her head fell backward helplessly, allowing him his will. As though pleased with her response, his breath hissed over the curve of her neck, and she felt her knees go instantly weak.

Alarik’s body quickened when she went limp in his arms. He steadied her. “You are sweet,” he whispered. “So very... very... sweet.”

He heard her sharp intake of breath as he nipped her neck, tasting the sheen of desire upon her flesh.

The coppery firelight caressed her creamy white flesh. As though compelled, his hands stroked her wherever the light revealed her, and perceiving that she was at last his for the taking, he groaned deep in the back of his throat, a sound of victory. Impatiently, he tore at the laces of his breeches, undoing them swiftly and with ease. He shuddered with exhilaration as he freed himself. Then, holding her steady, he stepped away to discard the restrictive clothing.

Trembling where she stood, Elienor closed her eyes, listening to the telltale sounds behind her—the rustling of garments as they melted from Alarik’s body. With every part of her, she willed herself to cry out and flee.

And then he was behind her once more, the naked heat of his flesh searing her clear unto her soul. Her heart pounded within her breast, drowning out everything but its wild beating, yet arrested completely as Alarik enfolded her within the warmth of his arms once more.

And then her blood swept into her head and her heart began to pound violently once more as he rocked her, unabashedly, from behind. Lord have mercy upon her soul. She thought she would die!

Gently, he brought his right hand down and splayed it across her abdomen, holding her steady while he rocked her.

Alarik’s arms dropped to her waist as he went to his knees, compelling her downward with him. His heart hammered and his breath came labored as he anticipated how he would take her this time—with all the fury of the Northland. Once she was firmly upon her knees on the soft furs, he molded his body over hers until he was able to settle himself between her legs, shuddering over the exhilarating sensation. In that instant, he knew an incredible desire to please her. He brought his hand around to stroke her, all the while kissing her back, breathing deeply of the scent of her hair. His eyes closed as he guided himself into her, groaning.

Elienor gasped, her head arching backward.

With his chin, Alarik nudged her hair from her back and tasted her warm, velvety skin with his lips. He savored her with his tongue, committing the taste and feel of her to his mind, all the while disregarding his own body’s demands; he stroked her until she cried out beneath him, and then he lifted himself, and holding her hips steady for his pleasure, he gave himself up to his own dark passions.

Elienor whimpered in ecstasy at his every thrust, crying out when heat exploded within her once more, wracking her body with delicious spasms. She was helpless to arrest the cry of his name that came to her lips.

The whispered name exploded within his head.

With an incredible rush of pleasure, Alarik gripped her hips tighter, and with one last powerful thrust, poured his life and soul into her.

He remained pressed into her until he was certain his seed was buried so deeply within her womb that she would surely conceive his babe.

He quivered almost violently then, separating from her, and collapsing to the furs. Rolling to his back, he took her with him, and holding her close, stroked the length of her hair until he could feel the smooth even rhythm of her slumbering breath. He stroked her until his own breathing settled and his heartbeat tempered.

And still he caressed her, for she felt so right beneath his fingers.

The last thing he thought before closing his eyes was that he was tired of fighting what he felt for her.

He could no longer deny it.

Whatever the bond, it was too powerful. If it was his destiny to love her, then so be it—to hell with the part of him that warned him not to succumb!

The pull was irresistible.

Yet, he would, in fact, resist.

As he’d long ago discovered, the heart was a powerful weapon. He could not so freely give his.

He wouldn’t make the same mistake twice.

Chapter 26

Alarik came to fetch Elienor earlier and earlier each afternoon, and so it came as no surprise when, a week later, the door to the kirken burst open a mere hour after she’d left the manor house.

Brother Vernay cleared his throat, lifting his brows. “Er... you’ll be needing a bath, my lord?”

Alarik gave the monk a frown. “Among other things,” he ceded. His lips curved into a satisfied smile as Elienor straightaway rose to retrieve her cape, displacing the demon dog from her lap in the process. His mood was so high that he felt it no hardship to ignore the yapping pup and the fiendish way that it once again attacked his boots. He gave it no more than a mildly disgruntled glance, shaking it off.

Vernay’s cheeks reddened as he came forward to lift up the seething animal, embarrassed by the jarl’s frankness, nevertheless pleased at what he sensed between them. “I fear we shall never finish at this rate,” he said disapprovingly, though with little insistence.

Alarik grinned. “Mayhap not,” he relented, smiling at Elienor as she returned to him. The monk was forgotten completely when she returned his smile, though tentatively.

Yet it was a beginning.

Impatiently, he drew her outside, leading her at once to where Sleipnir stood tethered. He lifted her up onto Sleipnir’s back, then untied the horse, bounding up behind her. Only this time, instead of directing the animal toward the manor, he led it away.

“Where are we going?” Elienor asked in surprise.

“For a ride,” Alarik replied. And without further warning, he turned her about to face him, cursing himself even as he did so, for he couldn’t even wait until he had her alone. “I burn for you Elienor,” he told her huskily, unlacing his breeches as she watched.

Elienor’s eyes widened. “We can’t!”

“You’re like ambrosia,” he whispered, ignoring her protest. “The more I savor...the more I crave.”

His desire reared itself like a fire-breathing serpent in his veins. He was overtaken with the need to impale her so deeply that she could never leave. The need to brand her, to hear her whisper his name in rapture once more, was inexorable.

He felt her shiver and smiled knowingly.

Elienor’s heart skipped its normal beat, for he watched her with that covetous, heavy lidded gaze that stoked the embers of that treacherous fire within her. “Not here!” she protested.

“I need you, Elienor,” he murmured, grinning. Drawing up her gown, he left no doubt as to his meaning. And with the gown out of the way, he lifted her suddenly, seating her upon his lap. Elienor gasped as he eased into her right there in the broad light of day, under the gray-blue heavens, and atop his steed, for God and all the world to see.

She clung to him.

Alarik groaned, closing his eyes at the incredible feel of her, his arousal grown violent in its intensity. “Wrap your legs about mine waist,” he demanded. She did, at once placing them behind him as he’d asked, and he hooked his feet about hers, anchoring her, then bent his head to murmur his plea into her ear, “Now love me, my little nun.”

Elienor closed her eyes, his bold words setting her body awash with color and fire. Yet some small part of her clung to a shred of reason.

The tiniest shred.

“Alarik,” she protested.

“Shhhhhh... as I live and breathe I have never desired anything or anyone more!”

Elienor stifled the tears that threatened to flow.

She sagged against him in defeat, bracing her hands upon his chest. “Not here,” she pleaded again, brokenly, her heart screaming something else entirely: Desire? Desire? “Why?” she whispered. “Why? Why?”

“Because I need you!” Alarik murmured.

He wrapped his mantle about them both, forming a warm cocoon around the two of them.

Elienor’s fingers dug into his flesh. Regardless that she so desperately wished to, she could not control her body’s treacherous response to him. Yet at the moment she didn’t care. She gave in to the impulse and slid her arms around his chest, reveling in its size and sinew, as though to unite them together forever. She felt him quiver at her gesture, and his response emboldened her. She buried her lips into his neck, tasting the salt of his flesh, her heart crying her love, even as her lips refused to give it voice.

Instead, she whispered his name.

“Like this,” he urged, guiding her hips slowly with his hands.

Elienor undulated as Alarik commanded, and his head thrust backward in response, the cords of his neck taut. He moaned, and she soon found her hips moving of their own accord in the same deliciously slow rhythm he’d created. His arms embraced her firmly, searing her skin even through her gown, making her burn, until the very slowness of their rhythm was a torment. Once again his name erupted from her lips.

It drove Alarik to the edge.

He held her possessively as the landscape momentarily blurred. Were it not for the death grip his legs held about Sleipnir’s flanks, they would both have spiraled to the ground. Within an instant, she muffled her own cries into his shoulder, and then, sighing blissfully, she closed her eyes and surrendered against him. At once, Alarik turned her about and gathered his mantle about her.

Physically spent from their loving, Elienor allowed herself to drowse in his arms.

Snuggled securely within his embrace as she was, she didn’t see the way that he gazed down at her; he stared, as though by the intensity of that gesture he could see into her soul, searching, probing, questioning, for while their loving, as always, satiated his body’s hunger, he was left still wanting.

Placing his lips to the crown of her head, he tangled his fingers into her hair and rode on. And for the briefest instant, as he held her, it seemed as though she accepted him, at last. He found himself wishing he’d never be forced to turn back.

Nevertheless, even as he thought it, he redirected Sleipnir, and it wasn’t long before he discerned that they’d somehow ridden past the grove that was his original destination. His lips curved ruefully at the realization. So much for privacy. Although they hadn’t needed it, he acknowledged with a smug grin. His little sleepy nun had forgotten everything in the heat of her passion.

So had he.

Despite that fact, as they made their way back to the steading he continued to brood, for while he’d indisputably won Elienor’s surrender...

He couldn’t help but feel something missing still.

“I come with news you’ll not relish,” Hrolf said with a smirk, leaping down from his mount. He tossed the reins over its withers and then leaned his back against the nearest tree to catch his breath.

Bjorn clenched his teeth, crossing his arms. Hrolf had sent a man to his bed well before daybreak with a message for Bjorn to meet him in the grove this afternoon, and Bjorn had come out of curiosity. Impatiently, he waited now for Hrolf to explain himself.

Hrolf merely grinned, bracing his foot against the tree. He unsheathed the dagger from his boot and then swiped at the sweat upon his upper lip with his sleeve. “I suppose you wonder why I’ve called you?”

Bjorn tilted his head irritably.

Hrolf’s brows lifted. “It seems Ejnar has decided you are not worthy of his daughter,” he said at last. Satisfied with the look he’d gleaned from Bjorn, he picked his teeth with the tip of his blade. Again his brow lifted as he eagerly awaited Bjorn’s reaction to his revelation.

Bjorn’s chin jutted forward. “You summon me in broad daylight? I risk myself to come—to hear this? Nei, Hrolf, I think not. If Ejnar had decided not to deal with me, then ’tis his way to simply ignore me. ’Tis my guess you have a proposition for me.”

Hrolf nodded. “You always were a shrewd one,” he answered. His gaze averted momentarily to the blade in his hand, and then returned to Bjorn, again measuring, his eyes brilliant with purpose. “I wonder what might have been were you to have held Alarik’s high seat instead,” he suggested slyly.

Bjorn’s hands fell to his sword, unsheathing it. The metal hissed as it left his scabbard. “I have never coveted Alarik’s seat,” he said hotly.

Hrolf poised himself with dagger in hand, anticipating Bjorn’s attack. When none came, he laughed, taunting, “You lie!”

Bjorn lunged at him then, but Hrolf dodged him and stood ready once more, dagger in hand. His eyes narrowed, his lips curled viciously. “Still, Ejnar perceives Alarik as the best match for his daughter,” he revealed. “He’s convinced that if he kills the Frenchwoman, Alarik’s interest will return to Nissa.”

“Return to her?” Bjorn snarled, striking his sword against the tree. “Mine fool brother has never wanted her for aught! Damn Ejnar! Damn mine brother!” He turned to face Hrolf, ready to listen.

Hrolf agreed with a nod. “My sentiments wholly. You and I perceive thus much, but Ejnar refuses to acknowledge it. Then again... he can be a very persuasive man.”

He allowed Bjorn a moment to digest his meaning. “’Tis none of my concern whether Alarik accepts the bitch, or nei. My only concern is only that the Fransk, along with Olav and the holy man, are poisoning Alarik’s mind... that soon Alarik will turn from the old ways as has Olav. Were he to join with Ejnar’s daughter, I fear to think of the power he would have at his hands. Consider it, Bjorn.”

“I’ve said afore,” Bjorn argued, though with less passion, “Alarik will never embrace the Christian faith. I’ve told you. I should know, for he is mine brother.”

“Ja, well...” Without warning, Hrolf heaved his knife at the tree behind Bjorn. The bone hilt quivered portentously. “We both know what value he’s placed on that of late.” He raised a challenging brow. “Don’t we, Bjorn?”

“’Tis none of your—”

“I wonder why he’s so often spied at the kirken these days?” Hrolf interjected harshly. “He seemed to have little regard for the place before.”

“’Tis no secret that he burns for the little Fransk.”

“Nei, but mark mine words—’tis merely a matter of time before he begins to employ the same harsh tactics Olav adheres to.”

Hrolf snatched up his blade, glaring at Bjorn wrathfully. He re-sheathed it within his boot. “At any rate, I came to relay only this... if you should find yourself wishing to oppose your brother, you have mine support... as well as that of others, for neither am I pleased to be with Ejnar. There is naught for me to gain in remaining with the Dane.”

Bjorn straightened, one tawny brow raised. “What you propose is treason.”

“What I propose is freedom from Olav’s persecution,” Hrolf countered. “Think on it, Bjorn... you could have both the high seat... and Nissa as well. Consider it, at least,” he suggested. “And then let me know what you decide.”

Having said all he wished to, he turned and seized his reins, then leapt back into the saddle.

Bjorn watched him, saying nothing, his brows knit.

“You won’t hear from Ejnar again—not directly,” Hrolf told him. “As you so aptly speculated, he has determined it beneath himself to acknowledge your request. So... you should consider my counsel carefully.”

With that he turned his mount about, but swung back to add, “Oh, and Bjorn... you should keep in mind that once Alarik has joined Ejnar by ties of wedlock, all will be lost to you. Apprise me soon, if you would.” With that, he turned again, riding out of the grove, leaving Bjorn feeling more impotent than ever.

In truth, Bjorn prized his brother—despite the fact that they had so little in common. But what if what Hrolf said was truth? He would not be forced—he refused to cleave to this new faith!

And then there was Nissa...

Peering up at the glowing orb of fire that was the waning sun, he watched Hrolf go, and then turned and started back toward the steading, Hrolf’s words simmering like a bitter potion in his head.

Alarik reined in suddenly at the sight of the lone rider racing away from the grove. Even from this distance, he recognized the sun-fire bright hair.

Hrolf Kaetilson.

He stiffened, for moments later Bjorn rode out as well, racing toward the steading, clearly so preoccupied that he failed to notice he had an audience.

Alarik’s eyes darkened as he watched his youngest brother’s flight, his emotions wavering between fury and regret, and then he swore beneath his breath and spurred his mount after him.

Chapter 27

Alarik and Elienor arrived at the steading mere moments after Bjorn. Perceiving that Bjorn would have ridden directly to the stables, Alarik reined in before the longhouse, shaking Elienor awake. “Elienor,” he said hoarsely.

Sleepily, she lifted up her head.

“Wake yourself!” he demanded, and the brusque edge to his voice instantly alerted her to his dark mood. She straightened and he dismounted, hauling her down after him. “I would have you go to the eldhus.”

Disoriented from her nap, she asked, “The kitchens?”

Alarik gave her a curt nod. A muscle ticked in his jaw. “Tell Alva to delay the serving of nattver.”

Elienor nodded, looking puzzled by his change in mood, and turned to go.

He watched only an instant to be certain that she complied, and then he sought out Olav.

He found his brother in the skali, seated at the high table, drinking horn in hand. As he made his way to where his half-brother sat, his look was blacker than the deepest night, causing Olav’s horn to arrest in midair.

Making certain that Bjorn was not present, he bellowed a dismissal to everyone within the hall, ordering them not to return until the meal was ready to be served. Only when he stood before the high table did he speak.

“Backbiting, sniveling fool!” he declared, ripping off his mantle and hurling it across the table into his empty chair at Olav’s side.

Olav’s expression was that of surprise. “Do you speak of me?”

Alarik’s face contorted with cold fury. “Nei. Bjorn! A week ago I was told he sent a messenger from Gryting. The man was followed well into Dane territory.” A string of oaths erupted from his tongue. “This afternoon he met with Hrolf Kaetilson. Loki take the boy!” he exploded. “He’s never wanted for aught under mine hand!”

Olav dropped his horn to the table. “Can he not have come upon Hrolf unintentionally?”

Alarik struck the table with his fist in bitter rage, not caring that he risked his sword hand in the angry gesture. “Nei!” he bellowed. “Curse him—a thousand times, curse him!”

“What do you propose to do?” Olav asked quietly.

He well understood Alarik’s outrage, for Alarik had long coddled the boy—going so far as to soothe Bjorn’s wounded pride when he’d felt threatened simply because Olav had appeared in their lives.

Olav had never known his sire, for he’d had the misfortune to be born in the year after his father’s death. Directly thereafter his mother, fearing for her son’s life at the hands of those eager to claim his father’s seat, took Olav and fled to safety. He alone had returned, a man grown. It was incredible to look upon the brothers, for other than the color of their eyes and hair, there was little disparity between them.

There were times when Olav envied Alarik that he had known their sire, yet not enough to cross his half-brother, for Alarik was, in more ways than not, his kindred spirit.

Bjorn was another matter entirely.

Olav and Bjorn bore no blood relation to each other, save through Alarik, nor did they bear each other much affection. From the very beginning Bjorn had resented Olav coming between him and Alarik, for Bjorn had been a youth in awe of his elder brother. Olav’s arrival had driven a wedge between them, yet Olav could no longer bring himself to care, for Bjorn had rebuffed every attempt Olav had ever made to befriend him.

Still, Olav would have saved Alarik the pain of betrayal. “Perhaps my little errand with Burislav could be useful in some manner?”

Alarik heaved a weary sigh, leaning heavily upon the table. He peered up at Olav, his eyes red rimmed and glazed. And then his gaze settled upon the ring about Olav’s neck. A rage as he’d never experienced in all his life erupted within him as he stared at that ring. King, or nei, brother, or nei, he wanted to leap over the table and strangle Olav with the leather that bore the confounded ring. “I’ve no idea what to do,” he ceded, his voice tense. “But ’twould be wise to keep this to ourselves... for now... until I can at least ascertain what he intends.” Again, he slammed the table and spat another oath.

Olav nodded “’Tis agreed, then. We shall wait—”

“Where did you get that ring?” Alarik demanded, his voice strained. A thousand possibilities raced through his mind, none of them palatable, for Elienor wore the ring always, well secreted beneath her gown. His eyes blazed with anger.

Olav’s brows lifted, his hand going to the band. He opened his mouth to speak, but then he peered over Alarik’s shoulder, a motion beyond the door catching his eye. His shrewd green eyes met Bjorn’s blue ones, and then Alarik’s iron gray ones. “Speak of the beast,” he said quietly.

Alarik pivoted about to face his youngest brother, willing himself to remain composed. Damn the fool boy! Some part of him wanted to tear out Bjorn’s heart—carve the blood eagle upon his back—rip out his lungs! Controlling his features to conceal his ire, he attempted a smile. He clasped Bjorn’s arm as it was proffered.

“Mine brother?” Bjorn said warily. Alarik nodded, and Bjorn winced at the unyielding grip maintained upon his arm.

Bjorn turned to Olav, his mouth twitching as he noted Olav’s grave expression. Olav watched them as though he expected something dire to occur at any moment.

“Alarik!” Bjorn protested when Alarik failed to release his arm. He slapped a hand over Alarik’s fist, easing Alarik’s fingers from his flesh. “Mine arm!” he appealed. “Forsooth, mine bror, at times I believe you forget your own strength.”

Alarik’s lips curved only slightly as he released Bjorn; it was all the smile he could muster. “We missed your company today,” he said softly, too softly. “Where have you been?”

The silence within the hall was palpable.

Bjorn peered again at Olav, noting the ill-at-ease way that Olav drummed the tips of his fingers upon the table, his eyes fixed upon Alarik.

“Alarik?” Olav prompted. “Mayhap Bjorn would care to join us.”

Alarik’s gaze narrowed upon Bjorn, his brows lifting. He made no move to reply to Olav. “Holed up with some wench no doubt?” he asked of Bjorn.

His eyes flickered when Bjorn gave him a nod. “Well, then, I do hope she was worth it.”

“Indeed, she was!” Bjorn replied.

Alarik gestured toward the high table. “Won’t you join us, then, mine brother?”

Bjorn’s brows drew together, sensing Alarik’s request was more a command. Awkwardly he made his way around the table, taking his seat upon the bench directly at Alarik’s left, away from Olav, sending Olav a resentful glance as he sat. He felt a twinge of regret over the decision he’d come to as he rode home—though merely a twinge, for in his heart he felt that what he’d decided was for the best of the steading.

Hrolf was right.

Alarik was not thinking rationally—not if he was thinking like Olav.

The very air within the hall seemed to crackle with tension as Elienor entered. She felt the unease tangibly. When Alarik motioned her to the high table, she resisted the urge to flee past him into his bedchamber—his bedchamber, for she still could not claim it despite the fact that she spent her nights there within his arms.

It was his.

As was she, in more ways than she cared to acknowledge.

As she made her way to the dais, Alarik elbowed Bjorn, and spoke to him softly. Elienor heard not a word, but she had no need to guess what had been said, for Bjorn stood suddenly, toppling his bench backward. His legs were braced apart, his eyes blazing hatred at Elienor. “You displace me for her?” His voice rose. “For her! Nei! I’ll not move!”

“You will,” Alarik returned softly.

“I’ll not!” Bjorn exploded

Alarik stood, raking his chair backward. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. “You will! And you will do so now,” he said with deadly menace.

Bjorn’s ire exploded with an appalling string of oaths. Elienor had never heard such words. “Take it then—give it to the whore!” And with that, he kicked the bench away. He stalked off without a backward glance at Alarik. Elienor’s face paled at the look he shot her in passing. She glanced at Olav. Then Alarik. Then Olav.

Olav’s green eyes missed nothing. He lifted a brow in silent question, and something in his look triggered a memory, something in the intensity of his gaze.

Something...

She felt dizzy suddenly and reached out to steady herself. The room swam before her and then her vision went momentarily black. She saw him again standing at the prow—Olav. It was him, she knew, for the eyes were green. Green. The ship’s prow twisted before her eyes into the head of a serpent. One instant Olav was holding it, the next he was in the water, his crimson cloak swirling downward after him, into the deep blue sea.

“Elienor?” It was Alarik’s voice that penetrated her dazed senses.

Yet she couldn’t come back. Something held her still. Vaguely, she was aware that he came toward her, and the vision solidified before her eyes. She saw him upon his own ship, watching, too, as Olav plummeted into the ocean. And then again she saw Alarik’s face torn. He was torn, uncertain whether to come for her... or to go after his brother. In a split second he made his decision—to come for her. Like a hawk, he soared the distance over the churning water. At the same instant, a gleaming axe was hurled through the air, toward his back.

Elienor cried out. Her legs went weak.

“Elienor?” Alarik shook her firmly, the sting of his grip upon her arm bringing her back. “Elienor?”

Aware suddenly that he was supporting her, she steadied herself, shaking her head, but she swayed, giving no substance to her words. “I... I... fine,” she said much too quickly, breaking away. She glanced down at her hands, her heart beating erratically.

No blood.

There was no blood.

She glanced back up at him in dazed shock.

Alarik stood there before her, his brows drawn together in confusion. Yet her dream foretold of his death. Her gaze went to Olav, who sat still at the table, and then returned to Alarik. She shivered. Both! Both would die—not one! She felt suddenly ill with the revelation. “I... I... I’m not hungry!” she exclaimed, bolting past him.

Desperate to be away from so many pairs of eyes, she thrust open the door to Alarik’s chamber and escaped within, slamming it behind her in desperation.

Alarik shrugged at Olav. He had no inkling what had come over Elienor so suddenly, but whatever it was he would discover it. By God, she’d looked at him with such dazed terror once too often!

He followed her into his chamber and found her lying abed. As he opened the door, she bolted upright, her face pallid.

Elienor could not stop trembling. “It was Olav!” she murmured full of anguish, tears welling in the corners of her eyes.

“What did he do?” He took her hands. They were damp and sticky with cold sweat. He thought he’d kill his brother if he’d harmed her in anyway.

Still the possibility that she might not have given him the ring of her own volition filled him with a reckless hope.

He hung his head suddenly, confounded. Guilt ridden. By Odin’s breath, he knew not what to feel. Olav was his brother, by the blood of their sire. His brother!

“H... he jumped,” Elienor stammered. “And then you came... and there was blood!” She peered up at him a little wildly. “But there wasn’t... there wasn’t any blood,” she said, suddenly pensive.

She nibbled her lip.

“You speak in riddles!” Alarik accused her, kneeling before her now. “Elienor?” He took her hand in his. “Are you unwell? Did Olav do aught to harm you? Tell me!”

Elienor shook his hand away. How could she explain when it could mean her life? Her gaze returned to his face, his handsome, troubled face.

How could she not at least attempt it? She couldn’t simply let him die.

Could she?

He looked at her as though she were mad, and a quiver raced down her spine as she recalled the way her mother had been persecuted, and therein lay the awful truth—she was cursed if she told him, cursed if she didn’t! Her mother had been murdered in cold blood. Nay, she could not tell him. He would never understand.

Besides, she didn’t fully comprehend the vision herself. Despite the fact that it came to her exactly the same each time, it was much too chaotic to comprehend fully. She only knew that there would be no happily ever after for her.

Take what happiness you can, bien aimee... while you can.

She didn’t even blink at the words spoken so clearly in her head, accepting them unquestioningly. Would it be so wrong? she asked herself. Nay, she determined. She took a breath, calming herself, and assured, “It was naught... I’m fine.” She became aware of his hands in her hair, stroking the length of it, the look in his eyes peculiar.

“Mayhap you should rest,” Alarik suggested, noting the pallor of her skin.

Elienor nodded, and he rose from his knees. Still, he peered down upon her, as though searching her soul.

The back of his fingers grazed her cheek. “Sleep then. Alva will bring supper later.”

Elienor nodded again, lying back upon the immense bed. She closed her eyes so that Alarik would see that she was ready to comply, and was surprised by the languor that came over her so swiftly.

Mayhap she was simply overtired.

Mayhap this time her dreams would not hold true.

As she lay there, considering that, daring to hope, she drifted...

Alarik watched over her a moment longer, contemplating the terrorized look she’d had in her eyes as she’d looked upon him in the skali, and then he lifted the furs to her chin, tucking her within, noting that she shivered still. In fear of him? In loathing? He remained only until he was certain she slept, and then he left to seek out Alva.

If anyone knew how to glean information from reluctant souls, it was she, and the woman lying so serenely within his bed had secrets to withhold. By the rood of her God, he intended to find out just what they were.

Chapter 28

Elienor awoke to find the chamber bathed in shadows. She wondered at once where Alarik was—wondered, too, if it were day or night. With no windows to peer out from, it was difficult to judge the time of day. Stretching to ease the stiffness in her bones, she rose, yawning, and no sooner had she thrust her feet over the edge of the bed than Alva cracked the door open, peering in.

“Oh! You’re awake?” Entering, she bore in her hands a small tray. “I’ve brought bread and cheese,” she revealed in a cheery tone. “You’re ravenous, I’m certain.”

Surprised to find it was so and wondering why, Elienor nodded that she was, and concealed another yawn, and then recalled that she’d not partaken of nattver. “Thank you,” she said when she could.

Alva placed the tray next to Elienor upon the bed. “The jarl said you were feeling unwell?”

“A little,” Elienor concurred. “But ’tis passed now. How long have I slept?”

“Not very long.” Alva sighed. “The jarl said you came here directly from the eldhus.”

“I did,” Elienor acknowledged, cocking her head in curiosity. “Alva... why do you call him jarl... instead of Alarik?”

Alva shrugged. “I suppose ’tis because he is jarl,” she pointed out matter-of-factly. “I’ve never considered addressing him by his given name. Why?” She took up a poker and proceeded to stir the fire pit back to life.

Elienor chose a hunk of bread from the tray, shrugging. “I simply wondered, is all.” She took a bite, and watched curiously as Alva lingered over her task. “And what did you call him before he became jarl?”

“Nephew,” Alva answered, with an indifferent shrug. “The jarl has never been one for familiarities,” she assured Elienor.

“I see,” Elienor replied, though truly she didn’t. Her brows knit as she recalled the way Alarik had demanded she use his given name.

‘Tell me, Elienor...”

“Hmmm?”

“Was it your belly that upset you?”

“Oh, nay,” Elienor replied softly, wishing it were so simple. Nevertheless, she felt it unwise to elaborate. “Where’s Alarik?” she asked, changing the subject.

“I’m not certain,” Alva said quickly. ‘Tell me... was it your head?”

Elienor sighed deeply. Her head, indeed. “Aye,” she admitted, setting down the unfinished chunk of bread. “It was my head that ached.” Suddenly, she didn’t feel so hungry. “Alva... have you by chance... a sprig of rosemary?” she asked cautiously.

Alva ceased her task suddenly, peering at Elienor over the rekindled fire, her brows knitting. “Rosemary?”

“Rosemary,” Elienor affirmed with a nod. Mother Heloise had sworn the herb warded away nightmares, and though it oft failed to perform, this time she was desperate. “To put under my pillow...”

Alva’s round face contorted. “Strange cure for an aching head!” she declared, and then seeing Elienor’s dismal expression, she relented. “But if it will ease you, then I shall see.” She wagged her head. “Mayhap ’tis that wound of yours still plaguing you,” she suggested.

Elienor’s fingers went to her temple. All that remained was a thin raised scar. It hurt not at all. “Mayhap,” she lied.

A faraway scream caught her attention suddenly.

Her brow furrowed. “Alva... did you hear that?”

Alva cocked her head. “I...I’m not certain. I did hear something...”

All at once it sounded as though a stampede of wild beasts burst through the hall beyond. Without a word, Alva raced to the door, throwing it wide. She watched, shocked, as every last soul hurried from the skali, and then she turned to Elienor, her face pale. “Fire,” she said softly, swaying as though she would swoon.

‘The kirken is on fire!”

Alarik burst from the hall, grateful to see that Sleipnir remained where he’d been abandoned. Bounding into the saddle, he didn’t wait to see whether he was followed.

Already, the eerie orange brightness of fire blazed into the night sky.

The sound of its roar intensified as Sleipnir flung behind them earth and snow, racing the distance toward the vale. Fury burned at Alarik’s gut, as he urged his mount faster—not that he feared the fire would spread. The remote little church sat too far from the rest of the steading to endanger any but itself, and the remaining snow upon the ground would further arrest it.

Reaching the raging inferno well before the others, he leapt from his mount, swearing profusely.

They were too late.

The small structure was completely engulfed.

Olav reined in, slipping from his saddle, muttering in anger, and Brother Vernay, who had run nearly back to the manor house after Alarik, came staggering behind.

After him hurried his people, many shouldering buckets hastily filled.

“My lord!” Vernay panted, his face scarlet in the raging reflection of the fire. “’Twas Hrolf! I...” He paused to catch his breath, and looked as though he would weep. “I... I could not stop them! Lost!” he lamented, his breath a white mist against the frosty fire-lit night. “All lost!” He threw a hand skyward. “All our precious labors!”

“Heathen pigs!” Olav shouted wrathfully, staggering backward as the roof exploded into glowing fragments.

Helpless in his rage, Alarik swore again, batting the fiery flakes away from his face and hair as they rained down upon him.

“M-My lord,” Vernay continued, still breathless. Alarik turned toward the monk, his gaze burning hotter than the fire at his back. Vernay fell to his knees. “They dispatched me with a message for you. Hrolf said to tell you that if you value what you hold... you will not rebuild the kirken.”

A staggered murmur erupted from those gathered, yet all fell immediately silent as Alarik advanced upon Vernay.

Vernay stumbled backward at the look in Alarik’s eyes. “M-My lord?” he appealed. “I am but the messenger! This little church bore my hopes, as well! Please, my lord!”

“No one!” Alarik bellowed, seizing Vernay by his frock in frustration, “no one tells me what I can—or what I cannot build upon mine own land!”

At his declaration, Bjorn elbowed his way to the fore. “I thought you cared not for the kirken, mine brother?” he challenged. “I thought you built it simply to appease Olav? Why should you care now that it lies in ruin?”

Only silence met his imputing questions. Alarik released the trembling monk. Vernay fell at his feet. For the briefest instant, Alarik’s wrathful gaze sought out Olav’s, sharing Olav’s question: Had Bjorn been party to the fire?

The evidence seemed weighted against him, for he’d left the skali earlier and had never returned...

Until now.

And he had met with Hrolf.

Still, some part of him could not accept the possibility. He turned to his youngest brother, holding his rage in check. But Bjorn would not let it go.

“Let it lie in its filthy ashes!” Bjorn persisted. “Mayhap then you would send the Fransk shrew back from whence she came!”

A feeling of hysteria unlike anything Alarik had ever experienced swept over him at the merest thought of Elienor leaving. “Nei!” he exploded, lunging at Bjorn. He seized Bjorn by his woolen tunic, nigh renting it in his wrath. He shook his brother violently. “I’ll not! do you hear? I’ll not! The kirken shall be rebuilt!” He glanced about at his wide-eyed people. They shrank back from him, never having seen him in such a fury. “Any man who thinks to oppose me,” he roared, meeting their gazes one by one. “Any man!—including you, Bjorn—” his gaze returned to his brother, and he shook him once more, “will taste Dragvendil, by God!”

Bjorn’s eyes accused him. “Which god, mine bror?” he asked softly. Even dangling by his tunic, and under the heat of Alarik’s gaze, he dared ask once more, “Which god?”

Alarik shook with fury. “It matters not!” he snarled. “What I believe in mine own soul concerns only me, and none other!” he declared, meeting his people’s gazes once more.

He swallowed as his burning eyes returned to Bjorn—eyes that stung from smoke, and tears he could not shed—would not shed. He wanted to accuse Bjorn in that moment, wanted to ask him what demons had possessed him that he would betray his only brother.

He wanted to fall to his knees and weep with sorrow for the brother he’d loved and would have died for. But he said naught of those things. His face grew red with silent fury, and then he shoved Bjorn back into the melting snow, with a violence barely suppressed. “I would have plucked out mine eyes, brother—” he said the word with contempt, and a touch of melancholy, “and handed them to you... had you only asked!” And with that declaration, he turned, bellowing out orders for the dousing of the fire.

It was daybreak when Alarik returned.

As had the rest of the steading, Elienor witnessed the scene at the kirken, but with tempers so high, Alarik had ordered her at once back to the longhouse, fearing for her safety. He was well aware that some followed Bjorn’s way of thought... though unlike Bjorn, they would never have betrayed him. Unlike Bjorn, they seemed to know he would never force their hearts, for if he’d intended to, he’d have done it long ago, back when Olav had first taken up the cross.

He stormed into his chamber, soot blackened and sodden with sweat and melted snow. He found Elienor sitting upon his bed, wringing her hands. She gasped in surprise at the sight of him, leaping up as he entered the room.

He looked like a demon, his face covered in ashes and soot, his fine tunic tattered and blackened, yet Elienor had to fight the incredible urge to fling herself into his arms.

He tore his gaze away and slammed the door behind him. “Olav awaits me in the stables!” he told her more sharply than he’d intended, for he still could not vanquish the image of her ring about Olav’s neck.

Elienor wrung her hands. “You will seek out Hrolf?” she asked tentatively.

Grimacing, Alarik peeled off his tunic, hurling it to the floor. “I will,” he said, meeting her gaze.

Elienor’s heart turned over at the pain nestled in his piercing silver eyes. Confused, she averted her own gaze, her heart twisting... in dread? Her vision came back to her swiftly, and she feared for his safety. More than anything, she wanted to tell him, but she knew better.

It would be a fool thing to do, for he’d not believe her anyway... even if he chose not to persecute her for it.

He moved toward her in silence, lifting her chin with a finger. ‘Tears?” he asked in astonishment. “Elienor...” He narrowed his eyes. “Why do you cry?”

Elienor tore her gaze away. She shook her head unable to speak.

“The kirken?”

She nodded the lie, swiping away the tears that rolled so shamefully down her cheeks.

Disappointed it seemed, Alarik sighed wearily, and nevertheless drew her within his embrace. “The church shall be restored,” he assured her. “That I pledge you.”

Elienor raised her tear-stained face to his, fighting back a new flood of tears. “You... you will take care?”

He blinked at her question, as though startled by it, and then his eyes lit with rare emotion as he gazed down upon her, stunned by her behest.

Alarik opened his mouth to speak, but knew not what to say. He swallowed, afeared to hope. Cupping Elienor’s chin within his palm, he nodded. He bent to kiss her lips, those lips that had made him burn from the first, those lips that shocked and plagued him still. “You take care as well, my little nun,” he whispered, lifting his mouth from hers. He bent once more, unable to resist. Her delicate lids closed as he kissed them too. He wrapped his arms about her, holding her close. “To be certain... I shall leave my best man, Sigurd Thorgoodson, to watch over you.”

The tender spell of the moment shattered.

A vivid picture of Sigurd, dancing nude over the bodies at Phillipe’s castle, was conjured within Elienor’s mind, and her eyes widened in alarm. “Nay!” she gasped, breaking free of him.

A shadow passed over his features. “I trust him more than I do mine own kin,” he assured her, his tone strained.

Sensing the pain beneath his words, Elienor nodded her acquiescence, her gaze dropping against her will to his bare chest. The sight of it made the blood course through her, and she stared as though transfixed.

His answering chuckle was low and rich. It sent quiver after quiver through her.

Gratified with the way she gazed upon him in that moment, Alarik drew her into his arms, and bent to kiss her, unable to take his leave without partaking once more of the sweetness she offered. With a hand to the small of her back, he coaxed her forward, parting her lips with gentle pressure. Elienor opened willingly unto him, arching to accept his hunger, and his body quickened in response.

He reveled in the taste of her. Never would he have imagined he’d enjoy such a thing so well.

Alas, it seemed the Fransk were good for more than swords and wine.

By God, it would be so easy to lose himself... so easy to stay. Shuddering over the need that coursed through his veins like terrible jolts of thunder, he crushed her to him, devouring her mouth without mercy.

Her hands entwined about his neck and he groaned his torment, knowing he could not have her just now.

Damn him, he was loath to leave, but he could not linger... lest the filthy culprits escape him in the meantime.

Now he had yet one more reason to kill Hrolf Kaetilson.

“Elienor,” he murmured huskily. He took a deep breath, tempering himself. His heart hammered like that of a fresh-faced youth. “If only you knew what you do to me...” He groaned in regret. “Later,” he promised, and bent to nip her gown where it cloaked the tip of her breast, a guarantee of his word.

To Elienor’s shame, she delighted in his wicked promise. Leaving her weak-kneed with anticipation, he turned his back on her, and she watched as he strode to his chest, lifted up the lid, and removed from it a fresh tunic. After it, his mail, laying it aside as he donned his tunic, and then, kneeling, he beckoned her to him with a wriggle of his finger. “I cannot arm myself alone,” he told her, a ghost of a smile twisting his lips. “Come aid me, Elienor.”

Elienor didn’t hesitate at his command. Alarik observed her advance in silence, smiling when she struggled to lift his heavy mailed tunic.

Elienor’s cheeks flushed. “I did not think it would be so heavy!”

“’Tis larger than most, I’ll warrant.” His dark eyes twinkled.

Together, they guided the mail brynie over his head, and once it was in place, she sat again upon the bed to watch as he positioned his scabbard across his hips. Lifting up from the coffer his crimson mantle, he drew it on, placing it carelessly over his shoulders, and then he fastened it with a brooch that was fashioned to look like a blazing sun with a hawk in its center. Finally, he retrieved his sword, inspecting it painstakingly, running his hand over the runes carved so meticulously into its gleaming blade.

“What do they mean?” Elienor asked, cocking her head in ill-suppressed curiosity.

Alarik followed her gaze to his blade, and gave a nod of comprehension. His silver eyes met her violet-blue ones. “Dragvendil,” he told her. “’Tis the name of mine sword, it means readily drawn.” He gave her a meaningful sideways glance. “As is another blade I own.”

Alarik ignored the way she shivered at his disclosure, the way she averted her widened eyes, telling himself he didn’t give a damn if she feared him still.

But he did.

Mayhap by the time he returned... Alva would have something to tell him.

If not, then mayhap he didn’t wish to know what haunted the wench.

After all, no matter what...

She was his. And would remain so evermore.

He’d not give her up—her uncle be damned, the church be damned, Bjorn be damned—Olav be damned!

With a foreboding hiss, Dragvendil was sheathed within his scabbard. The thought of Elienor’s ring deposited about his brother’s neck clenched at his gut. Without a word, he procured his shield—he wasn’t certain he trusted himself to speak—and with a final glance at Elienor, seized his helm and started for the door.

Nothing in his gait suggested he would pause to bid her farewell, but he spun abruptly in the doorway to face her, and stood an unending moment, saying nothing, his visage dark. Their gazes locked, clung to one another, and there was longing perceptible within the silver glint of his eyes... as though he anticipated something more of her, Elienor knew not what, and then a momentary sadness in them, when nothing was spoken between them.

His gaze narrowed to shadowy slivers. “Take care, my little nun,” he whispered sullenly, “for I vow I shall return.”

And with that promise he departed.

Chapter 29

Lost.

Everything had been lost. All her long hours of copying.

Everything.

Nevertheless, the kirken itself, having been made almost solely of cobbled stone and pitch, stood solid. Blackened with soot, it took nigh a sennight to scrub clean, and still Alarik did not return.

Each day Elienor watched, along with Brother Vernay, as the kirken was further restored. It dismayed her that she’d dedicated so much of herself to the copying.

They would begin anew, Brother Vernay had said hearteningly, come spring.

Yet spring came to the steading in elusive glimpses, the snow melting and the greenery stealing timidly forth. And still Alarik did not return. Elienor’s dread for him multiplied with each passing day. At night she could sleep not at all. She lay there, berating herself for being such a coward that she would allow men to die unnecessarily. She told herself it was simple dread over what would become of her were Alarik to perish. But she knew better. It was for him she feared, and each morn the circles that darkened her eyes deepened.

Nevertheless during the light of day, she labored wherever Alva bade her to, all the while spurning her heart and her conscience, both. It was, she told herself, the only way to endure.

One late spring morn, as she served within the eldhus, kneading and pounding bread, Alva came to her. “You love him, do you not?”

Elienor refused to confess it. She said nothing, although the way she pummeled the dough gave lie to her silence.

Alva sighed. “My dear... one need only look at you to know.”

Elienor’s eyes misted and she lowered them in shame.

“Hmmmph, now! Why the weeping? Rejoice in it, my dear, for I believe he loves you too.”

Elienor swallowed, shaking her head. Why did that possibility, remote as it was, make her feel infinitely worse?

Doubtless because she’d made the decision not to forewarn him... and now she could lose him—not that she’d ever truly had him, she promptly reminded herself. Jesu... she was so confused. She swallowed once more, fighting back angry tears, unable to look into Alva’s knowing eyes. God curse her, for not only was she a liar... she was indisputably a coward of the worst breed!

“Something else troubles you, Elienor? Perhaps if you spoke of it?”

Elienor peered up into Alva’s concerned blue eyes. Why shouldn’t she tell? What did it matter now if Alarik did not come back? she told herself. She could not bear it! Guilt and pain knotted inside her. Mayhap there was time to undo what she’d been too cowardly to face ere now. At any rate, what had she to lose?

Her life, she reminded herself bleakly.

Yet what life was this to live...

Without him?

Fighting back the tears, Elienor confided everything unto Alva, quietly, so as not to be overheard. Alva, she trusted implicitly, but Nissa was present, watching them, and Nissa she trusted not at all. When she finished, she waited anxiously for Alva’s reaction.

“Elienor!” Alva rebuked. “This is what you’ve kept tucked away so long?”

Elienor’s brow furrowed. That was all? Nothing more? In Francia they put her mother to death—cast her as a babe into a nunnery for the better part of her life—and Alva did nothing more than scold her? She cocked her head, brows furrowed. “I don’t think you quite perceive what I’m telling you.”

Alva gave her a fretful look. “Certainly I do! In the Northland ’tis no crime to be gifted, Elienor! Why, along with the skalds, those capable of the sight are well honored! ’Tis the truth,” she persisted, when Elienor merely gaped incredulously. “In verity, ’tis the soothsayers, who are most revered here, for they are so very scarce.” Her brow furrowed suddenly. “Nevertheless, I do hope you are mistaken about this vision of yours... you did say you were present during this... this battle?”

Elienor nodded hopefully.

“Then mayhap there is time to alter its course. Let us pray ’tis so.” Elienor followed Alva’s glance, and met Nissa’s Nordic blue eyes. A shiver of foreboding raced down her spine.

“I wish now I’d come to you sooner,” she whispered softly.

Alva sighed. “What is done, is done,” she declared.

Elienor tore her gaze from Nissa.

“You must pay her no mind,” Alva stressed. “As for me, I cannot wait for the jarl to rid his home of Ejnar’s daughter! She’s been naught but trouble since the day she arrived.” And then her eyes suddenly lit with mirth. “I declare a wager.” She unhooked one of the brooches that secured her overgown and offered it to Elienor, grinning mischievously. Her frock hung precariously on one side, but she seemed not to notice. “If the jarl does not acknowledge his love for you upon his return, I believe I shall aid him in the endeavor, but for now... I wager you this brooch he’s already lost his heart to you. Go on... take it!”

Elienor thrust Alva’s hand away, shaking her head. “I could not!”

Alva merely smiled as she pressed the brooch insistently into Elienor’s palm. “You can,” she whispered. “And you shall. Keep it, for I fear I’ve long since lost the gamble!” Her tone bore that of a young maid silly with her own first love.

Elienor said nothing, only clasped the brooch to her breast. Dare she? Dare she hope?

Alva chuckled and spun away, ambling off to look in on a cluster of chattering women. Rather than scold them, she at once joined in their conversation, tittering cheerfully over something one of them said. Elienor marveled that she accepted these people so easily... and they her. Never would she have guessed Alva’s tragic past... had she not been told. She shook her head in admiration of Alva’s fortitude, and observing Alva so intently, she was unaware that Nissa came to her. Elienor started with a gasp at Nissa’s hand gently placed upon her shoulder.

“I do hope we can manage to put the past aside,” Nissa said, her eyes bright with purpose.

Elienor’s hands stilled upon the dough. Having anticipated Nissa’s venom instead, she blinked in surprise at the amiable declaration.

“Bjorn has asked me to wed with him,” Nissa explained, “and so mayhap... mayhap I’ll be staying at Gryting after all.”

“Bjorn?” Elienor echoed, momentarily addled. “I... I’m pleased for you—truly!” she avowed, and found she meant it. She smiled tentatively. Mayhap Alva was mistaken about Nissa. Mayhap Nissa was as much a pawn of life as anyone else? By her smile, she seemed pleased enough with Bjorn.

Confusion shone momentarily in Nissa’s beautiful blue eyes. “Th-thank you.” She glanced away uneasily, her expression shadowing, as though with regret, and then she again met Elienor’s questioning gaze. “At any rate,” she continued on a brighter note, “Brother Vernay has asked me to tell you he has need of you at the kirken. I’ll finish for you,” she offered, gathering the dough from beneath Elienor’s hands. She glanced up to see that Elienor was standing in contemplative silence. “Hurry now!” she prodded. “I fear I’ve waited too long already to pass on the message.” When Elienor seemed leery, she shrugged a little sheepishly, adding, “Brother Vernay and I don’t quite cherish one other, I’m afeared.”

Elienor eased a little, stifling a smile at the way she’d phrased it, for it was more as though they despised one other. “No harm done,” she relented, wiping her hands upon a rag. “I shall find him.”

Nissa returned a wan smile, nodding, and Elienor turned to snatch her cloak from a peg before rushing out of the kitchen. She only hoped Brother Vernay had not tired of waiting.

As she left the eldhus, Mischief launched himself from the spot he’d been chastised to, bounding after her happily, yapping with relish. Elienor bent to stroke his head. He evaded her, baiting her to pursue him, to play, and she laughed. “Nay, Mischief!” She giggled again when his bark propelled him into the air. “Brother Vernay awaits me!” she told him, and then she started off again toward the vale, resolutely ignoring the dog yapping at her heels.

What could Brother Vernay possibly need of her she wondered as she lifted up her skirts, succumbing to a quick race against Mischief. They were weeks away from being able to return to the copying of l’ecriture sainte.

Ahhh, well, she sighed, the walk would do her good. She desperately needed fresh air after the stifling heat of the eldhus. Forsooth, even in the height of winter the kitchens were sweltering!

To her surprise, Mischief suddenly skidded to a halt. Clumsy as the pup was yet, it tumbled over itself, and then sat firmly upon its backside and began to bark, sniffing at the air. She smiled, for if she didn’t know better, she’d vow the dog was ordering her back home. Indignant pup! Elienor shook her head in amusement, disregarding Mischief’s relentless barking. As it was, Brother Vernay had been left waiting much too long. “Pardon, Mischief!” she called after her. “Later!” she promised, “after I speak with Brother Vernay.” A quiver sped through her as she recalled Alarik telling her just the same, and again she thrust it out of her mind, lifting up her skirts to run the distance.

The sooner she spoke with Brother Vernay, the sooner she would be back to the steading.

She found the newly hung kirken door ajar. With a gentle shove, Elienor opened it wide enough to allow entrance, but lingered in the portal to examine the new door. Admiring it, she smoothed her palm across the rich wood, thinking that Sigurd’s workmanship was extraordinary. He seemed to work well with wood. It was fortunate he had talents other than those of bloodshed, she thought a little bitterly.

A prickle raced down her spine, a chill of foreboding that swept through her like a winter gale.

Something here was not quite right.

She stepped into the church apprehensively, calling out softly for Brother Vernay, and couldn’t help but note that the walls were still charred black in places.

Another prickle.

Mayhap it was simply the ominous appearance of the place. Some things could not so easily be washed away, she mused. Sins and memories both had a way of flooding back to haunt you.

So did prophetic visions.

The rash of bird’s wings startled her.

With a shriek of surprise, she glanced up to spy a small flock taking flight. As of yet there was no roof, and likely she’d frightened them from their perches, yet their cries only added to her sense of unease. Bolstering herself, she reasoned it was merely her dismal frame of mind that agitated her so, and thrusting away her brooding thoughts once and for all, she called again for Brother Vernay, thinking it wouldn’t be long before the church was fully restored... mayhap better than before.

“Alarik will be pleased,” she said on a sigh, hugging the cloak to herself.

She hadn’t realized she’d spoken aloud.

And neither did she note the shadow that fell across the altar in that instant.

“Will he, indeed?”

Elienor recognized the voice at once and turned to face him, swallowing her fear.

Hrolf Kaetilson laughed hideously as he lifted his weight from the door frame. “You look as though you’ve seen a spokelse,” he said, grinning venomously. “A ghost,” he supplied at her look of confusion. His teeth flashed behind his red beard as he came toward her. “Now, now... are you not pleased to see me, little Fransk?”

Chapter 30

His instincts seldom failed him.

Yet failed him they had.

Wholly.

Cursing roundly beneath his breath for allowing himself to be so recklessly distracted, Alarik gripped the reins in anger, his knuckles fading white with the suppressed violence in his hold, yet his treatment of Sleipnir remained gentle and sure. Heedless of any risk to himself, he rode near a league ahead of his men, impatient to be back at the steading.

Backed by Olav’s available forces, they’d pursued Hrolf and Ejnar well into the Dane’s mark only to find that somehow the whole lot of them had managed to double back without any visible trace. By the time it had been discovered, it had been much too late to overtake them, and now fury clenched his gut as he contemplated Hrolf’s destination.

There was little doubt now as to their intent, for the steading lay no more than another furlong ahead, and the tracks they were now following led directly there. Odin curse the man! He knew enough to discern that their change in course boded his people no good.

He only hoped he didn’t arrive overlate.

To his relief, when the steading materialized in the distance, it appeared untouched. Yet the closer he rode, the less assured he felt.

Before his manor house his people congregated—an ominous sign, he knew. They chattered anxiously, hands waving excitedly, until his approach, and then each and every one fell deathly silent... and stiller yet.

Despite their uncanny hush, Alarik sensed the rise in their apprehension the instant he reined in before them. Sleipnir felt it as well, for he reared slightly only to fall back on prancing hooves. Brother Vernay alone broke from their midst, hurrying forward. Alarik watched his approach with an unease that magnified with each diffident step the monk took.

Vernay shook his head. “My lord!” he bemoaned. “The demoiselle... she... she…”

A prickling snaked down Alarik’s spine. “She what?”

“She is gone, my lord!”

Alarik was unprepared for the jolt that ran through his gut at the declaration. “What do you mean gone? Where has she gone?” He’d expected to be told the storehouses had been burned, that the church had once again been demolished, but not this.

“Simply that, my lord—gone!” the old priest maintained. “One instant she was in the eldhus working with the women, and the next... well... simple vanished, is all!”

His fury barely restrained, Alarik swung down from Sleipnir’s back, nodding for one of the youngest lads to come forward. He handed the reins to the youth. “When Bjorn and Olav arrive,” he charged the lad, “send them both in at once!” The boy nodded vigorously that he would.

“Oh! My lord!” Vernay called after him again as he stormed into the skali, but Alarik continued as though he’d not heard. Still Vernay followed, for though he’d feared Alarik’s wrath, as had the rest, his rational calm reassured. “My lord!” he called again. “I very nearly forgot!” He raced after Alarik. “I thought it important to recount that the pup... Mischief was found—”

Alarik turned, and the expression on his face choked the remaining words from Vernay’s throat. For the longest instant Vernay could not speak, paralyzed by the barely leashed violence that emanated from the jarl’s steely gray eyes, nevertheless it was the jarl’s other emotion unveiled that wrested the words from his mouth.

Alarik threw his shoulders back stalwartly, defying the pain in his heart that the monk had perceived. Still, his voice was hoarse when he spoke. “Where...” Despite himself, his voice faltered. “Where was the dog found?”

“Betwixt here and the kirken, my lord. Mayhap that is where the demoiselle was bound?”

Awareness came slowly, painfully.

The smell of earth—and of something else vile—accosted Elienor’s senses. She rolled, wincing against the sharp pain that burst through her head. Her poor, poor head... Her lips met damp soil, and she sputtered at once, swiping her mouth in disgust. Sweet Jesu! It tasted of spoils!

Her eyes flew wide in the darkness—where was she? She groaned as bits of memory besieged her: Hrolf standing in the portal, Hrolf striking her with the hilt of his sword.

“Nay,” she murmured in agony.

Not again? Bones of the saints, but she should have remained in the priory. How many times must she endure this? If she wasn’t so afeared to draw her captor’s attention, she might have laughed hysterically over the absurdness of it all.

And her mouth, it was so dry… She tried to swallow and couldn’t, tried to moisten her lips and couldn’t. Her mouth felt as though it had been filled with thick, furry wool. Closing her eyes she struggled to think through the haze of pain.

Where was she?

Lifting her head slightly—her neck was so stiff—she reexamined her cell. It was nearly too dark to see anything at all, but by a flickering light somewhere up above she finally made out the dirt walls... dirt floor...

Her heartbeat quickened, and she swallowed—never mind that there was naught to swallow—and tried to stifle the deafening hysteria in her mind. God in heaven above, have mercy!

Nay! she told herself. She would be fine... she would be fine... if only she remained calm... she would be fine...

Shuddering with fear, she scooted backward, propping herself semi-upright, her breath coming in short pants.

Sweet Jesu, it seemed as though she were lying within her own grave!

But it was not her grave, she reassured herself. Closing her eyes, she opened them again slowly. It was a cell, a simple cell—a barbarous and torturous cell, but a cell nonetheless. The oversmall pit was dug into the floor of a larger chamber, and was barely high enough to allow a soul to sit upright. Certainly, she could not even attempt to stand. From the upper chamber could be heard voices, faint but increasingly louder. One of those Elienor recognized at once and her heart pummeled faster as it grew closer.

Within seconds, Hrolf’s repulsive face peered down through the thick bars. He grinned, a grin that sent a shuddering down her spine. “Well, now... you didn’t believe I’d forget you?” he asked her, his grin widening at the terror in her expression.

Another face appeared, peering down over Hrolf’s shoulder, this one older, more weathered, though less harsh. Still, the ice-blue eyes spewed as much hatred as those of Hrolf’s. “You’ve a soft head,” the man muttered, cracking a smile. “Thought you might never waken.”

Elienor wished she hadn’t.

“Witch! If I’d known she’d fare so well,” Hrolf lamented, “I’d have struck her harder!” He spat down at her. His saliva pelted her face and Elienor cried out, swiping it away. “I should have cracked your skull wider upon the Goldenhawk, when first I had occasion!”

“P-Please,” Elienor appealed, battling hysteria and tears. She reached up to seize the wooden bars in sheer desperation, appealing to the man at Hrolf’s back. “Please, please, hold me elsewhere... I...”

Hrolf smashed her fingers and she cried out in pain, wresting them from beneath his boot.

Silent tears coursed down her cheeks.

The man laughed, clapping Hrolf upon the back. “I’ve no more use for the darkling,” he said arrogantly. “Mine tastes run fairer than she. Do with her now what you will, Red. For certain... you two seem to have unfinished matter at hand.”

Hrolf tossed a look behind him, grunting in agreement, and then he turned to glare down into the pit. He waited for the man’s footsteps to recede completely before he whispered, “Indeed we do... indeed we do... for you shall gain me back mine honor, witch! Mayhap Ejnar wishes nothing more than to eliminate his daughter’s rival, but I shall not be appeased until you give me Trygvi’s bastard son into the palm of mine hand!”

Crippling fear swept over Elienor, though this time not for herself. Unbidden, the image of Alarik leaping into the churning sea from the Goldenhawk, the gleaming axe blade hurling through the air at his back, assailed her. In that moment, she knew how very hopelessly she loved him. “H-He won’t come,” she whispered miserably. Averting her gaze, she prayed with all her heart that it was the truth. But even as she prayed... she knew... whether he came for her, or nay...

The dream would come true.

Someone would die.

“Ya,” Hrolf said. “He will... for you’ve bewitched the fool—though I know not how! He will come... and when he does... mine blade will find his back!” His chuckle was malicious. “Mark mine words for true, you black-haired witch! And when he’s dealt with, I shall then deal with you,” he promised darkly.

Witch.

Elienor’s heart wrenched, for Hrolf was closer to the truth than he realized. Her own people had named her so and then had cast her aside for it. Even so, she’d been fortunate it was all they had done after her mother’s fate. Sweet God above... her mother... her poor mother had been valiant enough to speak her mind, at least. And she, Elienor, daughter of her womb, was born and would die naught more than a coward. Her eyes closed with her misery.

How could she not have warned Alarik?

In that moment, she thought of Alva and Vernay, and all who would suffer without him, and wondered how she could be so selfish. She wanted to weep. Wanted to scream. Wanted to die. She sat numbly, hot tears slipping past her lashes. When finally she opened her eyes and glanced upward again, Hrolf had gone.

Chapter 31

After days of relentless searching there was still no sign of Ejnar’s camp—despite the fact that Alarik had searched hill and vale for it. He knew without a doubt it was they who held Elienor, for within the kirken they’d discovered Hrolf’s dagger violently skewered through the fine gold brooch Alva had sworn she’d given Elienor only moments before Elienor’s disappearance. The infamous dagger had been driven into the brooch’s center with such force that it had disfigured and severed the delicate filigreed ornamentation adorning the jewel. Within plain sight, the brooch had been pegged upon the newly hung door, an arrogant missive to Alarik, for by it Hrolf declared that he cared not who knew of his perfidy.

Yet, his wordless declaration seemed not to match his deeds, for the man was becoming a master of evasion, secreting himself more adeptly than an adder in the woods and striking just as venomously and swiftly. Since Elienor’s disappearance they’d discovered evidence of sacrifices within the nearby groves—a message to Olav no doubt, and likely to Alarik as well.

It aided them not at all in their search that the people seemed to be growing discontent with Olav as their king. In truth, Alarik was even beginning to suspect that Olav had remained with him throughout the winter for his own protection, for Alarik’s own people were proving more loyal than his. And it struck Alarik as ill-boding that the steadings they’d inquired at were so reluctant to aid them in their quest to find Elienor. Nevertheless, most had complied, if reluctantly so, and still Ejnar and Hrolf eluded them. It was for that reason he’d determined to employ their last recourse.

Bjorn.

His sigh was deep and pensive as he regarded both his brothers at table with him, for he was well aware that Bjorn had found Ejnar easily enough when he’d sought him out the first time.

Mayhap now, with a little manipulation on his own part, the misled fool could draw the Dane out for him.

All else had failed.

The thought of his brother forsaking him sat like acid in his gut, yet even as he hoped his youngest brother would remain steadfast in this... he prayed Bjorn would conspire to betray him...

One final time.

He wanted Elienor returned to him that desperately.

Loki take him, he no longer cared that it might seem a weakness in him. He was damned weary of being strong. He was weary, period. Too long he’d gone without sleep, or bath, or leisure. By Hella’s curse, if it meant the return of Elienor... let him be weak. If it meant losing everything... let him fall. He wanted nothing at all... if he could not have her.

And so it was he proceeded with the discourse he and Olav had intended for Bjorn to overhear. Leaning forward, he raked tense fingers over the stubble of his golden beard, and giving Bjorn a covert sideways glance, he turned to Olav and said a mite too loudly, “I’ve considered your proposal, mine bror...”

Behind him Bjorn fell silent, concluding the conversation he carried on with Sigurd. Alarik resisted the temptation to turn and be certain he was listening.

Perceiving the cause for Alarik’s pause, Olav nodded discreetly for him to continue. “And?”

“I believe I shall join you in your quest to retrieve Tyri’s lands from Burislav, after all.”

“What?” Olav exclaimed, taking an irritated tone as planned. It would serve them both well if Bjorn believed they’d quarreled over this. “And spare one instant in your search for the Fransk in order that you might aid your own flesh and blood? To what do I owe this honor, at last?”

“Spare me Olav!” Alarik snapped, his eyes reverting to Elienor’s ring that still encircled Olav’s neck. No matter that he tried, he could not ignore the accursed thing. “I’ll agree on one condition...”

The silence behind them thickened; even Sigurd stopped speaking to listen.

The clash of Olav’s brows told Alarik that Olav sensed his anger was more than feigned. “And that is…”

Alarik shuttered his expression, his soul too chaotic to be glimpsed even by Olav. “That you procure for me from Burislav the Pole at least ten well-manned vessels so that I might launch mine own attack upon the Dane... and with him Hrolf Kaetilson. I’ll not rest until my blade does as well… in his treacherous heart.” He sighed wearily. “For now it seems we’ve exhausted every other avenue,” he continued truthfully. “But I intend to find them eventually... and when I do I want good men at my back.”

Olav’s gaze followed Alarik’s to the ring about his own neck, and his brow flinched in consideration. “And what of me and mine?” he asked abruptly, puzzled by Alarik’s unexpected show of vehemence toward him. It seemed of late, he’d spied that look once too oft. “Will you want us at your back, as well?”

Alarik waited a moment before replying, weighing his words. Somehow, the conversation had digressed from that which they’d rehearsed. When he spoke again his tone was more resigned than angry. “Seems to me, mine bror... you have your own battle to fight. You have no time for mine.” Their gazes locked. In the silence of the moment, Alarik swallowed his resentment, for no matter how infuriated he was with Olav... Olav was his brother... and more than that... he was his king. “Nevertheless,” he began, when Olav failed to be soothed, “if you would care to make mine battle your own... then I will always... always welcome you at my back.” He nodded. “As I, in faith, hope you would have me at yours?”

Olav returned the nod, satisfied. “Very well, then... if ’tis possible... I shall procure those men of the Pole for you... and then I shall add to them mine own. I would be there to see you skewer that red-haired heathen!” There was a lapse in conversation abruptly, a silence that was endless, for it seemed every man within the skali was intent on their conversation. “Shall we leave, let us say... within the fortnight?”

Alarik nodded. “Within the fortnight,” he agreed, and it was then he sensed more than heard Bjorn rising from table. Again, he didn’t bother to look to be certain. Somehow, he knew. Pain knifed through him. Closing his eyes, he listened as Bjorn gave his excuses. He felt his brother brush by his shoulder, and opened his eyes, his gaze remaining upon Bjorn as he passed by him and made his way through the skali, looking more light-hearted than he had in weeks. A muscle ticked at his jaw, for on the way out, Bjorn stopped briefly to banter with Ivar Longbeard—nothing significant, the two merely shared a snicker—in truth, it was as though Bjorn had suddenly been given a new fate...

And mayhap he had.

Mayhap this day they all had.

“Think you he took the bait?” Olav had bent to whisper the question at his ear.

Alarik watched a moment longer, until Bjorn departed at last, and then his gaze returned to the ring Olav wore. He said quietly, enigmatically, without emotion, “I feel the blade twisting already.”

“Good, then... mayhap you will reclaim the Fransk before long.”

“Mayhap,” Alarik concurred.

“Alarik?”

Alarik met Olav’s gaze at last. He nodded sullenly.

“It seemed to me that for an instant... for the slightest instant... there was sincerity in your anger. Is there aught you would speak to me of?”

Alarik considered briefly asking of the ring, but knew he would not. He could not quite bring himself to disclose his weakness for Elienor to such a length. Suffice it that everyone assumed he liked not being thwarted, that he liked not being deprived of that which he owned. Why should any know of the bleakness that had settled into his soul and heart?—verily, even into his bones!

Still, there was something that concerned him just as deeply. “Olav... mine, brother...” He swallowed, for it was doubtless the most difficult thing he’d ever said to his brother. “I know you say you have a passion for this faith... that for the love of it you would die... but can you not love it somewhat less... and practice it more?”

Olav’s visage twisted suddenly with outrage. “What say you, Alarik? Do you denounce mine faith?” he raged, his face mottling.

Alarik’s expression did not so much as change. “Nei, Olav. But if I were to... would you then treat me with the same heavy hand you lend to others when they do not fall to your demands?”

Olav’s face reddened. “I’ll not answer such an impudent question!”

Alarik shook his head. “You cannot sway the people through force.” His eyes fixed upon his brother, unyielding. “Can you not take a single backward step?”

“And you! Can you so easily discard the wench?”

Silence.

“Never,” Alarik replied, his eyes sharp as daggers. “Never.” And it was God’s truth, for even if Bjorn failed to flush Ejnar and Hrolf out of hiding, he’d not stop searching until his dying breath.

“Trygvi’s bastard will not find you, lest I will it!” Hrolf taunted, having overheard Elienor’s prayers.

Filthy and reeking from the prison pit she’d been cast into, Elienor struggled to keep her dignity. She’d not deign to reply, she told herself, for every time she did, Hrolf committed some atrocious act upon her person such as spitting down at her through the bars. The man was vile! Jesu, but it felt as though she’d been imprisoned for years. Hell had nothing new in store for her after this!

The hours passed slowly by. There was naught for her to do but sit and listen to the grating sound of Hrolf’s voice. Her legs and backside ached from inactivity. But at least they fed her well enough—small consolation though it was.

“Olav, the fool... he’s turned every man against him with his oppression and his threats!” Hrolf declared. “For truth, there is no one who would betray us to him now—none that I know of. Though there are some who would betray him,” he said cryptically, and then snickered. “As you shall soon see…”

Still Elienor refused to respond. Instead she listened, for in the last days she’d gleaned much information from Hrolf in just such a manner. Braggart that he was, Hrolf seemed pleased to goad her night and day, and through his prattling she’d managed to discover that her pit graced the hall of an old abandoned steading located on an isle in the middle of a marsh—thus accounting for the sour smelling soil.

“Even those who might have followed the Christian faith will not now because Olav will not suffer them to choose of their own will. He shovels his own grave, I tell you, and he’ll pull his bastard brother down with him when he plunges down into it. Alarik, the fool, is simply too loyal for his own good... and you, witch, will insure me his ruin… and then shall you watch as I shovel putrid soil over both!”

Elienor covered her ears and prayed for strength, forcing herself to ignore Hrolf’s mockery of Alarik and his horrifying prophecy. Dear God, she prayed, bear me through this...

Even through her hands, she heard the rise of voices and uncovered her ears, trying to make them out.

“Your God will not aid you!” Hrolf scoffed, snickering nastily.

A quiver raced down Elienor’s spine at the all too familiar declaration. Her heart pounded frantically as the muffled voices grew in clarity, finally catching Hrolf’s notice, as well. He quieted, pivoting to face the men that entered, and then howled wildly with glee. Walking out of her sight to greet the newcomers, he laughed again and declared, “At last... at last! But then I knew you’d come!”

“Dispense with the crowing, Hrolf!”

Elienor cried out softly, recognizing the voice.

‘The information I bring comes with a price...”

A long silence.

“What price?” Ejnar’s gruff voice asked.

There was another pause and then Bjorn declared, “Your daughter, Ejnar... your daughter and land of mine own if you should depose him...

Ejnar guffawed. “Bastard!” he said, without animosity. “You’ll bed her yet, will you not? Persistent... bold... I like that... very well, Bjorn, Erik’s son. If the information you’ve borne me today proves worthy, I shall indeed grant you my daughter at long last! What say you to that?”

Elienor heard a grunt and ensuing sigh, and imagined Bjorn relieved.

Was this the betrayal she’d dreamed of?

“If she’ll have you,” Ejnar added.

“She’ll have me!” Bjorn avowed.

Ejnar laughed once more. “’Tis baffling is it not... that a man’s weakness should eternally lie betwixt the legs of a woman? Some day, I warrant, the crafty bitches shall rule all the lands!” And with that declaration, all three roared with laughter. “Come,” Ejnar charged. “Let us hear what you have to say.” And with that, they moved out of hearing distance.

When Hrolf swaggered into view moments later, his eyes were alight with unholy mirth. Snickering, he bent, unlocked the grate excitedly, and swung the cell door wide. “Come out, come out!” he beckoned ominously. “’Tis time at last!” And with that, an anticipatory grin split his red beard and face.

And in that instant, a dark foreboding swept over Elienor, a presentiment more sinister than any she’d ever known.

The time had come, she knew, and the realization chilled her to the bone.

Chapter 32

Alarik was beginning to wonder that mayhap he’d been mistaken.

They’d made the journey to Vendland to meet with Burislav the Pole entirely without incident, and now upon their return there was yet no sign of Ejnar, or Hrolf. His gut twisted with the thought, for it had been weeks now since he’d seen Elienor.

For the first time he considered that he might not see her again.

Nei, but he would find her, by God! If it took the remainder of his days, he would find her.

Altogether they sailed with nearly seventy-one vessels in their entourage, and men enough to crush the life from any army Ejnar could amass upon his own.

And crush him they would.

If they could find him.

Along with sixty of their own well-manned warships, they’d managed to recruit another eleven of the Jomsborg Viking’s. Still, something beleaguered him now...

Something...

Above them, the sun shone bright as the Goldenhawk glided over the waves, its proud hawk’s head soaring majestically before them, but the breeze swept dark clouds directly into their path. The threat of a storm gave rise again to his feeling of foreboding.

About them the air was calm.

Too calm...

Instinct told him something was amiss, and he hadn’t lived so many years by disregarding his intuition.

The gut feeling had begun when first their departure from Vendland had been delayed, but he’d attributed his unease to his agitation over recovering Elienor. Now he found cause to wonder whether it had been a planned conspiracy. Scanning the waters ahead, he spied their escort, the Jomsvikings—they’d granted their ships much too easily, he thought, and his sense of unease intensified.

And now that he considered it... Burislav, too, had handed over the lands Olav had requested much too promptly... with nary a protest...

An hour past, the lead Jomsviking ship had bid them follow, saying that they knew well the safest route through the island sounds... that the water was too shallow in places for the Longserpent and the Goldenhawk to pass through. At the time it had sounded reasonable enough... though now...

His hand went to the hilt of his sword as he inspected Svolth’s chalky coastline rising in the distance. It appeared forsaken and deserted, but something wasn’t right.

Something...

And then he spied them and cursed roundly.

In that instant, the clouds moved over them and the skies darkened forbiddingly as he motioned across the frothy waters to Olav upon the Longserpent.

Before he could speak, from another ship, the Shortserpent, came an anxious shout. “My king! Do you see them?”

An undeterminable number of ships made their way swiftly forward, coming like hungry rats from behind their refuge. Even as they advanced, the Jomsviking ships fell back from their midst.

“Betrayed!” Alarik roared to Olav. “We are betrayed! Lower the sails!” he commanded his men at the top of his lungs. “Secure the ships!”

“But there are so many!” someone bellowed from upon the Crane.

Olav’s gaze snapped about. “Let not my men think of fleeing!” he warned. “Never have I fled in battle! May God reclaim my soul, but we’ll not flee now!” He pivoted to Alarik. “Know you who commands the fleet that sails against us?”

Alarik squinted as the sun burst through the clouds once more, its brightness blinding. He shook his head, turning to Olav, his hand shielding his eyes. “It appears to be Svein Forkbeard with his Danes!”

“Humph! We should have no fear from that quarter! There is no courage in those Danes! Who else dares challenge us this day?”

“The Swedes!” Sigurd bellowed with contempt at Alarik’s back.

“Hah!” Olav scoffed. “Better it would have been for them to stay home and lap their sacrificial bowls than to attack the Longserpent and encounter our weapons!”

“My lord!” someone interjected from upon the Longserpent. “Haconson the jarl sails beside them, as well!”

Olav, his visage dark, turned to regard the man who’d spoken, and then focused once again on the approaching ships. “Now there,” he remarked, brooding suddenly, “we would be wise to keep our guard!” He turned to Alarik, shouting across the water. “Very likely he considers he has a bone to pick with us. We might expect a smart fight with that force. They are as Norse as we!”

Alarik tipped his head, his gaze returning to the approaching bulwark of ships. He’d known Olav would turn people against him with his heavy hand, but he’d never have guessed so many.

They were far outnumbered.

With his foot propped imposingly upon his prow, he shouted brisk commands to his warriors, urging them to make ready their weapons. Men scurried about, lashing ships together, readying themselves for a battle at sea. Alarik merely stood scrutinizing the approaching ships... searching... searching... and then he saw them... Ejnar’s twin skeids, vessels made on specially fine lines and thereby swifter than most other ships, and his gut twisted. A shuddering coursed through him as he gazed at the twin set of striped sails. It was not fright that caused it, for he had no fear of dying should it be his destiny. It was every man’s fate to die someday... rather it was the thought of dying without telling Elienor what was in his heart.

He didn’t want to die without seeing her once more, didn’t want to live without her, and the realization struck him like lightning and thunder... not only did he love her...

He needed her.

The glitter of Olav’s armor caught his eye suddenly as he glanced toward the Longserpent. As Olav had, most of the men had worn their full armor for this treacherous sea voyage, but Olav’s mail was made of a new and thicker weight. No mere arrow could pierce it. A most peculiar presentiment came over him as he watched Olav riding his dragon prow, his magnificent gold helm shining in the sun and his gilded shield and sword held ready in his grasp. Alarik was driven to call out to his kin across the churning water.

Olav turned to face him.

“Take care, mine brother,” Alarik charged.

The smile Olav returned was arrogant. “Nei, mine bror, ’tis you who needs must take care!” His eyes sparkled mischievously, and then suddenly there was no more time for talk.

As the legion of drakken approached, arrows flew—some ignited—and fell like lethal rain from the darkened sky.

Within another moment drakken prows collided fiercely. Grappling hooks were hurled both ways, securing the enemy ships to their own, allowing men easy passage from ship to ship.

The whoosh of arrows was a merciless roar in Elienor’s ears. She’d been bound hastily with ropes to the mast. And still Hrolf taunted her.

“I cannot wait to see the bastard’s face when he spies you!” he told her. Reaching high, he ignited the sailcloth above her with the lighted pitch torch he held in his fist. The billowing fabric caught at once, and the flame licked swiftly upward with the sweeping breeze. He laughed hideously. “Now to seek out the bastard!” he informed her, snickering. “And I shall cleave him in two with mine blade as he watches you burn!” He sniggered malevolently. “Tell, me, Fransk witch... will you watch each other die? How poetic an end!” He laughed again. “Tis one for the skalds, I’ll warrant!” And with that he left her, leaping over the gunwale, onto the nearest vessel, forsaking her to the flames.

Elienor watched him make his way from ship to ship, knowing it would be futile to scream out a warning. Over the clamor of war nothing could be heard. And with so many ships surrounding them, she had no inkling where Alarik might be. She could only pray... and continue to manipulate the ropes, for she’d managed to loosen them already...

Jesu—she had to free herself.

This was her nightmare come true!

She had to save him.

Furiously, she worked at the ropes, bruising and chafing her tender wrists with her efforts. But she didn’t care.

She had to warn him!

Or die trying.

When the first ship collided with the Goldenhawk, Alarik knew not to give his opponent time enough to board. In a battle at sea it was common practice to board a vessel, clear it, then take it for one’s own. He took the offensive, and with a fierce battle cry that sent shivers down the spines of many, he leapt aboard the smaller vessel, keeping his eyes upon the striped sails of Ejnar’s skeids that were his destination. When before his eyes one of the ship’s sails caught flame, erupting with the wind, reason fled him entirely. He fought feverishly, with the insanity attributed to the berserkers, whose legendary lust for killing drove them into veritable madness in the heat of battle.

By God, he’d not let either Hrolf or Ejnar perish—not before he was able to discover Elienor’s whereabouts!

And if by chance they’d harmed her... he’d rip the entrails from whomever was directly responsible and feed them to both Ejnar and Hrolf!

Faced with his fury, the first two men to confront him were felled at once. The third, the black-haired leader of the vessel, swung an axe at his head. Alarik dodged it, parrying with his sword. Like thunder, metal clashed against metal, and the mighty force of Alarik’s blow hurled the man backward against the gunwale, his spine cracking with the impact.

Yet another Dane rushed at him.

Alarik moved toward the man with deadly purpose. Dragvendil sliced swiftly to wrest the life from him—there was no mercy to be shown, for if he did so, he’d not survive the day. With a muttered curse, Alarik shook the man free of his weapon, feeling no satisfaction as the Dane tumbled back over the gunwale into the ocean to swim with the beasts of the sea.

By God, he’d not be satisfied until every last Dane and Swede that had sailed against them this day was slain!

Nor would he rest until Elienor was again in his arms and Hrolf’s blood blackened his sword!

Chapter 33

With the last vessel cleared, Alarik made his way one ship closer to his destination. Behind him, blood ran in rivulets. The fighting had been so intense, his mind so centered upon Elienor, that he was completely unaware of the moment the tide turned against them.

At long last, he was near enough to leap the distance unto Ejnar’s burning skeid, but he froze abruptly. At the shock of seeing her, his chest felt as though it would rend in two.

He watched, paralyzed, as Elienor, bound to the burning mast, struggled to free herself. Her violet eyes pleaded with him across the distance. His gut twisted, and for the longest instant, he could not move.

And then he made his way toward her once more.

Though Elienor shouted, Alarik seemed not to hear her. He fought his way toward her, leaping gunwales as though they were nonexistent. She shook her head frantically. “Nay!” she screamed. “Nay!”

With a terrible crack a ship collided against Ejnar’s skeid. Jolted by the impact, Elienor screamed.

Spying Olav clinging to the serpent head upon its prow, her chest constricted painfully. No time—dear God, no time! Even as she burst into hopeless tears, she wriggled one hand free of its bindings, and without a moment to spare, she began at once to release the other.

As she worked the loops, the vision before her transformed to the smoky scene of her nightmares—it was smoke, not mist, she realized with mounting fear.

Fire raged about her.

More horrible a death she could not imagine! Even after having spent so long confined within what amounted to no more than an open grave, Elienor could no longer feel afeared of that particular nightmare any longer. In the last month she’d faced every horror possible... or so she’d thought.

Her chest constricted as sheer panic assailed her.

Aboard the Longserpent, Olav fought savagely. As Elienor watched with bated breath, arrows converged upon his ship. At once his men scattered for the gunwales, shouting and leaping over them into the sea.

As her gaze was drawn again to Alarik, her binding fell free. Her heart twisting, she broke away, screaming that Alarik go, that he leave her and save himself. Desperately, she tried to find a path through the flames, but could not, and she screamed again as arrows and spears flew past her head.

Alarik watched, his mind refusing to accept what his eyes beheld. Even in peril as she was, Elienor screamed, fearing for him, shouting that he leave her.

All about her, Ejnar’s ship was ablaze, burning with Elienor trapped upon it. He’d never reach her in time, nor did she seem to want him to. Helpless to do aught, he watched as the mast splintered and groaned, collapsing sideways upon the Longserpent beside it.

Damn her, he cared not what she wanted.

He’d be damned if he’d simply let her die!

Flames burst and scattered.

In the confusion more men clamored over the Longserpent’s gunwales. Olav himself scaled to the highest point of his dragon prow, shouting at the top of his lungs.

Torn between wanting to aid him and to save Elienor, Alarik chose Elienor, knowing that his brother could hold his own well enough. Elienor could not. It was up to him to help her or watch her be consumed before his very eyes. The fire was spreading too rapidly. He only hoped Olav would last until he was able to return to aid him. Yet even as he made the decision to leap the distance to Ejnar’s skeid, his blood turned cold.

As he watched, Olav raised his shield unto the heavens. “I surrender this battle to you, filthy Danes, for ’tis all but lost to me now!”

Alarik could not believe his ears. Confusion and outrage erupted within him. “Nei, Olav! Nei!” he shouted furiously. In his mind, his brother was taking the coward’s way out “Nei!” he bellowed.

Olav spared him not a glance. His mind set, he continued at the top of his lungs, “I stand, as God is my witness, at no man’s mercy, but at God’s instead! Thus I curse your heathen souls! May you rot in hell!”

Having said that, he finally turned to smile ruefully at Alarik, letting loose his grip upon the dragon head.

As in slow motion, Olav plummeted into the sea, feet first, sheltering his head with his shield to escape the arrows that flew at him.

An explosion of bubbles burst from beneath the shield as he sank and then the shield shifted and slid into the murky water as his mail carried him downward. His crimson mantle snagged free. It billowed on top of the water, a grim, silent marker.

Her heart twisting, Elienor watched as Alarik cast down his precious sword. She knew an instant of inconceivable panic as he peeled off his mail, flinging it wrathfully down upon the deck. He glared down into the water where Olav had vanished mere seconds before, and then, letting out an angry roar, turned to face her once more, his eyes locking with hers across the flames, his chest heaving in fury. Elienor could see, even at this distance, the blinding emotion burning within him.

In the next instant, he was running, leaping, hurtling over the churning water toward her.

Just as in her dream.

And in that instant, she heard the unholy laughter, and her eyes followed the sound. As in her dream, she found Hrolf upon yet another ship, with his hand poised in midair. Time stood still as his arm reared backward, then forward, the handle cocked in his tight grasp, the axe aimed...

Directly at Alarik.

In the same instant she saw Hrolf heave the weapon through the air, she watched as another blade was embedded within Hrolf’s back. Sigurd. Elienor could discern the look of thwarted surprise on Hrolf’s face even as he toppled forward into the churning water.

Yet there was no time to feel vindicated, nor even relieved.

God help her, but she knew what she must do. She took a fortifying breath and propelled herself through the flames, screaming, running, and like Alarik, she hurled herself through the air, her skirt ablaze, trying to deflect the blow of the axe from him.

In the instant before they collided in midair, she saw Alarik’s look of stunned surprise, and then they collided, their bodies twisting together violently.

With a hoarse shout, Alarik attempted to catch Elienor to him, failing. In the next instant, an axe handle came from nowhere, striking her aside the head. With a soft gasp of pain, she closed her eyes.

And then they were both within the water.

Saltwater stung his eyes, but he kept them wide, desperate to locate her... her kyrtle... her hair... anything... anything to seize hold of.

The water was bloody.

He twisted wildly within the water, bubbles exploding all about, blinding his vision. His weight carried him down... down, until at last he caught sight, not of Elienor’s, but of Olav’s billowing red-gold hair. Instinctively, he seized a handful and propelled himself back toward the surface to recover Elienor.

Olav had been holding his breath, trying in vain against the weight of his mail to resurface. His lungs near to bursting he clawed at his brynie with a frenzy born of panic.

Alarik, his lungs beginning to ache as well, fought desperately to regain the surface. Saltwater stung his eyes, and he closed them a mere instant to ward away the burn, then reopened them to find Olav kicking him away.

Alarik shook his head, angrily denying the unspoken command, and again tried to resurface, clutching Olav’s hair tight within his fist.

It was then that he caught sight of Elienor above him, her tattered sapphire silk gown blending with the sea itself. Light as she was, she drifted down past him, her body lifeless, and in a sudden panic, Alarik reached out to seize her, releasing Olav momentarily to snatch her about the waist, and then he drove again to regain hold of his brother. Grasping blindly, his fingers secured a hold on the gleaming ring that bobbed around Olav’s neck.

Alarik tried in vain, once more to resurface, in one hand holding the brother he’d served so long—in his other, the woman he loved. God, how he loved her!

He needed them both.

And by God, he’d save them both!

Resigned to his fate, Olav shook his head furiously, waving Alarik away in desperation, urging him to save himself and Elienor while he could.

Alarik’s lungs pained him beyond anything he’d ever known, but he dared not give in, nor even loosen his grip upon the mortal weight he clutched.

He peered up wretchedly at the fire fading halo of light. It grew more distant with each passing second. How could he simply let go? How could he choose to release his brother—his blood?

Yet in his arms Elienor remained lifeless and he knew he must decide.

With no hands to swim with, and only his feet to propel himself he sank down further still, until he faced Olav in the darkening water.

Olav’s cheeks were bloated, his eyes bulging, set in the deepest scowl Alarik had ever beheld. He struggled against Alarik’s hold. “Go!” he exploded, and the command erupted with a profusion of angry bubbles. By the time the single life-ending word reached Alarik, it sounded no more than a faint rumbling to his ears. Below him, Olav thrashed wildly as he took the burning saltwater into his lungs, and with his last coherent gesture, he jerked his body violently.

Through the fist that held the leather cord around Olav’s neck Alarik felt the spasms that coursed through his brother’s body, and then abruptly Olav, too, became limp and grew heavier, carrying him down... further down...

Still Alarik could not release him, but his strength ebbed, and his fingers went numb about the cold metal ring, and there came a final instant when he knew he could delay no longer. If he didn’t release Olav, Elienor would die for certain.

He could choose life, or he could choose death.

But it was not his destiny to choose at all, for just then Olav slipped from the leather neckband that held him imprisoned in Alarik’s grip.

Pain knifed through Alarik’s chest as he felt the sudden weightlessness—yet he could delay no longer.

His breath exploding from his lungs, he struggled toward the faded light above, leaving a trail of urgent bubbles in his wake.

He only hoped he was not too late for Elienor!

By the blood of the White Christ—what if it was too late? His chest burned until it seemed his lungs would burst. Odin help him—God help him—anybody—the light was too far!

He’d sell his soul to any God to reach it.

He’d take Elienor home, to her uncle, if she wished... if only...

Too far!

His vision faded black momentarily, and then, when it seemed he could hold no longer, he broke through the spume and was breathing once more, gasping for life-saving air.

He’d held Elienor so tightly that even had she come to and been able to take a breath, it wouldn’t have reached her lungs, and he let out a guttural cry as with the last of his strength he hoisted her up into the air.

Vaguely, he was aware she didn’t come back down—and then hands reached down mercifully, seizing him, dragging him from the sea, Elienor’s ring held in a death-grip within his fist.

The impact to her belly as Elienor was hoisted up and down against the ship’s gunwale drove the water from her lungs. She coughed, spewing saltwater. Gasping and choking, she struggled for breath. For the briefest instant, she opened her eyes, saw him not, and cried his name before succumbing again to the blackness that waited to claim her.

Chapter 34

With everyone so preoccupied over defeating Olav, they had somehow managed to escape the battle without notice. Fools! For mere hours now the battle had been ended and already there were rumors bandied about that Olav had been spied making away in one of the Jomsviking’s ships.

Alarik knew better.

They’d come straightaway to the steading. For his part, he’d never felt emptier than he did at this moment. And the Gods curse him! He’d never loathed himself more.

Elienor had yet to waken, and for that too he could only blame himself. His chest heaved with emotions he could not express.

If only he’d left her in Francia.

He’d had no right to her then—nor did he have a right to her now.

God—she’d risked her life for him! He could still see the image of her bursting through the flames at him, and the vision would haunt him every last day of his life. She’d taken the blow meant for him, he realized. Had she not leapt at him, shunting his course, twisting his body with the impact of her own, so that it had struck her instead, that axe would have embedded itself between his shoulder blades.

And he would have lain eternally in those icy waters with Olav.

His eyes stinging, he made his way into the dark but familiar skali with Elienor’s unconscious, battered body draped across his weary arms. Alva led the way before him with torch in hand. Sigurd and then Brother Vernay followed solemnly, along with Nissa, her face grave and distressed. Within his chamber he laid her gently down upon his bed, and then turned to Nissa, feeling an anger toward her he could not define. All he could think in that moment was that she’d been the last to see Elienor before her abduction. “Leave us!” he commanded, his voice hoarse.

Nodding anxiously, Nissa fled the chamber.

Elienor lay so quietly and unmoving upon his bed, as pale as death itself, that Alarik’s gut twisted violently at the sight of her.

“For what it’s worth, jarl,” Sigurd proffered, “I have faith she’ll heal.” Alarik peered up at him, his dark eyes glittering. “You know how many broken bodies I’ve tended after battle. Her flesh has not the taint of death about it.” He nodded hearteningly, and seeing the longing in his jarl’s eyes, hoped it was so.

Alva shook her head. “’Tis the truth he tells you,” she added, though with somewhat less certainty.

Alarik’s jaw tightened. Closing his eyes, he shut out the raging emotions that battled within him. He could little bear the thought of losing her now—now that he finally knew the depth of his love for her.

Aye, love, he cursed himself! Fool that he was, he had refused to see it! He’d not lose her now, by God!

Not before he was given the opportunity to make it up to her. He would give her her heart’s desire... send her back to Francia if it was her wish—anything she requested of him.

Anything!

If only she would come back.

Looking into her slumbering face, Alarik felt the moisture well in his eyes. He covered his face with his hands, growing angry with this unwanted turn of fate. His massive hands slid down to shadow his quivering mouth as he demanded between clenched teeth, “Is there aught more you could do for her this eve?” His gaze turned from Sigurd to Alva to Vernay. “Any of you?”

Sigurd shook his head, as did Alva and Brother Vernay. “Nay, my lord,” Vernay replied softly, his own eyes watering shamelessly. “Unless she were to... to...”

“Then leave me!” Alarik demanded, refusing to hear the monk out. She would not die. He’d not let her, by God. “Go!” he shouted when they were too slow to comply. He had no wish to disgrace himself further by weeping like a woman before them. Keeping his tone completely devoid of emotion, he added, “And Sigurd...”

Sigurd turned, though Alva and Brother Vernay did not. The two of them hurried away to give privacy.

Alarik’s voice was gruff. He waited until both had left them and then said, “I’d have you take the watch. I’ve no idea what will come of the battle, but for certain I’ll not let any usurp what is mine.”

Sigurd nodded, his expression as sullen as his lord’s, for though Alarik’s words held every trace of their former strength and determination, they lacked the passion. Never before had he beheld him so crestfallen. “Very well, my lord,” he avowed and again turned to go.

“Apprise me the instant you see Bjorn, will you?” Alarik added grimly. “If he dares show his deceiving face.”

“Would you have me tell him aught?” Sigurd asked, turning at the door to look over his shoulder at him.

Alarik shook his head, trying to think coherently, unable to do so. “Tell him...” He shook his head again. “Tell him nothing. Merely send the bastard to me when he comes—if he comes...”

Sigurd nodded, departing at last, closing the heavy door behind him.

Alone, Alarik knelt at the bedside, his eyes closed in anguish.

Elienor had been through all this because of him. Only God knew what she’d endured in the last weeks under Hrolf’s hand. “You shall live!” he demanded arrogantly. “You shall!” His gaze softened, moisture burning at his eyes. He squeezed his lids shut and touched his brow, awkwardly beginning the sign of the cross as he’d seen Brother Vernay do so oft. Odd that he found solace in the ritual when it was done.

After a long moment, he found his voice again, gruff as it was. “I am...” He shook his head in self derision. “A stubborn, arrogant, fool. Too long have I felt the need to be as mine sire... so much so that I’ve done as he did to the last; I’ve denied the love of my heart... as did he... as it was his way to deny all emotions not manly.” His voice faltered. “Christ... fool that I am, I believed him. I believed his way was the true way of men. I was mistaken, Elienor... forgive me.” He laid his head against her breast. “In the name of your God, open your eyes!” he cried hoarsely.

Elienor remained unmoving, and he lifted his face, vaguely aware that a tear, the first he’d ever shed, rolled down his cheek and fell upon her ashen face.

Blinking, he touched the crystalline droplet with a finger, stunned unto death to see it, his heart hammering, unsure what to do next. With a low cry, he swiped it away, and bent to kiss her lips. Taking her head in his big hands, he whispered hoarsely, “Come back to me, Elienor—oh, God, come back to me!”

For the longest time, he merely gazed down at her angelic face, so pale in the dim, flickering light of the single torch. He felt like cursing. He felt like howling. He felt like committing murder. He did none of those. Instead, there, upon his knees, he kept a silent vigil, and cursed Hrolf Kaetilson to a death without a place in his precious Valholl! He’d not been able to avenge himself, for he’d not seen Hrolf again, and he prayed Hrolf had died without a weapon in his traitorous clutches.

Losing track of the hours he spent at Elienor’s side, he thought of everything Elienor had endured at his own hands, at his men’s hands, and knew that never again would he take a man or woman against their will. It was wrong, and looking at her too-still form, the wound on her forehead—his finger gently traced the scar that had completely healed, and then moved into her hair to search out the lump caused by the axe handle. There was no open wound, but it could have killed her—might still kill her. And then there were the burns on her legs, not grave, for they’d plummeted into the water well before her dress could fully ignite, yet still there, a loathsome reminder of all she’d suffered for his indulgence.

Every moment, he prayed for her recovery, but with the light of the new day, it still had not come. In its stead came utter exhaustion. The physical toll of battle and his raw emotions drained him, but he refused to close his eyes.

Nearly asleep upon his knees, he removed his boots and blood-stained shirt, and clad in naught more than his breeches, crawled into the bed beside his beautiful Elienor.

And still he fought exhaustion as he watched her every unconscious gesture. Reaching out, he grasped a lock of her hair, and feeling it between his fingers, he again imagined Olav’s red-gold hair within his fist. Felt again the moment his brother’s body slipped from his grasp to the sea, and a hoarse cry escaped him.

More tears.

But he didn’t care.

He’d lost too much to care.

When Elienor had not roused by the following morn, he felt like shaking her awake. His endurance was near to the breaking point. He felt helpless as a babe simply staring. There had to be something he could do to aid her... something...

With that notion he felt compelled to go to the kirken. Elienor had spent so much time within the small building—mayhap there he would find answers. He didn’t bother changing his clothing. Restless as he was, he left his chamber dressed in naught more than his leather breeches.

The instant he walked out of the skali, Nissa hurried within, toward his chamber.

Alarik didn’t note it. And he didn’t bother with his mount.

Instead he ran the distance, releasing his frustrations in the course of it. Midway there, he let out a tormented cry and fell to his knees, pounding the ground with his fists in outrage.

“Damn you, Olav!” he shouted to the heavens. “Damn me! Damn your obsession with your God!”

Loki take him, not even Svein Forkbeard, who was well on his way to converting the Danemark, employed such harsh persuasion as had Olav! So absorbed was Alarik in his wrath that he did not hear the approaching footfalls.

He did note the shadow that fell over him, and swung about... to face his brother.

Bjorn’s face was pale, his eyes wide. “’Tis true,” he declared, shaking his head as though disbelieving his eyes. “You live?”

“Aye!” Alarik snarled. “Does it gall you, bastard?” He surged to his feet to face him. Anger and disillusionment burned in his dark visage.

If Bjorn had been relieved at seeing Alarik, his relief faded in the flaring of his anger. “Ya!” he exploded. “By Odin! I am bastard—as you’ve so often reminded me!”

Alarik was momentarily stunned by the accusation, for he’d never used the term in reference to Bjorn before. He’d done so this time only in anger.

“You’ve not heard that from my lips,” Alarik denied. His fists clenched at his sides. “If you have been reminded... ’tis by your own self alone, for you will recall that I am bastard, too!”

“Ya? And what ills has your bastardy brought you, mine brother?” Bjorn countered. “You have had everything in life you’ve desired. I!—I am the one who has had naught all my years! Naught!—do you heed? And for once I had opportunity, can you not see that?”

“I see only a sniveling fool,” Alarik broke in, stalking him now. Bjorn retreated slowly. “A fool who has betrayed kin and country alike! A fool, Bjorn, and naught more! Know you what price you have paid for your treachery? Your honor! Kinship! The Northland’s future—not to mention its king!” He stopped before Bjorn, his stance deathly still yet bespeaking the violence in his heart. “And the knowledge that you carry the blood of brothers on your treacherous hands!” Alarik laughed then, but there was little mirth in the sound.

“You live!” Bjorn pointed out, and the declaration sounded more an accusation. “As for Olav—” His brows furrowed, and he shook his head. “Olav was never mine brother!” Bjorn said vehemently. “Only yours!”

“Spoiled whelp!” Alarik lunged at him, his fury too violent to contain any longer. The two wrestled fiercely, until Alarik, exhausted as he was, could exert no more. He fell atop Bjorn, pinning him beneath him with an arm to his neck, his face crimson with anger. “You think he was not, bastard!” he shouted. “You think not? Is that why he defended your filthy heathen hide to the last? Even in the face of mine anger and accusations, even when I condemned you with proof. Aye, Bjorn, Erik’s son, I know well you met with Hrolf, for I spied you with mine own eyes coming out of the grove! Olav defended you even then!” His voice broke.

“Nei, Bjorn, Erik’s son, art mistaken, for Olav was more your brother than ever you allowed. It was always you who kept the distance! You, by God!” Slowly his anger tempered, mellowed by the sight of his only remaining male kin lying gasping for breath beneath him, tempered by sorrow for what might have been and now would never be. “You and no one else,” he ground out miserably. “Think on that when the nights grow long and you lie brooding in your bed—and you will brood, brother, for ’tis your way!” He shook his head, removing his arm from Bjorn’s throat.

“What have you to know of my ways?” Bjorn spat, scrambling out from under him to his feet.

Alarik’s sigh was deep and full of pain as he rose again to face his brother. “More than you know... more than you know... think on my words if you will—” His eyes were melancholy as he turned his back to Bjorn, again making his way to the kirken. “Choke on them, if you would!” he called out after him. “But leave me be—leave Gryting—take Nissa and go. The sight of you sickens me!”

Bjorn stood rooted to the spot. “I wish to stay!” he announced.

Alarik stiffened, turning.

Bjorn sounded as defenseless as the little boy he’d once been, and Alarik found himself remembering wistfully the bragging youth who had followed him so faithfully.

When had it ceased to be so? For the life of him, he couldn’t recall. Bjorn had been a shadow to him all of his days. But no more; he’d managed to sever the ties completely with his betrayal. He’d thought his heart could grow no heavier but it did, yet he found he could not hate one who shared his blood.

Mayhap... mayhap still they could find a way back.

“I... I did not intend it to end as it did,” Bjorn appealed. “I…”

“How else could it have ended, Bjorn?” Alarik shook his head morosely. “I cannot decide this now,” he announced before Bjorn could reply. He didn’t wish to hear bloody excuses—could think only of Elienor. There was nothing left to be done for Olav. “Stay for the time,” he allowed with a weary sigh, and then he turned abruptly, again making his way to the kirken.

Chapter 35

Mercy, she’d done this before, had she not?

Elienor groaned as pain erupted through her head. She rolled and endeavored to open her eyes, but the light was too strong, and she closed them once more.

And sweet Jesu, but her body felt so tender... her legs... it was as though her ribs and chest were bruised. Nevertheless, she welcomed the pain, for it bespoke life—precious life!

Taking in a long draught of air, she knew an instant of serenity she’d never experienced before—despite her soreness, despite her confusion—for she sensed the nightmare was ended at last.

“Elienor,” a voice called softly.

Still disoriented, Elienor’s eyes opened, focusing after an interminable moment upon Nissa’s face hovering just above her own. With a startled gasp, she tried to rise.

Nissa was quick to aid her. “Allow me!” she exclaimed, placing her arms behind Elienor for support. Her expression seemed genuinely troubled, but Elienor could only think that Nissa had been the one to lure her to the kirken. She stiffened at the touch.

“W-where... where is Alarik?” Elienor asked, swallowing for fear that she would hear what she wished not to... that he had perished at sea. If such was the case, her heart would perish along with him.

Nissa released Elienor at once, sensing her mistrust. Her lashes fell. “Only now has he gone from your bedside,” she revealed softly. “He worried much,” she disclosed, her gaze returning to Elienor, and it seemed to Elienor her eyes were filled with worry as well as regret. “Does your head pain you overmuch?”

“A little,” Elienor confessed. Her lips twisted wryly. “Though ’tis a wonder I’ve any head at all with the abuse it has received.”

Nissa smiled uncertainly. She shook her head. “I... I am sorry,” she said again.

“Where has Alarik gone?” Elienor asked quietly.

“I’m certain he’ll return soon,” Nissa announced. “I-I hoped you would hear me before then—I’m so sorry!” she rushed on when Elienor did not at once refuse her. “I meant to cause you no harm. ’Tis simply that mine father... well, he wanted so much that I should wed Alarik. Oh, Elienor—can you forgive me?”

Elienor’s emotions reverted from giddy relief at knowing that Alarik was close by to her former wariness. “Why should you suddenly wish my forgiveness?” she asked skeptically.

Only silence answered her question.

“Nissa?”

“Because I wish to remain at Gryting!” Nissa revealed in desperation. “With mine sister! And... and with Bjorn,” she said more softly, her lashes lowering. “I... I believe I’ve loved him from the first,” she admitted brokenly, and there was a wistful note in her voice. Once again her sky-blue eyes returned to Elienor and they shimmered with unshed tears. “I’ve given myself to him, Elienor... and now I carry his babe. He wants so much that our child be born here as Gryting is his home!”

“And what of your father?” Elienor asked.

Nissa shook her head in sorrow, suppressing a sob. “By our laws... I am free to choose whomever I should wed. ’Tis only that... I wanted so desperately to gain mine father’s favor as well.”

“And now?” Elienor prodded.

“And now... now I know I must follow mine heart. I cannot allow mine babe to be born and never know his sire. Mine father—” Tears pooled at her eyes and spilled over her lashes. “Mine father must understand,” she said sadly, as though she doubted he would.

“And if he will not?”

“Then there will be naught I can do to remedy it. I know only that I must do what I must,” Nissa contended. And then her expression grew anxious. “Y-You’ve not told him?” she asked apprehensively, and then she rushed on. “You’ve not told Alarik that I was the one to lead you to the kirken?” Her voice was fearful, hopeful.

Elienor shook her head.

It seemed to Elienor that Nissa’s expression brightened suddenly. “Will... will you tell him?” she asked hesitantly.

Faced with the optimistic look in Nissa’s eyes, Elienor knew she could not refuse the request. She shook her head. “I’ll not tell him,” she yielded.

Crying out in relief, Nissa buried her face into her hands and wept. Elienor watched a moment, feeling awkward with the unexpected show of emotion, and then reached out to touch Nissa’s arm. Nissa lifted her face, her brows drawing together.

“Why?” she asked in bewilderment. “Why would you not tell him? After all I’ve done to harm you, Elienor?”

Elienor shrugged and shook her head. “For Alarik,” she revealed softly. “Because Bjorn is his brother... for the nephew he might not know otherwise... and because it seems to mean so much to you,” she proffered.

“And to Bjorn!” Nissa assured, her lips quivering. “He wishes so much to make things right betwixt himself and Alarik!”

Elienor nodded. “And where is Alarik now?” she asked once more. “I... I need to see him.” She did, desperately. More than aught else, she needed to behold him with her own eyes, needed proof that he yet lived—that this was not part of some cruel dream, that by some twist of fate, she would awaken and find herself alone. The last she recalled was her flight through the air as she’d hurled herself against him.

“Oh, but Elienor! Do you think you should seek him out so soon? You’ve only just awakened. Mayhap... mayhap it would be best if you waited until he returned.”

“Nay!” Elienor whispered fervently, and it was her turn to be despairing. “Nay, Nissa... I must see him! I must!”

In that instant, a look of profound understanding passed between the two, and Nissa nodded. “Then I shall lead you to him,” she relented, and with a tentative smile, she proceeded at once to help Elienor rise from the bed.

Alarik had slept not at all throughout the night.

Dark shadows rimmed his steely eyes, a silent testimony to his inner turmoil. In his heart there was an emptiness that made him feel more vulnerable then he’d ever thought conceivable—all these years he’d mistakenly assumed love, itself, rendered a man impotent. Now he knew better... it was not love, at all, but fear of loving that was the true weakness, for by it he’d lost everything.

Kneeling at the altar, he thought of Elienor lying so still within his bed and his gut twisted. He’d never done such a thing as pray ere now, for the old gods were not invoked in such a manner. Nevertheless... he felt the need to attempt the strange ritual... for Elienor’s sake...

The door had been left ajar.

During Elienor’s absence, the roof had been re-erected, and the little building was now shadowy within. Still... she could see well enough to make out the figure kneeling before the altar.

With Nissa supporting her, Elienor halted silently in the portal of the kirken. Her heart pounded within her breast at the sight before her. Stunned, she broke free of Nissa and leaned upon the door frame for support. She turned and motioned for Nissa to leave her, and then her gaze was drawn again, like metal to a lodestone, to the curious sight within.

Never had she seen Alarik pray... and though he did so awkwardly, his sincerity was evident in his every gesture. Still, to her surprise, she found it changed nothing. Nothing, at all. She shook her head, bewildered, for in truth she felt the same for him now as she had moments before.

She loved him recklessly.

Alarik sensed the presence well before he heard the footsteps enter the kirken, but didn’t bother to pause, nor did he conceal his prayers. He cared not who spied him now. Mayhap, had he been more convincing, Olav might have changed his tactics. Mayhap he would have softened? And mayhap not, he acknowledged ruefully.

Only when he’d concluded did he turn, his brows drawn together in displeasure, expecting to find either Bjorn or Brother Vernay observing him, and was stunned to find neither. His shadowed eyes widened at the sight that greeted him. Elienor, in all her tattered glory.

His heart quickened.

“Elienor?” he croaked. He surged clumsily to his feet, lack of sleep making his body unwieldy.

For the longest moment neither spoke.

Elienor’s eyes filled with tears. “You are,” she asked, swallowing, “truly here?” She touched her own face, as though to touch his, assuring herself that the moment was real.

“Aye,” he replied hoarsely. His arms ached to hold her, but he dared not move lest she prove to be naught more than an illusion. He was afeared to blink lest she vanish before his eyes. He tried to read her in the dim light but couldn’t; her emotions were hidden to him by the glare of the sun in his eyes. Even as he determined she was real, he stood rooted to the spot, loathing himself for all that had befallen her since taking her from Francia, certain that she despised him for it.

Yet his eyes beckoned her.

Elienor attempted to take a step forward and swayed weakly. She braced herself upon the door frame, and in that moment, Odin himself couldn’t have kept Alarik from her. He moved forward swiftly to claim her, and Elienor’s breath caught as he swept her into his arms. A low cry was torn from his lips as his mouth brushed her brow, her nose, her mouth...

Elienor’s heart skipped its normal beat. Looking up into his dark, smoldering eyes, she could only think how glad she was to be within his arms again—how glad she was to see him alive. She wanted him to hold her this way always...

“Shhhh... don’t cry,” Alarik soothed, his voice husky. “Nei, Elienor...” He placed his forehead to hers, and swore, “I shall make everything aright—everything!” And with that, he withdrew the leather neckband from about his neck and pressed her uncle’s ring into her palm. “’Tis yours,” he revealed grimly. “I...” He swallowed. “I took it from Olav,” he said without censure. The time for petty jealousies was past. Naught mattered now but Elienor’s happiness—not even the accursed reason for which she’d gifted Olav the ring to begin with. He couldn’t care any longer.

Unclasping her palm, Elienor stared in bewilderment at the ring, recalling the moment she’d given it to Olav, and then in succession... Olav’s face as he’d released the serpent prow and descended into the water. “I...” Her voice faltered. “He was to have returned it to my uncle,” she revealed somberly. Her violet eyes lifted to his. “H-he promised he would speak to you... that you might send me back to Francia... to my uncle...” She shook her head and averted her gaze suddenly. Alarik released her, freeing her from his embrace.

Elienor felt the separation acutely.

He lifted her chin with a finger, the shadows in his eyes deepening. His silver eyes pierced her. “And is that still your desire?” he whispered hoarsely. His fingers went to the scar at her temple, tracing the fine line. Though it was long healed now, it was a raw reminder of the suffering she’d endured at his hands.

Elienor said nothing, could not speak, for her heart lodged in her throat. Tears welled in her eyes.

In her silence, Alarik heard what he most feared. The lump in his throat thickened. “Then... I shall grant you your freedom,” he told her grimly, bending to kiss her scar. He’d sworn to do so, he reminded himself, and he would comply—no matter what it cost him.

Tears coursed down Elienor’s cheeks. Life was so unfair! Now, when at last she wished to remain with him, could surrender herself with an open heart and soul, he would discard her so easily? “And will you also restore to me my heart?” she asked him, unable to stifle the note of bitter hysteria that invaded her soul.

Alarik shook his head, unwilling to mistake her words, unwilling to hope, only to lose her all over again. “Your heart?” he asked softly, his heart hammering. His gaze never wavered, afeared to miss even the slightest shift in her expression.

“Aye!” Elienor cried in outrage, “My heart! for as surely as you stole me away from Francia, so, too, did you seize it away from me!”

A muscle ticked in Alarik’s jaw as he drew her back into his arms. “God—Elienor!” Afeared that he was somehow dreaming, he merely held her, unable to end the moment, unable to speak again for fear that he’d misunderstood. More than aught else he wanted her happy, but he wanted her more than life itself! He would give everything he held to see her look at him with adoration in her beautiful violet eyes.

“I love you!” she cried out, and then stiffened within his embrace, revealing to Alarik that she’d not intended to voice the endearment. Giddy relief unlike any he’d ever known jolted through him at her declaration. How he loved her impetuous tongue! A gratified smile curved his lips, but he said nothing as he savored the truth of the feelings she’d disclosed to him.

Regretting the foolish love words, Elienor cursed herself a thousand times for a fool.

When would she ever learn to master her traitorous tongue? Did she think he would simply lay down his heart and vow his love in return? How foolish she was to hope that he would. He was a Viking leader—she nothing more than his French whore! He a noble chieftain—she nothing but a measly—alas, but she could not even claim the church for her own, for she no longer came to them a pure bride of Christ—in their eyes she was soiled! In an attempt to salvage her pride, she told him, “I meant nothing...”

“Elienor,” he broke in, his voice gruff. “Do you wish to know what I’ve prayed for?” He held her possessively, as though to loosen his hold upon her was to lose her.

For the longest instant, Elienor could not find her voice. As long as he held her thus, she could almost believe he wanted her still. “What... what did you pray for?”

He answered her question with a question of his own. “Is it not your custom to ask your God to bless a marriage ere its union?”

Elienor’s eyes misted. She shrugged at his question, fighting tears. Losing the effort to contain them, she closed her eyes. “You have decided to allow Bjorn and Nissa to wed?” she asked him in puzzlement, her tone anguished.

“That,” he apprised her, swallowing the lump that appeared in his throat, “is not my decision to make. Bjorn and Nissa will wed if ’tis their wish... though I have determined they may indeed remain at Gryting.” Taking Elienor’s free hand into his own, he charged, “Look at me, Elienor!” He waited until her violet eyes opened to meet his once more, and moved by the tears that flowed so freely down her ashen cheeks, he cupped her face within his callused palms, cradling it there, his touch more gentle than a tender babe’s. “Shush,” he hissed. “Don’t cry, love,” he pleaded. “If you wish it, then I will send you back to Francia—if you wish it—but I beg you do not cry!”

Elienor tried desperately to suppress her sobs, but she could not. She buried her face into his chest, unable to face the possibility that he would make her go!

Alarik sank to his knees, seeing that her strength wavered. Kneeling before her, he urged her down upon her knees before him, and then bent to kiss her sorrow away. With every salty tear he kissed from her soft face, he felt his own uncertainty ebb.

“Elienor,” he whispered huskily, “I have asked your God to bless our union—not Bjorn and Nissa’s.”

Holding her face between his hands, he forced her to look into his eyes, and shook his head. “Tell me ’tis what you wish, as well. Tell me ’tis so!” he commanded, coming as close to pleading as he dared. It was not in his blood to beg. If she refused him... then he would indeed release her. But he felt certain she’d not, for when she lifted her tear-stained face to his, every emotion she held in her heart was unveiled to him. It was the look he’d waited so long to see.

“Y-you wish... you wish t-to wed... with... with me?”

Alarik nodded, smiling arrogantly now, knowing that her answer would be aye. But his jaw dropped as she broke away, surging to her feet and going to the altar. She fell to her knees before it.

“Elienor?”

Elienor heard the uncertainty in his voice and turned to look at him with misty eyes, gifting him with her most serene smile. “One more prayer,” she whispered, her voice breaking with joy, “One more... so that I too may ask God to bless our union!” And she lowered her head to pray.

In mere seconds Alarik was on his feet. Filled with exhilaration, he lifted Elienor into his arms as though she weighed no more than a new born babe. He leaned eagerly to kiss her full upon the lips, thinking that it had been too long since he’d tasted of his little Fransk. And in his need to love her he went to lay her down upon the kirken floor, oblivious with the need to hold her, to love her.

“Not here!” Elienor said in consternation, laughing, sobbing. “Never here!” she told him.

Alarik grinned sheepishly and rose to his feet, bearing her toward the door... eager to get her into his bed, even if they did naught more than sleep... his arms embracing her.

Elienor struggled to free herself. “Release me!” she demanded, and her eyes grew sober. “Let there be no doubts between us this time—allow me to go of my own will!”

Alarik halted abruptly, his expression suddenly grave. He shuddered as he looked deep into her eyes, and Elienor flushed as he allowed her to slide from his embrace. Her body melded against his, and she nearly ceased to breathe at the wicked sensations it roused within her.

“Do you feel I’ve forced you?” he asked gravely, as though suddenly unsure of himself.

The muted sunlight from the doorway bathed them both, and in that instant it was as though they were transported through time... and were again in the kirken in Francia. Only this time, it was he who could not see her face, his expression that was revealed by the light. “Nay,” Elienor whispered, her heart rending at his forlorn appearance. “I only meant that I would go beside you—that all who see us will know I go willingly.” Her eyes pleaded with him to understand.

Standing in the doorway, haloed by the sun, Elienor looked like an angel to him, but she was neither angel nor Valkyr, he knew. She was flesh and blood.

And she was his.

In that instant, Alarik’s heart filled near to bursting. Thrusting a hand into her hair, he bent to brush his lips against her flushed cheek. “I love you, Elienor,” he said, voicing the words for the first time in his life, his voice hoarse.

Elienor’s heart soared, for it didn’t take a seer to know he spoke true. He did love her, and she nearly cried out with the exhilarating sense of completion that burst through her in that instant. God help her, but for the first time in her life, she knew what it felt like to be cherished, for she was too young at her mother’s death to recall her loving arms.

At long last. At long, long last.

With a sigh, she allowed the ring she’d once held so tightly to slip forgotten from her fingers to the floor, not needing it any longer, for while it had once been her comfort, her family, it was no more.

Held so tenderly within Alarik’s embrace, she had, at long last come home.

Epilogue

“Mama! Mama! Tell us again of the vision—the one you first had of Papa!” a child’s voice demanded. “Gunnar will not believe me!”

As Elienor swept into the skali, a throng of children rushed to surround her, led by her eldest daughter, Kirsten, who bore her mother’s blue eyes and father’s blond hair. All eyed her hopefully, and her own eyes lit with merriment as she glanced up to spy Nissa supervising the preparation of the tables for nattver. Upon Alva’s passing, Nissa had quietly stepped into the task, taking her lessons from Alva. At Elienor’s look, Nissa merely smiled, and shrugged, telling Elienor by that gesture that she’d been unable to sway the children from asking yet again.

Jesu! How many times would she be called upon to recount the tale? As it was, she felt she’d told it near a thousand times. Ahh, well... Alva had warned her, rest her soul. It was simply that because it had been so long now since she’d had a single vision, she found herself e’er recounting the same tales. It was a wonder no one ever seemed to tire of them. She sighed, capitulating.

“Very well.” She smiled as she scanned the faces of her expectant audience, for among the children were her own two daughters: Kirsten and Dahlia. Along with them, Bjorn and Nissa’s five, four girls, and their ever recalcitrant son, Gunnar. And the quiet lad who always lagged behind belonged to Sigurd and Clarisse.

Finding a suitable spot, Elienor adjusted her skirts and sat. And no sooner had she done so than her youngest daughter, Dahlia, scurried into her lap. After her came Mischief, eager as always. Her daughter shrieked happily, hugging the dog, and Elienor put her fingers to her lips, shushing her, for their infant son, Krossbyr, was fast asleep in their bedchamber, with Alarik watching over him. It never ceased to amaze Elienor how many hours he spent simply watching the babe.

“You didn’t truly spy Uncle Alarik first in a dream!” Gunnar exclaimed.

Elienor merely smiled, for he said the same each time. Truthfully she was beginning to wonder if it was his ploy to persuade her to recount the tale yet again.

“’Tis the truth she did,” a deep voice resounded behind them. Elienor turned, startled to hear Alarik’s voice so soon after putting the babe abed.

But she wasn’t the only one startled by his unexpected appearance. Mischief bounded up, darting toward Alarik’s boots. No longer a small pup, the big dog nearly toppled Alarik.

Elienor stifled a giggle.

The children laughed hysterically.

“Oh, Papa!” Kirsten exclaimed. “’Tis as though he abhors you!”

“Nei,” Alarik denied, frowning, refusing to believe that after all these years the mutt had still not grown to tolerate him at least. He bent to scratch Mischief’s ears and the dog snapped at him, barely missing his fingers. The children giggled again. Alarik’s frown deepened. “Demon hound!” he groused, and then his brows collided further when Bjorn sauntered in along with Brother Vernay in tow, the two of them ensconced in another of their heated debates over which god, or gods, were the true ones. Alarik suspected the argument would be unending, for both men were resolute in their beliefs. Mischief saw them and bounded after them, leaping up excitedly, first upon Bjorn, and then Vernay, lapping them with relish. “Ungrateful beast,” Alarik muttered beneath his breath.

Seeing his forsaken expression, Elienor urged Dahlia from her lap and rose to embrace him. “You are beloved!” she reminded him with a girlish giggle.

And seeing their mother and father embracing, their daughters rushed forth, each embracing one of his legs. “We do love you Papa!” they announced in unison, and Alarik once again sent a silent prayer of gratitude heavenward that his warriors were not present to view such a tender display. Never would they let him forget it—Sigurd particularly.

Alarik and Bjorn shared a quick look, for Bjorn, too, was burdened with his share of overly affectionate females, and then he released Elienor, bending to lift both his daughters up into his arms. But as each kissed his cheeks with their soft little lips, he wondered in awe how he had ever felt himself too manly for this. What could be more male, he asked himself, arrogantly, then to be surrounded by the females one loved?

“Papa?”

Alarik peered down at his youngest daughter.

“Did you know the first time you saw Mama that she was the one?” Her eyes were bright with the prospect. “Did you?”

He glanced briefly at the mother of his children, sharing a private look with her. He stifled a chuckle. “And did you ask your mother that question?” he wondered aloud, bouncing Dahlia.

“Yaaaaah!” his daughters shouted simultaneously.

He shook his head in an attempt to restore his hearing. “And what did she say?” He again glanced at his wife, smiling softly as he awaited their reply.

“She said aye!” Dahlia whispered enthusiastically in his ear.

“She said she knew when first she saw you!” Kirsten added.

Alarik cleared his throat, remembering the tale somewhat differently. Elienor shrugged, smiling coyly. “Then, aye,” he relented, winking at Elienor, thinking suddenly that mayhap it was the truth after all. He grinned roguishly. “From the very first moment,” he told them, bending to restore his children to their feet. They clung to his neck a moment, and he pried them loose, straightening to look into his wife’s beautiful violet eyes—as lovely now as they’d been the day he’d first beheld her. His arms went out to seize her to him before she could flee. “From the very first,” he said to her face, daring her to dispute him.

Elienor’s eyes twinkled with mirth. She laughed. “From the very first,” she acquiesced, returning an impish smile.

Across the skali Bjorn made a choking sound and looked to his own wife, but prudently said nothing.

Alarik ignored him, abruptly sweeping his wife up into his arms. She gave a little shriek as he hauled her toward their chamber, their chamber, he thought with a satisfied grin. With a little luck from Frey, he’d catch up to his younger brother yet, he vowed. “You lie very well, my love,” he accused her, with a roguish grin.

Elienor merely smiled. “As do you, mine husband.” She wrapped her arms about his neck.

“What say you tell me the tale?” he asked her huskily.

Elienor giggled and nodded.

“But she hasn’t told us the story yet, Uncle Alarik!” Gunnar protested, leaping up, giving his anxiousness away.

Alarik never heard the protest. He’d already shut the bedchamber door behind him.

“Odin’s breath!” Gunnar exclaimed. “I didn’t get to hear the story! And Uncle Alarik’s already heard it! How oft must he hear the story?” he whined, and the skali erupted with peals of laughter, for no one had asked to hear the tale more than Gunnar Long-Ears had.

~ The End ~

Author's Note

Olav Trygvason of Norway did in fact die much as I’ve depicted here, though when he dove into the water, he went in alone, for Alarik and Elienor, alas, live only in my heart—and, I hope, in yours now as well. I’ve taken great pains to stay true to my research in that I’ve drawn Olav as best I saw him, and I even have gone so far as to include dialogue actually attributed to him by the Heimskringla (The lives of the Norse Kings) by Snorre Sturlason, edited by Erling Monsen, translated by A. H. Smith. But I have also taken incredible literary license with the circumstances surrounding the battle of Svolde, as well as the battle itself. The truth remains, however, that Olav Trygvason of Norway was a zealous man who, while he may or may not have held to his faith,” did oppress his people to such a degree that they felt they had no choice but to rise up against him. Some of those opposing him were Christian themselves (such as Svein Forkbeard), who resented Olav’s ultimatums and iron fist.

As for the rumors that he survived the battle, perhaps he did, but he never again returned to claim his throne or his lands. The remaining Scandinavian kings divided his kingdom amongst themselves.

If you enjoyed this book,

try more Medievals by Tanya Anne Crosby…

Angel Of Fire

Once Upon a Kiss

Viking’s Prize

About Tanya

Tanya has written seventeen novels, all of which have graced numerous bestseller lists including the New York Times and USA Today. Best known for stories charged with emotion and humor, and filled with flawed characters, her novels have garnered reader praise and glowing critical reviews. She lives with her husband, two dogs and two moody cats in northern Michigan.

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