Wadding the scarf between her trembling hands, Gisela wrenched her eyes away from the exposed skin at his throat, the tantalising definition of honed muscle beneath his shirt. ‘I couldn’t sleep,’ she explained. ‘I was too hot. So when I saw the water jug...’ She shrugged her shoulders. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you.’
She could feel a single bead of water trickling over her cheek, tracking across the satin patina of her skin, the vague patch of bruising. His hand reached out, cupping her jaw: a gesture of reassurance. ‘Nay, you didn’t disturb me. I was awake already.’
‘What?’ Her fingers flicked up to snare his wrist, to pull his hand away from her face. Blood pumped through corded sinew, pulsing against her grip. His loose shirt sleeve had fallen back, revealing the sculptured muscle of his forearm, the fine red-gold hairs. ‘Were you watching me, all this time?’ To her irritation, her breath hitched fractionally, her question losing all power.
‘I was,’ Ragnar admitted. His heated glance punched into her.
Warmth swelled through her, unbidden, at his simple admission: a strange wobbling feeling that surged upwards from the very depths of her belly. Strength leached from her knees. She should have been outraged, angry, that this man had been observing her without her knowledge. In desperation, she tried to summon up the appropriate response, the tongue-lashing that he deserved, but only succeeded in tracing the carved features of his handsome face, staring like a dumbstruck idiot. As if her short sleep had erased all the feistiness from her body, leaving her soft and malleable. Vulnerable.
‘You should have turned to face the wall and given me some privacy,’ she pronounced finally. Her protest sounded weak, ineffectual. ‘But then, I suppose I should expect nothing less from a Dane, who has no idea of chivalry.’
His hand fell from her jaw and he laughed, a long low rumble emanating from his chest. ‘You cannot resist, can you?’ He raised his eyebrows. ‘Taking the slightest opportunity to dig the knife in, I mean. That barbed tongue of yours could flay a man alive!’
‘It has been known to do so,’ Gisela snapped in response. Her memory tacked back in an instant. In France, with her father away campaigning, she had taken on the management of their estates with the help of a bailiff. She had worked hard, too, buying in stock, planning the crops and hiring the extra hands needed at harvest time. Sadness trickled through her: how far the family had fallen since those prosperous days. With an unconscious toss of her head, Gisela lifted her arms, sweeping her heavy hair into a bundle on one side of her head, intending to braid the long tresses into a single plait.
Her movement revealed the silvery line stretching across her skin.
Ragnar stiffened. ‘What is that?’ His voice jabbed out. ‘Did you hurt yourself?’ He leaned close to her, staring hard at the scar.
‘It’s nothing,’ she mumbled, clamping her hand across her neck. How could she have forgotten? She, Gisela, who was always so careful? But it was him, damn him, and his stupid confounding presence that made her forget, made common sense drop away! Fumbling with her scarf, she tried to wrap it around her head, but the fabric seemed unusually unwieldy, uncooperative.
Plucking the scarf from her hands, Ragnar held it away from her. ‘That looks like more than nothing to me,’ he said grimly.
Hot, salty tears filled her eyes. ‘Give me my scarf back, please,’ she said. ‘It’s an old wound that I scarce think about.’
His gaze glittered over her, incisive, missing nothing. ‘You think about it all the time,’ Ragnar said softly. ‘What happened to you?’
She glared at him, chewing viciously on her bottom lip. Why was she even trying to hide the scar from him? He meant nothing to her and she, as he had made perfectly clear, was a mere irritant. The air left her lungs slowly: a shuddering exhalation. ‘I told you what de Pagenal did...’
‘The fire beneath your chamber.’
She nodded. ‘Yes, but when we ran out, when he tried to take Marie...’ Her voice slowed and she wrapped her slim arms about her body, hugging herself, as if for comfort. ‘He reached down from the saddle and grabbed her. But I grabbed her back, hanging on to her clothes, her hair, anything to prevent her from being taken. She was screaming. Then some of our household knights came running, to see them off. But not before...’ Her voice trailed away and she stared at him numbly, bereft of speech.
‘What did he do, Gisela?’ It was as if he wanted to understand, to comprehend what compelled her to take such risks in her life, what drove her to jeopardise her safety.
‘De Pagenal pulled his sword and slashed down, trying to force me to release my hold on Marie. The sword point caught my neck. But then his horse reared up and we both fell back and managed to crawl away.’ She blinked, remembering. Her hand clamped to her neck, blood dripping through her fingers, a household knight half-carrying her back to the safety of their castle. Ralph de Pagenal cursing, shouting threats, as he wheeled his horse around, he and his men riding away.
Ragnar cursed, his eyes metallic bright, honing in on her wan features. ‘He could have killed you.’ His hands were shaking, sweat pooling in his palms; he tucked them behind his back. A sudden fear gripped him: the thought of Gisela losing her life at the hands of that oaf. How had he come to care for her so much?
‘It wouldn’t have come to that.’
‘That man knew what he was doing. He’s a trained knight! To cut at that point on the neck, if the blade had gone any deeper, you would have bled to death.’
Her face turned a stark white; she swayed. ‘No, no, it wasn’t that bad. It wasn’t like that.’
He had frightened her. Stupidly, he had voiced his own fears, with no thought to how terrifying they would sound to her. She had no knowledge of the battlefield, of the ferocious brutality of knights when called to war. For her, to realise the full horrific extent of the situation would be to acknowledge the fact that she had nearly died. ‘Yes, you’re probably right,’ he conceded, making an effort to lighten his tone. ‘After all, you were there and I was not.’
‘You were not,’ she confirmed. Her eyelashes dipped fractionally. How different the situation would have been, if Ragnar had been there, if she had met him before this whole nightmare had started. He would have protected her, of that she was certain, like he was protecting her now. From the truth of the situation. ‘It was worth it,’ Gisela said, her voice gaining a modicum of strength. ‘For we saved Marie from the most awful marriage.’
‘You saved her. You did it by yourself.’ Admiration juddered through him. As the first dull fingers of early morning light filtered through the window, he trailed his fingertip along the scar, the faint silvery line stitching across her skin. The pulse behind her ear bumped steadily, quickening beneath his fingers. Desire slanted through him, a whip of sensation.
Breath, wadded tight in her chest, hushed out of her at his touch. The heat in the chamber thickened, pressing on her in warm, downy layers. Blood skipped along her veins, gathering pace. His fingers tickled lightly, feathers across her skin. She flinched, but didn’t draw away. As if she didn’t want to.
‘The scar isn’t pretty, but it’s a small price to pay for my sister’s safety,’ her voice stuttered out. ‘I don’t want your pity.’
‘This isn’t pity,’ he growled. His fingers dug into her hair, the glorious strands lacing through his fingers as he drew her mouth up to his. His lips grazed over hers, fleeting, then pressing harder, deepening the contact.
* * *
‘I...’ she managed to gasp out. Was she about to protest? She wasn’t sure. Her mind seemed bereft of thought or function.
‘You talk too much.’ Ragnar’s mouth claimed hers, a fiery brand against her tender skin. His arm snared her spine, winching her close; she fell against him, breasts knocking tight against his hard chest. Her knees bumped against his, her soft thighs pressing into the solid muscle of his legs. The faint cry of reason clamoured in h
er head, begging her to stop, but she chased it away. If I died now, she thought suddenly, then I wouldn’t care, for I would have the memory of this man’s lips upon mine to take me to my grave, and be with me for ever.
Heart drumming dangerously, her neglected soul cried out for his touch, stuttering with delight as his hand trailed downwards, fingers sprawling over her breasts, savouring the softness. Her arms flailed out, seeking purchase, then settled on his wide shoulders, clinging desperately, hanging on to him, a raft on a storm-tossed sea. No man had ever touched her thus, no man had ever held her with such desire, as if he wanted to lie with her. As he bent over her, her slim supple figure curving under his, they staggered back together, her legs banging violently against the oak coffer.
The water jug wobbled precariously, then tipped sideways. The vessel fell to the floor with a tremendous crash, littering the polished wood with shards of earthenware. Water spread out, a dark stain creeping slowly outwards.
Wrenching her mouth from his, she lowered her head defiantly, avoiding his lips. Her heart banged wildly against her ribs. Her eyelashes fluttered downwards, shudders coursing through her from the impact of his lips upon hers. What had she been thinking? Was she mad? Ragnar didn’t care for her. He had told her as much when he had helped her with her father. If I had wanted to, I would have taken you. Don’t flatter yourself. His past words scoured her self-esteem, trampling her confidence. She hadn’t resisted, had thrown herself across him like a wanton. Peeking up at him, she witnessed a look of dazed astonishment cross his face, his eyes pooled black with unrequited desire.
‘Ragnar!’ A voice, in guttural Norse, battered through the door. ‘Open the door!’
* * *
His breath emerged in truncated gusts, forcing upwards from his chest. He shoved a hand through his hair, fighting for control. What had just happened? Gisela stood before him, her expression defensive and wary, hair flowing loosely around her shoulders. Like a fairy from an enchanted dell: ethereal, magical. A woodland sprite. And yet he saw the way her chest heaved, the air fast and quick in her windpipe, the bloom on her cheeks. The graze on her chin from where his bristles had scraped against her soft flesh. Shame splintered through him. Earlier she had chided him for his lack of chivalry, his incapability to behave decently; he had vehemently denied it. What had he done? Shunned good sense to take a slice of her beauty, trampling roughshod over her to claim her mouth, to savour that delicious softness melting into his hard contours. To assuage a thirst.
‘Ragnar, open the door!’
He jerked away from her, scowling at his own lack of restraint, striding across the room. Cracking the door open an inch or two, he spoke to the man outside, a quick exchange in his own language. Pushing the door closed, he settled the horizontal bar in place, securing the chamber. His hand pressed flat against the boards; he stared at the knots in the vertical panels, wondering if he could trust himself to go through with his plan of accompanying Gisela to meet with Ralph de Pagenal. He had offered to take her because she had no one else, because for her to go alone was too risky, too dangerous without protection. He told himself it was because she reminded him of his sister, with her innocence and flashing eyes, but as his eyes ranged over the panels, he knew that was not the truth. The truth was that he wanted her. He wanted Gisela.
Chapter Nine
Gisela watched him. Her eyes traced the powerful cord of his spine disappearing beneath the curved collar of his white shirt, the bright feathery strands of his hair. His palm splayed against the door: strong, ridged sinews, eminently capable. She sagged back against the oak coffer, the shards of broken jug scattered at her feet, not trusting herself to speak, yet she knew she must in order to take control of the situation.
She cleared her throat. ‘Ragnar?’
He turned, his eyes an iridescent shimmer, the translucent green of a shaded forest. The sun was rising; light tipped over the stone sill, tracing a dust-spangled shaft to the floor. Birds twittered outside the window. A shout rose up from the bailey, echoing around the high curtain walls; another voice returned the greeting, rough, guttural.
‘That should not have happened.’ Ragnar traced her mouth, the curve of her cheek.
Had he kissed her out of pity, after all? Had he lied to her? ‘No, it should not have.’ She pinned him with what she hoped was a self-assured look, yet inwardly her confidence shrank, shrivelled away like burnt wisps of parchment, caught in a flame. Her lips smarted, flickers of desire lingering from his kiss. Bunching her hand, she scrubbed vigorously at her mouth. For the sake of pride, she must act as if the kiss meant nothing; show him that what he had done was inconsequential.
Sweeping the glistening rope of her hair forward, she proceeded to braid the long, silky length into a thick single plait, securing the pale brown strands with the leather lace she had left on the coffer. Then, folding her arms across her chest, bracing herself for a fight, she glared at him archly. ‘I must travel north today, to Ralph de Pagenal.’
‘I must presume that means...with or without me.’ Ragnar arched one bronze-coloured eyebrow.
‘You cannot come with me if you continue with that sort of behaviour.’ Relief coursed through her at his words, a relief that she hated to acknowledge. Thank God. He was still considering accompanying her.
Her pompous, formal tone twisted his stern expression to a reluctant grin. He laughed, breaking the tension in the chamber. ‘It won’t happen again,’ Ragnar said to reassure her. ‘I promise you,’ he added.
Gisela nodded jerkily. ‘Make sure it doesn’t.’ Her heart screwed up with a peculiar sense of loss. ‘Anyway, you might have changed your mind about coming with me. I don’t want you to feel obligated...’
‘Gisela, stop,’ he said, holding up his hand. ‘Enough of this, I’ve said I will take you and I will. Let me find you some clothes to wear. The men are almost ready to leave; we must cross the river at high tide.’
‘But I have clothes,’ Gisela said, surprised, flipping her scarf around her neck, tucking in the ends securely. Her eyes sought, then found, her large floppy hat lying on the floorboards by the bed.
‘Women’s clothes,’ Ragnar clarified. His sleeved woollen tunic lay by the pallet bed; he picked it up, yanking it over his head. A muscle tensed in his jaw. ‘You cannot travel dressed as a boy.’
‘Why not?’ she challenged him, drawing her fine sable brows together. ‘It’s safer.’
He pulled his leather surcoat on, hooking his sword belt over one shoulder, a sling that crossed his chest diagonally. ‘My men will question the presence of a boy. If you travel as a woman, you will draw less attention...’ He cleared his throat. ‘Especially when they realise to whom you belong.’
‘Belong...’ Gisela repeated stupidly. Her mind grasped hazily at his intended meaning. ‘You mean...’ Her voice trailed away, a red flush banding her cheeks, dulling the freckles sprinkling her fair skin.
‘I’m sorry, but it’s the only way you’ll travel in safety,’ he said. ‘If you travel...as my woman. Under my protection.’
Breath seized in her lungs, derived her of speech. She glared at him furiously. ‘I’ll do no such thing!’ she cried, striding around the bed to scoop up her hat from the polished floorboards. ‘You may as well forget the whole thing.’ She clamped her hat on her head, tugging down the sides, approaching him with decisive strides. ‘There’s no way I’m going to go with you...like that! I’m not going to...to lie with you...and that is final!’ Shadowed by the hat’s wide brim, she willed her eyes to spark blue fire, vivid, intense. ‘Kissing me was bad enough, taking advantage of me...but to ask me to do that!’ A dry sob hitched her breath. ‘Let me out of here, please. If I’d known what you would ask of me, I never would have agreed to this. I’m nobody’s whore!’
Ragnar stood with his back to the door, great arms crossed over his chest, watching her tirade with what appeared to be amusement. ‘I’m not asking y
ou to be my whore,’ he replied quietly. ‘You don’t have to sleep with me, Gisela. I would never ask you to do that. We only have to pretend.’
‘Oh!’ His words punctured her spirit, made her stumble back. Understanding swept over her, an icy wind slicing through the heat of her anger. A sense of unfulfilment wrenched at her gut, a wretched desolation sweeping through her. She clapped her palms to her cheeks, embarrassed by her outburst, the unguarded torrent of speech. Had she wanted him to insist that she pay the price of his protection by sleeping with him? By demanding the rights to her body in return? God in heaven!
‘So it’s not going to be quite as bad as you obviously envisaged,’ Ragnar added, as the fury drained from her face.
‘It’s bad enough.’ She wrinkled her nose, hoping he couldn’t read the disappointment in her eyes. ‘Don’t pretend this will be easy.’
‘I wouldn’t dare,’ he responded lightly. He leaned across, his fingers grazing her wrist. Sensation shivered along the delicate hairs on her forearm. ‘Bolt the door behind me while I fetch some clothes for you. Let no one in but me.’
‘Ragnar...’ She stalled him with her words; the door was ajar and he paused with one foot in the corridor. His fingers, tanned and sinewy, rested on the iron latch. ‘I must go to my father and sister...tell them what is happening.’
‘There isn’t time,’ he said. ‘The tide will not wait for us and neither will the longships. Eirik means to cross the river today, to meet with the Saxon king in Jorvik.’ He thought for a moment. ‘I will send a message to your lodgings,’ he said. ‘They can meet us on the beach.’
‘How...?’
But Ragnar had gone, his swift exit snuffing her speech. The door swung shut, the latch rattling into place. Her eyes traced the uneven planks, the knots and whorls in the wood, anxiety flaring in her heart. Her mind struggled to comprehend the speed at which her world had changed in the space of a day, to understand her inexplicable reaction to a man who had thrust into her life like a lightning strike from the heavens, tumultuous and devastating.
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