“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. “Wha
t 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.
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