Rescued by the Viking

by Meriel Fuller

  Over to the left, a group of Danes were gathered around what looked like a bundle of clothes on the ground. One man dropped to his haunches, reaching his arm out, shaking something, then another man crouched by his side. Nay, she realised, not clothes; it was a man, stretched out on the cobbles. She twisted her mouth into a sneer: these Danes were renowned for drinking themselves into a stupor. Twitching her gaze away, she stared back at the inn, light flickering out through the cracks in the wooden shutters. How was she going to go in there, a woman, without everyone turning to look at her as she came through the door? Sweat prickled her armpits, a cold sliding sensation coiling in her belly.

  Then something made her turn back to the man on the ground. There were more men around him now, voices raised in consternation, the thick Norse vowels floating across to her. They had managed to shift him into a sitting position, his grizzled head cradled in his hands as he slumped against the wall. Between the calf-length boots of the Danes, she could see the man’s scuffed short boots, green woollen braies. Not a soldier, by the looks of him. Her heartbeat increased by a notch, then began to pound, her knuckles whitening around the wooden rail. She knew who the man was.

  ‘Father!’ she yelled, careful to use the Saxon language. These Norse barbarians would understand her. She raised her fists, thumping against the broad phalanx of Danish backs, criss-crossed with leather straps over shining mail-coats. ‘Let me through!’ As the men turned in surprise, Gisela pushed forward, squeezing through the jumble of thickset bodies. One man placed his arm in front of her, barring her way. ‘Nay, mistress, ’tis not for you to see.’

  But she had already seen. The hunched body of her father, crumpled against the wall, head cupped in his open palms. The grey grizzled hair and beard, matted with blood. His face, deathly white, scored by familiar creases. Blood trickled down over his large bony wrists, dripping to the ground.

  ‘What have they done to you?’ Her voice was a long, low moan. Sliding to her knees beside him, she untied her shawl, wrapping it around her father’s shaking shoulders. ‘What happened?’

  Her father’s dull stare lifted to her face, his eyelashes flicking up in recognition. He cleared his throat, licking his parched lips. ‘I won, Gisela, I won a lot. And they took it all.’

  Fury seized her, a white-hot blinding anger at the unfairness of the situation, at her father’s stupidity to attempt such a foolhardy deed. Her eyes dropped to her father’s sword, the hilt gleaming from his belt. With no thought other than to exert revenge on those that had stolen from her father, Gisela grabbed at the hilt, wresting the shining blade from the leather scabbard. Springing up like a cat, she jumped to her feet, turning on the watchful circle of Danes.

  ‘Which one of you took his money?’ she cried out, slicing the air with the knife. The blade gleamed ominously, catching the light of the fires from the market square. ‘Who did this?’

  ‘Nay, not us, mistress,’ one of the men replied. ‘You are mistaken.’ His blond hair straggled down over chainmail clad shoulders. ‘We found him like this, unconscious and bleeding. It was us that helped to sit him up.’

  ‘I don’t believe you!’ Gisela planted her feet firmly apart, as if bracing herself for a physical fight. Her fear of these warriors slipped away at her father’s plight; she had to retrieve the money, one way or another: their situation was desperate. ‘We all know what you Danes are capable of. Why not attack an old man and take his money? He’s easy prey, after all.’ She swung the sword around in a half-circle, the movement haphazard, jerky. ‘Give it back to me, now! I’m warning you, I know how to use this!’

  ‘But we don’t have it, maid,’ another man explained, holding his hands out, trying to placate her. ‘We...’

  ‘What is going on here?’ From the back of the group, a voice rang out, deep and commanding. Immediately the men bowed their heads, forming a gap to let another man step forward. Half a head taller than his companions, with seal-dark hair and eyes of molten brown. A young man, who carried himself with the arrogant swagger of authority, his head cocked to one side as he listened to a rapid explanation from one of the men. He swept a cursory glance down at her father. Keeping his distance from her blade, surrounded by the burly Danes, he stared at Gisela, narrow lips curling with disdain.

  Sweat prickled from her fingers against the leather hilt, but she held her ground, her expression mutinous, fierce, the blade tipped up in front of her.

  ‘What is all this nonsense, maid?’

  ‘Are you the leader of these men?’

  ‘Aye, I am Eirik Sweynsson.’ He wound his arms across his leather-bound chest. ‘Tell me, what goes on here?’

  ‘Your men, your godforsaken men, have taken all my father’s money, and his winnings!’ Her challenging blue gaze swept over the men, fully expecting one of them to step forward and admit his guilt. ‘They attacked him!’

  Eirik smiled slowly. ‘But I think you are mistaken, maid, for they tell me that they did not. On the contrary, they helped him.’

  ‘And you believe them?’ Aghast, Gisela’s speech juddered out. ‘You need to search them, at the very least!’

  ‘Why should I believe you over my own men?’ Eirik lifted his chin, regarding her with contempt. ‘A lowly Saxon maid, dressed in rags.’ He cast a disparaging eye across her patched gown, the drab linen scarf around her head and neck. ‘For all I know, it probably isn’t your money anyway. You probably stole it from someone else.’

  His goading words ripped through her; her temper flared. ‘How dare you?’ she cried out. Forgetting the sword in her hand, she lunged forward, wanting to hit out, wanting to wipe the smug, supercilious smile off his handsome, self-satisfied face.

  Whipcord arms snared her waist, a punishing, bruising grip, jolting her roughly away from her intended target. She was lifted, feet dangling as if on strings, then crushed back against an iron-hard body. Fingers twisted into her wrist, pinioning the flesh, until the sword slipped from her hand and clattered to the ground. Swinging her legs, she kicked her heels furiously against the shins of her unseen opponent, pushing down angrily on the muscular forearm clamped around her waist.

  ‘Cease, maid, if you know what’s good for you.’ A voice, horribly familiar, drilled into her ear. Her belly plummeted in recognition., No, not him, not the Dane from the beach! Gisela began to struggle more, desperate to extract herself from his tight, unforgiving hold.

  Watching her futile efforts, Eirik laughed, a mocking sound. ‘I wish I could applaud your efforts, maid. But it’ll take more than a short sword to do away with the likes of me.’ He raised his gaze above her head, catching the eyes of the man who held her. ‘I owe you one, Ragnar—’ he grinned ‘—although I’m not sure my life was in any danger.’ His eyes dropped to the blade glinting on the ground, the smile vanishing from his face. ‘Make sure she’s punished for what she’s done.’ He turned away, clapping his arm around the man next to him. ‘Come, we’re missing valuable drinking time here! Ragnar will sort out the girl.’

  Ragnar. So that was the name of the man who held her. The same man who had pulled her from the mud. Not a gentle name, but one that suited his flashing eyes and the craggy angles of his face, the tall muscular body that spoke of the open sea, of lands unexplored: a restless soul. As she watched the Danes walk away, his chest pressed into her spine. The dusky scent of leather and salt, a fresh vitality, poured from him, enveloping her.

  She closed her eyes, a flush rising across her cheeks; her breath caught, then emerged in staggered gasps at the intimacy of her situation. His honed thighs riding against her hips, nay, cradling them! His thick arm grazing the underside of her breasts. Sweet Jesu, she had never been this close to a man! And after what had happened to her and her sister, she had vowed to keep away from them for ever. But now? Now heat flickered, deep in her belly, spiralling upwards: a slow sensual climb. Her heart lurched in despair.

  ‘Let me go,’ she c
roaked. Her mind danced chaotically as she tried to think what she should do next, but the thoughts flicked away from her, flighty, ephemeral.

  Around her waist, the burly forearm released fractionally, allowing her feet to slip to the ground. Hands planted heavily on her shoulders, spinning her around. His chin was on a level with the top of her head, clean-shaven, shallow grooves on each side of his generous mouth defining his jaw.

  Gisela tipped her head up, catching his emerald gaze. ‘Those men have my father’s money.’ Fatigue swept over her and she swayed a little beneath his firm grip. ‘I must go after them. I must get it back.’ The tiredness leached through her voice, draining it of conviction.

  ‘There’s no need,’ Ragnar said calmly. ‘They don’t have it.’

  She rolled her shoulder irritably beneath the weighty impact of his hand. If only he would go and leave her alone, for then she would at least be able to think in a logical manner. His direct green gaze muddled her, turning her brain into useless pulp. ‘What are you doing here anyway?’ she said grumpily. ‘Shouldn’t you be off drinking with the rest of them?’ She was so close to him that her knee nudged against his thigh; she wrenched her leg away in annoyance, jolting against him as she did so.

  * * *

  Ragnar laughed. For such a little thing, the maid showed astonishing courage. Either that or complete stupidity, he hadn’t decided yet. As he and Eirik had approached earlier, she had been completely surrounded by his fellow men, those big lumps of masculinity who towered above her. And yet she had seemed completely in control, swishing that small blade around as if she would tackle each and every one of them in hand-to-hand combat.

  Was she even afraid of him? Of what he might do? Eirik had asked him to punish her. Not a trace of fear showed in her face. Her skin glowed, fine marble in shadowy light; a delicate rose colour flushed her cheeks. The sapphire sparkle of her magnificent eyes dominated her face, flashing with defiance. Her whole frame bristled with undisguised hostility; he should have been annoyed, but strangely, he found himself drawn to her shrewish, belligerent manner. He liked it. The majority of women he met, and that was not many, to be fair, seemed pathetic and feeble, pale ghosts compared to this firebrand.

  He brought his hand up, deliberately cupping her cheek, knowing such a gesture would rile her. ‘Did we spoil your little game, maid?’ His thumb rubbed across the satin pelt of her skin, a cursory touch; she flinched at the contact, jerking her head away.

  ‘Game?’ she flared at him, jerking her head at her father’s defeated posture. Her red shawl looked incongruous around his shoulders, the one bright spot of his drab attire. ‘That is my father sitting there! Attacked and left for dead, his money stolen...by them...’ She jabbed a finger in the direction that Eirik had taken his men. ‘I wanted them to give it back.’

  ‘So you thought that pushing a knife into the King of Denmark’s son would be the solution?’ Ragnar stuck his hand through his hair, no doubt leaving the vigorous blond strands sticking upwards, haphazard. His gaze narrowed. ‘What on earth possessed you to do such a thing?’

  ‘You mean that dark-haired oaf is a prince?’ she replied scathingly.

  ‘Aye, maid,’ he confirmed, his mouth twitching with amusement, ‘that dark-haired oaf, as you like to call him, is the heir to the whole of Denmark. So you had better watch your step.’

  ‘But the money—’

  ‘Hell’s teeth, woman, are you completely stupid? Leave it alone. Go home and shut the door and try not to go around threatening to stick knives into people. Do you understand? No wonder your poor father has his head in his hands, with a daughter like you! First the mud and now this!’

  Gisela glared at him, her mouth compressed into a wilful line.

  Ragnar shook his head at her, a boyish grin pinned to his face. ‘And don’t you look at me like that, maid. You can hate me as much as you like, but you know I speak the truth. Go home. You might be foolhardy, but you’re certainly not stupid.’ He brought the harsh contours of his face closer to hers. ‘And your use of the Saxon language seems to have improved since I saw you last.’

  * * *

  Shock flooded through her, a chill shudder of foreboding. How could she have forgotten? Somehow she had given herself away out on the salt marsh. Ragnar had spoken to her in French, but she hadn’t responded. He hadn’t guessed her true identity, had he? For, as far as she could remember, she hadn’t uttered a word of her mother tongue in his presence.

  Down on the ground, her father was trying to scrabble to his feet. To her surprise, the Dane leaned down, grabbing his upper arm to help him up. Gisela leapt to his other side, and together they brought the older man on to his feet.

  ‘Which way?’ Ragnar said companionably as he laced her father’s arm around the back of his neck.

  Gisela, her arm supporting her father’s waist on the other side, peered around to Ragnar in astonishment. Suddenly, her father’s fragility was all too apparent, his gaunt frame hanging off the Dane’s broad shoulder. A wave of vulnerability washed through her. ‘We don’t need you,’ she replied resentfully. ‘Don’t you think you and your lot have done enough for this evening?’

  A look of disdain crossed his lean features. ‘As you wish.’ He pulled away roughly so that her father’s full weight fell heavily against her. She staggered backwards, heels striking the wall as she fought to hold him upright. Her slight frame buckled beneath her father’s bulk and she wondered whether she was even capable of taking one step forward. She hated the fact that the Dane watched her, saw her weakness with his knowing eyes.

  ‘I can do it!’ she whispered fiercely as he came towards her.

  Scooping the man’s arm around his neck, Ragnar regarded her coolly. ‘No, maid, you cannot. Even I am not so heartless as to leave you here, at the mercy of a town full of drunken Danes.’

  Chapter Five

  As the odd trio made their way across the crowded square, Ragnar curtailed his long stride to take account of the maid’s shorter legs and her father’s staggering gait. He led the way, shoving his tall, solid bulk through the jostling hoards of people, forging a path. Her father’s head lolled against his shoulder, sour waves of alcohol rolling off his breath; Ragnar suspected the girl had little idea of how much he had drunk. He had no wish to tell her, to burst her bubble of self-delusion. He glanced with grudging admiration at her mud-smeared features, the exhausted lines of her face. She wilted beneath her father’s considerable weight, her slim frame hunched forward, chin jutting out with fierce determination. The maid had endured enough today. Let her believe that her father’s stumbling gait was caused simply by the blow to his head.

  ‘Shall we rest for a moment?’ Ragnar suggested, as they reached the other side of the square. Between them, her father moaned, shaking his head slowly from side to side. Blood, trickling from the gash on his forehead, flecked her bodice, pinpoints of red.

  ‘No,’ the girl managed to gasp out. The muscles along her spine ached with tension. Her father’s arm pressed heavily against her neck, dragging against her linen scarf. ‘I must take him back. His wound—’

  ‘The wound is not serious,’ Ragnar replied mildly. ‘And I doubt we will make it anywhere unless you rest now...’

  ‘Nay, I can manage,’ she protested, clearly annoyed by his judgement. ‘I’m stronger than I look!’

  His emerald gaze flicked over her wan face, the purple patches of fatigue beneath her huge, limpid eyes. She was dressed like a nun, garments drab and muted. Her ill-fitting dress billowed out around her, blurring any outline of her figure. But he remembered what lay beneath. The slender curves that had jostled against him when he carried her from the mud and again when he had pulled her back from Eirik. The curve of her hip, a smooth sensual line. The rounded touch of her breast against his forearm. Delight stung him, a quick dart of sensual pleasure. His loins burned.

  Surprised and irritated by the way his m
ind travelled, Ragnar twisted his mouth into a tight line. This woman had barrelled into his life with all the finesse of a spitting cat, yet, at the slightest contact, jolted his broad frame into shudders of desire. It made no sense. The girl had a temper; even now, the fierce rigidity of her expression appraised him with disdain. Despite her diminutive figure, her spine was straight, stiff and unyielding. Ready to do battle at any moment, like a Norse goddess of old.

  ‘Let your father rest then,’ Ragnar insisted, his voice gruff. ‘Even if you want to carry on, I think he needs to sit for a moment.’ Bending from the waist, he lowered the older man to a sitting position on a stone step outside a cottage. Forced to follow his movements, the woman allowed her father’s arm to slip from her shoulder. His head rolled back against the door, the sagging skin on his face a pallid grey colour. The deep lined pouches beneath his eyes were sunken.

  Ragnar straightened up, looping his arms around in big, lazy circles, stretching his shoulder muscles, eyeing the girl with curiosity. ‘Most women would accept my help without question.’ His eyes drilled into her, green gimlets, flashing fire. ‘Why do you persist in arguing with me?’

  * * *

  Because you take away my strength, Gisela thought. She laced her arms across her chest, a guarded gesture. Around you, I feel vulnerable. She had always been able to fend for herself and her family. With her father and her sister, she had always been in charge, the one to make decisions, the person that they both leaned on and turned to in times of trouble.

  ‘Why?’ he prompted.