‘Do you truly think I am that much of an ogre?’ he said, rising to his feet. There was a knock at the door and he opened it, taking a tray of food from the servant who was standing there. He placed the tray on the table set hard against the planked wall, drawing up the two stools so that they could eat.
‘Yes,’ she said. ‘When it comes to this child, I think you might be.’ The baby’s pot of gruel was empty and she placed him back down on the bed, where he sat upright, eyeing her curiously for a moment, before playing with the wavering threads on the blanket.
‘The decision was made, Gisela. You agreed to come and I won’t go back on my word now, however doubtful I am about the outcome.’
‘So you don’t intend to throw both of us in the sea on the way to Denmark.’ She moved across to the table, sliding her frame neatly on to one of the rickety stools.
Her hair was the colour of golden ash, he thought, sitting down opposite her. His big knees hit the underside of the table, lifting it slightly, rattling the pewter dishes above. Gisela had removed her scarf without thinking and his heart gave a small leap of happiness that she was starting to relax in his company. He grinned at her. ‘Now you’re being ridiculous,’ he said. ‘Please tell me you’ve not been thinking of that.’ He stabbed his knife into the slices of cold chicken on the platter, dividing it between their two plates. Bread rolls and mashed swedes, barely warm, completed the frugal fare.
‘It did cross my mind,’ she admitted truthfully.
He snorted with laughter, loading her plate with food until she held up her hand in protest. ‘Then I think you might have a pleasant surprise when you reach Denmark,’ he said. ‘For we are not quite the heathen race that you obviously believe us to be.’
‘Oh, I don’t...’ She picked at a bread roll, her fingers slender, white.
‘Come on, Gisela, there’s no point in trying to hide your feelings. I know what you think of the Danes, of me. We have shared enough over the past few days for you not to be honest with me.’ He stopped, suddenly, realising the full import of his words.
Her cheeks flared with colour, her face burning with the memory of everything they had shared. Delight, a jagged rip of excitement, knifed through her belly.
‘I mean...’
She held up her hand. ‘Nay, please don’t speak of it.’
Tipping back on his chair, Ragnar chucked his bread roll on to his plate. ‘I’m sorry, Gisela, I spoke without thinking.’
She hunched her shoulders forward, immediately self-conscious in his presence. Her hand, placed flat on the table, began to shake; she tucked her fingers quickly into her lap before he noticed the effect he had upon her. ‘It doesn’t matter, Ragnar. I told you that.’ She had no wish to hear how sorry he was, for that was to belittle the experience, to take away the joy and wonder.
‘It does matter, Gisela. If I could live that night again, I would make sure that I behaved very differently.’
I wouldn’t, she thought. I would behave in exactly the same way.
A faint grizzling cry arose from the bed. Torven. Gisela stood up so abruptly that her stool knocked over behind her, hitting the packed earth floor with a thud. ‘I know you regret what you did and that is enough. Please, let’s not talk about it.’
* * *
But I don’t regret it, he thought. Not deep down. He was saying all these things to her, but he didn’t mean them, not really. Not even the guilt he felt at taking her innocence could erase the delicious leap of desire that he experienced every time he thought about the previous night. His body and soul revelled in the sensual memory of her silken flesh laced tightly with his own. He watched her pick up the fretful child, bringing him close to her chest, rocking him gently as she walked around the tiny chamber, pointedly ignoring him. To any outsider peering in, they would be a family: a husband, wife and child, travelling south. Was it such an impossible dream for him to have?
* * *
In the grey light of dawn, Gisela sprang awake. Panic rushed through her, a searing burst of energy jolting along her veins. Fully clothed, she lay on her back beneath a blanket of rough, itchy wool, gradually easing back to full consciousness. Her eyes roamed the ceiling. Thatch poked through the gaps in the rafters, the chamber walls were coarsely plastered; a narrow table held empty plates, stacked, smeared with grease. She remembered: Ragnar...and Torven. Where were they?
Abruptly, she sat up, forcing herself to think, to drive the sluggish process of her brain to full alertness. What had happened last night? After the awkward ending to their meal, she had rocked the baby, then changed his linens. Desperate to be away from her, Ragnar had gone in search of the inn’s midden pit to dispose of the baby’s soiled wrappings, while she had curled on to the mattress with the sleepy baby tucked in to her side. She must have been asleep when he returned. But where was he now? And where had he taken Torven?
Disquiet stirred her chest, a fleeting thread of vague anxiety. Flinging back the cover, she yanked her boots over her woollen stockings, winding her cloak around her shoulders. She flicked her scarf around her head and went outside. The air was much colder this morning, chill droplets of moisture adhering to her skin as she walked down the narrow passageway into the yard. The stables sat opposite the inn in a series of low-arched barns. A voice emerged, low and lilting. Ragnar, talking to someone in the stables.
Darting across the straw-strewn cobbles, between the piles of horse manure, her leather-soled boots made little noise. Reaching the stone curve of the arch, she peeped around. Ragnar stood in front of his horse, Torven held in the crook of his arm. Both were stroking the horse’s nose, Torven chattering away, his eyes wide-eyed with curiosity. Gisela’s mouth gaped open in surprise and she clutched at the wall in disbelief. ‘W-what are you doing?’ she gasped.
Ragnar smiled over at her. ‘He woke very early this morning,’ he explained. ‘I brought him out here so he wouldn’t wake you.’ He thought of the stoical way she had matched his fast pace yesterday, managing to keep her horse level with his despite the extra weight of the baby, never complaining.
A vague blush tinged her cheeks. ‘There was no need. I have had enough sleep.’
‘It was very early,’ he reassured her. When the baby’s fretting and snuffling had woken him, Gisela’s slim frame sprawled on the mattress beside him had immediately drawn his gaze. Her lips had been slightly parted, her head flung back so that the soft, creamy skin of her neck and throat were revealed. Then his eyes had prowled downwards, across the tempting curve of her bosom, the flare of her hips. Scooping up the whimpering baby, he had bolted from the door, gulping in the chill morning air, glad of the cold to douse his desire.
The boy had distracted him. He had spoken some words to him in Norse and found, to his delight, that Torven understood him. They had walked over to the stables, the boy pulling at his chin, tugging the lobe of his ear, in such an easy-going manner that Ragnar couldn’t fail to respond. His sister’s baby, he thought, aware that his initial reaction to the child’s existence was changing. If it hadn’t been for Gisela, he thought, Torven would still be in that Saxon village, being raised as a Saxon.
‘Give him to me,’ said Gisela hurriedly, assuming that Ragnar would not want to hold Torven any longer. ‘Thank you for taking him out, but there was really no need.’
‘I’ve been speaking to him in my language,’ Ragnar ignored her terse protestation, glancing down at Torven’s fluffy head. ‘And he understands me.’
* * *
Gisela moved over to the pair of them, her hem catching at wisps of straw. Two identical sets of emerald eyes fixed on her face. ‘So...’ she ventured tentatively, ‘are you thinking that taking Torven to Denmark is a good idea then, after all?’
The firm contours of his mouth tightened. ‘Gisela, I have no idea. But the little chap is sweet, I have to admit. He looks like a Svendson and he has the Svendson manner about him, no doubt about
that. Despite his father, I cannot find any space in my heart to hate him.’
‘Why not take him on your own then, if you like him so much?’ Gisela replied, her tone acerbic, recalling the awkwardness with which they had finished their meal last night. Leaving him now, before he broke her heart, was surely the sensible thing to do.
‘Oh, no...’ His jewelled eyes roamed her face. ‘I can’t do that. There’s no way I’m taking him on my own. You still have to come with me.’
Chapter Nineteen
The foreshore of the river glittered in the afternoon light. A low tide revealed a vast expanse of stones: white and dry above the water mark, green and thick with algae nearer the river. Below the shingle, below a thin, undulating strip of damp sand, slack water flowed out to sea at a lazy, languorous pace. Seagulls wheeled in the air, grey-white wings outstretched, screeching hoarsely, orange-rimmed eyes swivelling, searching for food. Following the path through the stiff, tall grasses, Ragnar and Gisela headed towards the Danes on the shore. They had traded the horses in the town and walked back out along the raised banks to the place where they had left Ragnar’s men and the Danish longships.
What a difference a matter of days could make, thought Gisela, hitching Torven around on her hip, so that his chubby legs settled comfortably either side of her. Was it only a couple of nights ago that she had travelled with Ragnar, a stranger at her side, along this muddy path and away from here? And now, she glanced at him covertly, it was as if she had known him for ever. A lifetime. He had turned her world upside-down, ransacking every corner, forcing her to confront the reality of her numb, curtailed existence in a rush of vivid sensuality. Of desire. She was not the same person who had left this place. Without Ragnar’s help, she would never have faced up to de Pagenal, or come to terms with the damaging legacy of her scar; without him, she might never have known how to love a man.
Her heart stalled at the realization, a great swoop of unbridled excitement. Aye, she loved him, the stupid, witless woman that she was. He had coerced her into accompanying him back to Denmark, an act of outrageous blackmail, and she still had agreed to go. Any woman with an ounce of sense would have taken that chance to run from him, to take her leave and bid farewell. But it was as if Ragnar, with his polished eyes and quick smile, had bewitched her, bound her tightly with some spell, so she was powerless to do anything except follow him blindly, without question. Her heart would surely be broken. Yet it was a risk she was willing to take.
Trapped in her thoughts, Gisela’s toe stubbed a big stone and she staggered forward, trying to prevent Torven from crashing to the ground in her arms. Ragnar snagged her elbow, preventing her fall. ‘Give me the child,’ he said briskly, lifting the boy from her arms and settling him against his chest.
Her eyes roamed his face, the lean, carved features so familiar to her now. The dip in the bridge of his nose, the firm line of his generous top lip. If she closed her eyes she would be able to recreate in her mind’s eye every last detail of the man who stood beside her. It was laughable, pathetic really. If only he knew the thoughts that churned around her head: how she felt about him, how she loved him. The vulnerability of her spirit in his presence. Fragile. Exposed.
‘What is it?’ he murmured, aware of her intense scrutiny, the enigmatic look in her huge blue eyes. ‘What’s the matter?’
She looked away, across the glimmering expanse of water, tugging irritably at her dress, which had rucked up uncomfortably around her waist. ‘Nothing. I was wondering what your fellow men will make of...us...of the fact that I’m still with you, I mean. If things had gone according to plan, then I would have returned with my brother. I shouldn’t even be here.’ It was a lie, but one that sounded feasible in the circumstances. He could never know the true path of her thoughts. She nodded towards the men on the shore, one tall figure detaching from the group around a fire, and striding up the beach towards them, an arm raised in greeting. The prince.
His chest squeezed against his ribs at the flicker of sadness in her eyes. ‘Life rarely goes according to plan,’ he murmured. ‘The men will think nothing—’
His speech stalled as Eirik clapped him heavily on the shoulder. ‘Ragnar! At last!’ The thick fronds of his hair shone in the sunlight like a raven’s wing, black and glossy. ‘Am I glad to see you! I knew you wouldn’t let me down.’ Eyeing Torven with intense curiosity, he bent down to the child’s level, squinting more closely at the bronze hair, the deep green eyes. He straightened in surprise, a puzzled question crossing his hard features.
‘Aye, you have it right,’ confirmed Ragnar, seeing the same recognition Gisela saw in the other man’s eyes. ‘This is Torven... Gyda’s child. The result of her abduction.’
‘I am sorry,’ said Eirik. His liquid brown eyes moved to Gisela, standing quietly next to Ragnar, roamed across the pearly exquisiteness of her complexion. ‘I thought the babe was yours at first, mistress,’ he addressed her in very bad French. ‘But that would have been quick work!’ His eyes darted significantly from Ragnar back to her, a knowing grin stretching his chin wide. A great gust of laughter rolled up from his lungs.
Despite his garbled vowels, Gisela understood him. A wild, vivid colour chased across her cheeks, a flag of embarrassment. She threw the Danish prince a fierce glare of outrage, before turning her attention to the child in Ragnar’s arms, fussing with his shawl, tucking it more closely around him.
* * *
‘In Odin’s name, what have you done?’ Eirik muttered to Ragnar, switching back to Danish.
‘Exactly what you are thinking,’ Ragnar replied, scowling darkly. ‘I have done her a great wrong, Eirik, but I hope to right it, in time.’
‘And how do you propose to do that when her father waits for her in Bertune? You have no time.’ Eirik shifted his big boots against the shingle, crossing his massive arms across his chest. A couple of pebbles skittered down the slope, rolling out on to the dark sand. ‘For helvede, Ragnar, what were you thinking? She is a noblewoman, a Norman!’
‘She’s coming back to Denmark with us,’ Ragnar supplied. His mouth tightened. ‘I gave her no choice; I wanted to leave the baby with the Saxons, but she insisted that Gyda should have the chance to see him. So...’ he hesitated, unwilling to reiterate how he had persuaded her. Remorse flooded through him.
‘Not only did you sleep with her, you also blackmailed her,’ said Eirik sternly. ‘Hell’s teeth, Ragnar, you can’t do such things! You should be ashamed of yourself.’
‘I know. I am,’ Ragnar replied, bleakly. ‘But I could think of no other way to bring her with me. The child was a godsend in a way, a reason why she had to come with me.’
‘But why? Why not let her go back to her family? Why do you want her to—?’ Eirik broke off, peering closely at Ragnar. He whistled through his white, even teeth. ‘I knew it!’ He placed one hand on his friend’s shoulder, chuckling. ‘You have fallen in love with her. You love her.’
Not understanding one word of their complex language, Gisela stood patiently at Ragnar’s side, twining her slender fingers with Torven’s, jogging his rounded arm up and down as she waited for them to finish talking. The boy laughed, a delicious gurgle of happiness. Ragnar’s gaze drifted across the luminous oval of her face, the generous curve of the mouth that he had kissed, then down across her slim, lithe body. Conscious of his intense scrutiny, her eyes snapped to his; he caught the full force of her shimmering blue gaze, reading the hint of question in her expression. Yanking his gaze away, he turned his attention back to Eirik. ‘Yes,’ he said, his voice hitching on the simple admission. ‘I do.’ Anguish swirled through him, a slow realisation of what he must do. His nerve-endings tingled, a rippling wave of disquiet. The anticipation of losing her. He loved her, yet he was behaving like a bully. He scowled, drawing his shaggy, brindled brows together. Grief coursed through him, leaden weights dragging on the bottom of his chest. He had to give Gisela the choice, the choice to
come back to him of her own free will and love him in return. But after what he had done to her? He would surely lose her.
* * *
‘Tell me what’s happening,’ Gisela said as they walked down the shingle towards the river. Eirik had insisted on taking Torven from Ragnar, carrying him over to the men sitting cross-legged around a large fire. The men fussed over him, some pulling funny faces to make him laugh. Satisfied that they weren’t terrifying the child, her gaze drifted along the shore, to the two vessels hauled up on the beach. ‘Where are the rest of the longships? Surely there were more here when we left?’
‘Eirik has sent them home,’ replied Ragnar, trying to keep his voice on an even keel. His conscience spun in his head, chastising him, urging him to do the right thing, to speak. And yet, he could not. Not yet, at least. For that would be the end. The end of her radiant figure walking at his side, the comforting nudge of her elbow, the pale flare of her braid. Her warm scent, sliding over him, catching him unawares. Her slim body against his own, snared in the heat of their desire. His chest ached with solid pain at the prospect of losing her, splitting in two, as if someone had taken an axe to his heart.
He sighed, winding his arms around the muscled planes of his chest, tucking his fingers beneath his armpits. ‘A message came from Edgar Aethling to say that the Danes were not needed after all. Apparently King William and his barons struck a deal with him, an agreement to negotiate for peace. So, no marching, no fighting.’ He inclined his head to the Danes on the beach. ‘The men are fed up. They want to go home, back to their wives and children, before the weather turns bad for winter.’
‘Ah, I see now. You were gabbling away so fast, I hadn’t a hope of understanding.’
He watched the slight grimace travel over her face, the splash of colour, and thanked Odin that she couldn’t speak Danish. She had no idea of what Eirik and he had been speaking about. No idea that they had been talking about her, about how he felt for her. Loved her. Air trembled beneath his diaphragm, a fluttering leaf of torment. For the first time, in a very long while, he felt genuinely afraid. He couldn’t lose her. How would he ever survive?
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