‘Draw your dagger,’ the Norseman commanded without looking back at her. The whisper of his own twin blades being pulled from their leather sheaths accompanied his words.
She drew it slowly, as guilt once more made itself known. He didn’t know. He was bent on protecting her still, not even realising that she was about to betray him.
‘These men are not friends of that man at the tavern,’ she said.
He turned his head partially towards her while keeping them in his sight. ‘Thieves, then?’
She slipped away before he could react, moving towards the group. ‘Not thieves,’ she said, turning to face him.
He understood then. For one moment before the fury took over, the hurt of betrayal flashed in his eyes.
Alder took advantage of his distraction and cracked him across the back of his skull with the hilt of his blade. The Norseman crumbled to a heap on the stones.
Despite the fact that she told herself she did this to protect them all from him, watching him fall very nearly broke her heart.
CHAPTER TWO
Rurik opened his eyes to blackness. The complete absence of light was like waking up in the dark, rank depths of the earth. He blinked, wondering briefly if he had gone blind, but it did not help. The air was heavy and still, the silence so complete that it gave rise to a roaring in his ears. Had he died and been condemned to this fate of nothing? The idea brought with it a swell of panic that tightened his lungs and made the air too heavy to breathe.
He tightened his fists and the tips of his short fingernails bit into the heel of his hand, the pain bringing back rational thought. No, he was not dead. Captured, but not dead. He had awakened several times in the back of a wagon, but had almost immediately fallen back into unconsciousness. Anger at the turn of events threatened to overtake him, but he managed to keep a hold on it. Fear and rash impulses would not help him. His father’s blood ran strong in his veins and it often urged him to act on his fury. He’d had years to practise keeping it contained and he would continue to control it in death if need be.
Taking several deep breaths, he dared not move until he knew exactly what he was up against. Subtle shapes and shadows incrementally revealed themselves to him as he lay still. The sweet scent of fresh straw met his nose while he became aware of a few pieces poking him in his back. The pleasing smell could not, however, cover up the rank and stagnant air of the mysterious place. There was no way to be certain of how long he had lain there, but already a chill had settled deep into his bones. Now that the panic and roaring had subsided somewhat, he could hear that there was a constant dripping of water in the near distance. He must be underground.
Had the Saxons buried him alive in the depths of a crypt?
As his eyes slowly adjusted to the near absence of light, the craggy nooks and jagged points of the stone wall at his side came into focus and he knew that he was right. This was not one of the wattle-and-daub buildings he had seen in the village. He was underground.
He sat up and lifted a hand to the pounding at the back of his head. The clanging of the chain registered almost as quickly as the weight of the cuff pulling at his wrist. Letting out a low curse that seemed overly loud in the deathly silence of the chamber, he switched to his other hand. The place where he had been struck on his head was tender, but thank the gods his fingers did not come back sticky with blood. There was no open wound to contend with.
Reasonably certain that he would live, though for how long he had no idea, Rurik rose. His bare feet encountered the cold floor as a wave of dizziness overcame him, so he put a hand out to the slimy wall to keep himself upright. His stomach churned and his mouth tasted bitter. In the moments before he had been attacked, he had felt off balance and nearly giddy. Some part of him had worried that those reactions had been because of the woman. Now he understood that he had been poisoned. The sweet and bitter taste of the ale had included an elixir meant to unsettle him.
It had made him lower his guard so well that he had nearly kissed the wench against the wall where anyone could have overtaken him—and had. It was a relief to know that it wasn’t she who had made him forget himself, but the potion. The knowledge still rankled, but it was better than the alternative. Rurik was not Danr, who had a habit of forgetting himself where women were concerned.
There came a scraping sound, like iron being dragged over stone, followed by the brisk scrape of a boot. He immediately reached for his knife, habit overcoming the knowledge that it had been taken from him. He cursed inwardly at its absence. The bone-handled knife had been handed down to him from his mother, the only remnant of his Irish heritage he had. Drawing himself up, Rurik waited for his jailer to approach, even his toes tensed in anticipation against the cold floor. Though the large clasps holding his fur to his tunic at the shoulders were missing, his fur had been left for him. He soundlessly dropped it to the ground, wanting his arms and hands free should he need to defend himself.
The flickering glow from an oil lamp revealed the vertical bars keeping him inside moments before the woman appeared. He recognised the wench from the tavern immediately. She wore the same violet cloak as before, only the hood was pushed down so it lay on her back. The tavern’s light had been dim at best, revealing what he had thought to be highlights of russet in her hair, but with the full light of the lamp upon it, he could see that she was auburn haired. The tresses were nearly as bright as the flame.
The moments before he had been hit were a blur and he hadn’t been certain if the memory of her walking to join the men had been a true one. He had a particular dislike of liars. He had been surrounded by liars his entire life. His own father was one of the best he had ever known, never telling his twin sons the truth of their birthright, that King Feann was indeed their uncle. He’d had to learn that bit of information from King Feann himself after confronting him about the massacre. In the years since the wedding, Rurik had added betrayers to his list of dislikes. To arrive as a friend only to wreak destruction was a cowardly act.
This woman was both a liar and a betrayer. She had pretended to be a seductress to lure him outside all while she had been plotting his destruction. She had known his attackers. She had moved to join their ranks just before their leader had delivered the blow that had sent him hurtling into darkness.
‘I am glad to see you awake,’ the woman said, with no hint of her earlier friendliness.
‘You might have ordered your men not to bash my head if you wanted me awake.’ His voice was low and hardly able to contain his anger. She gave a slight wince at his words, but it might just as easily have been an effect of the flickering light.
‘It was necessary to get you here,’ she said.
A quick survey revealed that he was surrounded by stones on three sides. The width was barely enough to allow him to lie down. The iron bars made up the fourth side and they were placed close together so he had no hope of ever squeezing through them. The ceiling was so low that had he been any taller he would have had to stoop to stand upright. It was a cage for an animal and he was the animal trapped inside.
‘How long have I been here?’ Low-burning fury gave his voice a smoky rasp that fairly trembled with his effort to keep it under control.
‘Not very long. It’s not yet morning.’ Her voice was strong as her gaze held his. She seemed unaffected by the anger in his.
He hoped the fact that he was nearly recovered meant his head injury was not severe. ‘You would do well to let me go.’
‘If you answer my questions truthfully, then perhaps I will have no reason to keep you.’
He stalked closer to the bars, hoping to intimidate her by his larger size. ‘You don’t think I’ve come alone, do you? My men will know that you have taken me. They will come for me.’
It was not even remotely true. His misguided pride had sent him out on this quest alone and now he was paying the price for such a brash decision. King Feann had offered
to send men with him in an effort to assuage his own guilt for his part in the massacre. Rurik had not been prepared to accept his help. The sting of Sigurd’s impulsiveness running in his blood had never been felt as strongly as it did now.
She shrugged, appearing unconcerned. ‘Your men are not a problem.’
Changing tactics, he asked, ‘Where am I?’
‘Mulcasterhas.’ Giving him a little smile, she added, ‘Isn’t that where you wanted to be? I’m told you were asking many questions about my home.’
Mulcasterhas was the home of Wilfrid, the Lord of Glannoventa. Rurik and Alarr had spent the past months in Éireann, getting close to King Feann of Killcobar to question him about leading the attack on their family. While the King had admitted his part—that he had gone to Maerr to avenge his sister who had been taken years ago by Sigurd—he had not been the one to deliver the death blow to their father. His confession had revealed that this man named Wilfrid had been involved. Alarr had stayed behind in Éireann with his new wife, Feann’s foster daughter, while Rurik had come alone to seek vengeance against Wilfrid, a man he did not know but already despised immensely.
‘You are Annis.’ Since arriving earlier that day, he had learned from the villagers that Wilfrid’s only son had long been dead, but that he had a daughter.
‘Lady Annis.’
It might have been unintentional, but her chin moved up a notch and her eyes flashed with indignation. Her eyes were dark and striking against her pale skin. With finely arched cheekbones and a delicate chin, she was as lovely as he had thought her to be at the tavern, but now she seemed to have a thread of iron running through her, where before she had been more yielding. A ruse, no doubt, to lure him in for her scheme. She was anything but yielding.
Anger simmered to the surface at the look she gave him. How dare she appear so arrogant when her own father had likely been the one to kill his father? ‘I have no trouble with you, Lady Annis. My trouble is with your father. Send him to me!’ It was impossible to keep his voice from rising on that last demand.
‘Wilfrid is my father-in-law and I will not simply turn him over to you. You are a prisoner and are in no position to make demands, Norseman.’ Her voice cracked like a whip through the heavy air.
The chain bound to his right arm stopped him from reaching the bars, but if he angled his body just right he could reach them with his left. So that was what he did. His fist curved around the cold bar and he pulled himself as close to her as he could get. To her credit, she didn’t back away. Whether she had done this standoff a number of times with other prisoners, or if she simply knew he had no hope of reaching her no matter how hard he tried, he didn’t know. But his grudging respect for her moved up a notch. There were many men who had crumpled beneath the withering heat of his anger. It was the one trick he had learned from his father that he found useful.
‘Any man who would send a woman to fight his battles for him is no man at all. I demand to see Wilfrid. Send him to me or kill me now, because I will not resort to using a woman as my messenger.’
If it was possible, the fire in her eyes turned into a full blaze. ‘Then you are free to rot down here as long as it takes for you to lower yourself to speak to a woman. There is a bucket of water and a bucket for your necessaries. Enjoy the rest of your day.’
To his utter astonishment, she set the lamp down on the ground and left, her footsteps echoing down the walkway. He counted ten footfalls before she made her way up the steps leading out of the cellar. There were twelve of those. The door scraped across the stone step as it clanged shut behind her.
Letting out a curse, he banged the heel of his hand against the bars until pain vibrated up his arm. His gaze fell on to the buckets she had mentioned that he had not noticed before. Indeed, one was filled with water and the other was empty. Gingerly picking up the one with water, he moved it across the cell and sat down on the straw to take a long drink and cure his parched throat. It tasted of oak, but was otherwise clean.
The only good thing to come of the exchange was that he was fairly certain Wilfrid was here. His initial questions for the villagers in Glannoventa had produced troubling answers. It seemed that no one had seen Wilfrid for quite some time. One shopkeeper had told him that he was off travelling and spent most of his time in the company of the Northumbrian King. Another had told him that Wilfrid was visiting the Dane, Jarl Eirik, in the east. A fisherman’s wife had overheard and laughed, saying that he was chasing a ghost. Wilfrid had not been seen since early summer. There were rumours that he had died. It seemed that no one knew the whereabouts of their lord.
At least now Rurik knew he was close. Annis had not said he was not here, only that Rurik should send his message through her. But then, she had not said Wilfrid was here either. Rurik had allowed his anger to take control, knowing that anger would not serve him well in this. Perhaps he had used the wrong tactic to deal with her. She was obviously proud and given to righteous indignation. It would have been better to attempt to charm her and remind her of how easy things had been between them earlier in the tavern than to attack her with his words.
The problem was that he did not know how to go about it. He had never worried about charming a woman. The women in his past had made it known that they were interested in a quick tumble and he had obliged them. He had no immediate interest in marriage so he had never had the need to speak pretty words. He cursed again and fell back on his straw bed. If only Danr were here, he would have already found a way to charm her into the cell.
* * *
The scrape of the door above the steps woke him. Rurik sat up, surprised to find he had slept. The herbs must have lingered in his blood, luring him to sleep as he had lain on his bed of straw wondering how to proceed. He felt much better this morning. There was still an ache in his head, but it no longer throbbed. Whatever had been put into his ale had passed so he felt like himself again. The steady scrape of boots on stone told him Annis returned even before the light from the oil lamp lit up her hair.
She stood before him in a finely made gown of blue wool, embroidered with amber-coloured thread at the sleeves. A cloak in a deeper shade of blue clung to her shoulders, this one without a hood. She looked every bit the Lady of Glannoventa and he wondered how he could ever have mistaken her for a common wench at the tavern. It wasn’t simply her clothing or the way she held herself that made her appear noble. There was something in her face, her eyes as she gave him a cool, superior look, that placed her in that class.
Something akin to attraction swirled in his belly. Akin, because had it been mere attraction, he could have identified it as such. Last night he would have called it something as base as desire. This was more. It was admiration and awe mixed with temptation. The effect was staggering. He could see himself clearly for the fool he had been at their previous meeting. Matching words with her would not get him what he wanted.
‘Lady Annis.’ He was sure to keep his tone even, though fury still burned through his veins.
The quirk of one eyebrow was the only acknowledgement of her surprise. ‘Norseman.’
Hoping that he adequately disguised his anger, he asked, ‘Are you here because you’ve reconsidered letting me out? Because if so, I accept your offering of peace.’ It was a horrible jest, but it seemed to work.
Her lips twitched in the beginnings of a smile and he breathed a little easier. This would go much faster if he could rekindle their ease from the tavern.
‘I am sorry to say that I cannot.’ She looked down at the food she had brought, a bowl of some sort of stew in a thin broth. ‘Here. I do not intend for you to go hungry.’
The bowl was just small enough to fit between the bars. She did not seem to worry that he might grab her hand or otherwise harm her. Whether that was from sheer arrogance, or inexperience, he did not know. Though harming her while still being locked inside would hardly get him anywhere, so perhaps she merely took him
for a reasonable man.
A memory came to him from several years ago, long before the massacre. He and his twin had been sent on a mission by their father to a kingdom in the south. The purpose of the voyage had been so minor that Rurik could not recall the specific details, but one of their stops along the way had been at a farm where they had spent the night. The home had been crowded with several families living there and several of the various daughters had taken a liking to them. Danr, however, had only wanted the haughty one who also happened to be the most beautiful. Likely because of her disinterest, she had been sent to serve them their meal and Danr had set about charming her. The girl had stood little chance and, before the night was over, she had figured out a way to disappear with him outside.
Rurik stared into Annis’s eyes and, when he reached forward, he allowed his fingertips to brush over the tender inside of her wrist. It was a gentle touch, but it was enough. Just as the haughty daughter had reacted to Danr’s touch, so Annis did to his. Her lips parted silently and she dropped her gaze to his touch. Most tellingly, she stepped back as he took the bowl from her. Rurik found himself swallowing the tiny flame of awareness that warmed his own hand. Disgust at himself mingled with that attraction and he did not know what to do with the competing notions.
‘I need you to tell me why you demand to see Wilfrid.’ She spoke as if the moment had not happened.
Shaking his head, he said, ‘I must talk to him myself. I misspoke last night. It has nothing to do with you being a woman and more to do with the fact that the matter is private. I would determine whether he is the Wilfrid I seek before casting public accusations.’ He did intend to verify the man had been at the wedding before killing him. He had resolved not to involve any more innocents if it could be avoided.
‘I am his only relation and a trusted advisor. You can tell me and I can assure you it will not become public.’
Harlequin Historical May 2020--Box Set 2 of 2 Page 3
