“But I am not sure you understand. She has a little daughter, at home in France—”
“I know. She told me. But there is naught that can be done.” As he looked down into a woman’s tear-filled eyes for the second time that night, regret tore at him with fresh, sharp claws. “I am sorry.”
Black lashes shaded her blue eyes as she glanced down at the ground. “But I...” Josette chewed at her lower lip, seemed to fight some inner battle. “I am not sure she has told you the full truth.”
“About what?”
“About her husband.” Still biting her lip, Josette lifted her gaze.
Hauk almost told her he did not care. It did not matter. He did not want to know aught more about this man in France who had claimed Avril heart and body and soul. Why should he?
“What of him?”
“I tell you only because it will make you understand why Avril must be set free.” Josette took a breath and spoke quickly. “Avril’s husband Gerard was killed three years ago. She is a widow.”
Hauk felt as if he had just been struck by a shower of hail. He could not speak.
She was a widow. She belonged to no other man.
Belonged to no man but...
He sliced off the last word of that thought. Resisted the quick, hot surge of male possessiveness that shot through him. “It matters not.”
“But do you not see?” Josette asked plaintively. “Little Giselle lost her father before she was even born. You cannot take her mother from her as well. You must let Avril return to her daughter. You must. If you do not, the poor child will be an orphan.”
Hauk turned away from her, feeling the thorns return to his belly. He thought for a moment he was going to be sick.
Had he truly believed this day could get no worse?
“It matters not.” He heard himself repeat the words. Numbly. Like a chant that he might believe if he only said it enough times.
“How can you say that?” Josette gasped. “How can you be so heartless?”
“Keldan, take her inside,” Hauk ground out. He had had enough of everyone pointing out his flaws for one day.
Without another word to either of them, he strode away into the darkness, barely even aware of the direction he took.
He had made a child an orphan.
Chapter 7
The warm touch of the sun against her cheek made Josette stir. She yawned sleepily, listening to birds chirping somewhere outside her window. Oh, but this would not do at all. Her brothers were forever calling her a lazy little feather-wit, and here she was proving them right. Opening her eyes, she blinked in confusion at the scent of warm bread and cinnamon. Who had brought food to her bedchamber?
With a gasp of alarm, she remembered abruptly that she was not in Brittany. She sat up, wondering how she had come to be in the bed.
Bright sunlight poured through the open shutters, along with the summery-green smell of the meadow and the birds’ noisy songs. Brushing her tangled hair out of her eyes, she saw him there: her dark-haired captor, Keldan. Seated at a trestle table on the opposite side of his long, strange dwelling, he was peacefully eating his morning meal.
“Good morn,” he said in broken French, regarding her with a tentative smile. “Sleep well?”
Josette scrambled backward until she came up against the headboard, clutching the blankets to her chin. But he did not move, did not look as if he intended to pounce on her. Yet. She quickly glanced around. He had cleaned away the mess she had created last night, even washed the paneled walls that had been dripping with perfume and wine.
She frowned, trying to remember what had happened after his burly blond friend left them. She had planted herself in the corner, clutching a broken arm of the chair as a weapon, determined to protect her virginity. But she must have eventually fallen asleep.
Blushing, she realized he must have carried her to bed and covered her with the blanket. She gave him an accusing, suspicious stare.
But she was still fully clothed, except for her boots, which sat on the floor beside the bed. And judging by the rumpled bedding on the floor near the table, it appeared he had spent the night over on that side of the room.
He held out a basket filled with bread toward her, as if it were a peace offering. “Hungry?”
“Nay.” Her stomach growled at the tantalizing scent of cinnamon, declaring her a liar. “Nay, I do not want food, I do not want gifts, I do not want to be married to you, and I will not stay here with you for the rest of my life.”
He only shook his head and shrugged, clearly unable to follow her.
“On my oath, this is maddening!” Josette dropped the blankets. “Can you not understand even a word of what I am saying?”
He cocked his head to one side, still smiling at her.
She folded her arms. “I wager I could say anything I want to you. I could even call you a...” She returned his smile and spoke softly, sweetly. “An ugly, swaggering, bug-eyed beef-wit who has the manners of a toad and smells like old socks.”
His grin widened and those dark eyes warmed with what looked like hope.
His reaction to her insults almost made her laugh.
Instead, she sighed. “But none of that would be true,” she admitted reluctantly. “The truth is that you have behaved most chivalrously so far.”
She studied him for a moment, perplexed by this gentle warrior who had abducted her. The lean, muscled width of his shoulders and chest left her no doubt he was strong enough to impose his will by force if he chose. Yet he had not tried to so much as kiss her.
And his angular features, ready smile, and thick, glossy black hair made it impossible to call him ugly.
On the contrary, he was one of the most handsome men she had ever seen. It brought an unfamiliar, fluttery feeling to her stomach to think of him lifting her in his arms last night, carrying her to bed.
“I want to go home,” she said plaintively. “Do you not understand that much? I want to go home.”
“Josette.” He pointed to the floor, his voice gentle. “Home now,”
She understood his meaning—this was her home now. “That is your opinion, beef-wit.”
“Keldan,” he corrected, grinning as if he understood that she was calling him a different, less complimentary name. Again he held out the basket of bread toward her. “Hungry?”
Josette caught her lower lip between her teeth. Thus far, she had refused to cooperate with him in any way.
However, if she starved herself, she would not have the strength to fight him off, if and when he decided to pounce on her.
“Mayhap just one piece,” she said slowly, walking over to the table. She gingerly plucked a small loaf from the basket in his hand. The bread was studded with raisins, soft and warm to the touch, and tasted as heavenly as it smelled.
“Mmmmm.” She closed her eyes, barely even aware of the low sound of pleasure that escaped her.
Keldan uttered a single, tense word in reply, but she was too busy looking down at the array of foods on the table to pay him heed. Biting off another mouthful of the delicious bread, she stared at bowls of bright raspberries and dewy plums. A platter piled high with thinly sliced, roasted meats. A jug of milk with the froth of cream still on top. And oranges.
“Saints’ breath, the last time I saw food such as this...” Josette took a handful of sugared nuts. And a plum, just to keep her strength up. “I do not think any but kings enjoy food such as this for breakfast where I come from.”
A moment later, her hands were so full, she doubted she could carry her booty away without dropping something.
“Josette.” Keldan chuckled.
She glanced up to find him regarding her with amusement sparkling in his brown eyes. He gestured to the empty bench opposite him.
She hesitated. “I do not think I should. Eating breakfast at your table would almost certainly qualify as cooperating.”
Keldan calmly picked up an orange, made short work of the peel, split it, then held half out to
her.
The juice dripped through his long, dark fingers. Josette swallowed hard, wariness battling longing as she contemplated that rare, sweet fruit.
Slowly, cautiously, never taking her eyes from his, she sat down on the empty bench.
“Do not think this means I am giving in,” she informed him, hesitantly taking the orange. “Avril and I will be leaving at the first opportunity. I am...” She paused, unable to wait a second longer, and bit into the treat, transported to heaven by its ripe taste. “I am certain she is planning our escape even now.”
Escape was going to be impossible.
Avril reined the stallion to a halt on one of the hills to the west of Hauk’s keep, telling herself it was only the salty wind and loose strands of her hair that made her eyes burn with dampness. Tree branches and the ocean breeze had tugged her braid into disarray hours ago.
She was right back where she had started from at dawn, when she had set out to explore with high hopes—under the mistaken impression that she could circle the coast in a matter of hours.
All morning she had ridden along the shoreline, to the east and then back to the west, stunned by the vast size of the island. And as the sun had risen, her hopes had fallen.
She had not seen a single ship. Or a harbor. Or so much as one leaky rowboat.
Hauk had told her the truth. It truly seemed as if no one left Asgard Island. And she could guess why: to describe the coastline as inhospitable would be generous. Everywhere, towering cliffs gave way to the sea in a sheer drop, creating a series of narrow inlets. Even in those places where she could see a beach, it was little more than a thin ribbon of sand.
And all around, sharp, massive rocks protruded from the waters like the fangs of some giant, mythical beast, ready to crush in its jaws any passing ship.
Or anyone who dared try to leave here.
She lifted one hand to shade her eyes against the afternoon glare, looking out to sea. If the cliffs and rocks were not daunting enough, a silvery-white fog surrounded the island, hovering above the waves within a few miles of the shore. At first, she had thought it would dissipate when the sun rose, but the accursed stuff lingered, a mist that apparently remained unchanged no matter the time of day.
If it was a permanent feature of the weather here, she now understood how these Vikings had been able to remain hidden in this place so long. A ship could sail right past the island and never know it was here. Even if some sharp-eyed sea captain did notice Asgard, she doubted any but the most expert sailors would risk navigating such treacherous rocks. Especially in a fog like that.
She wiped at her eyes and nudged the stallion forward, the midday sun beating down on her, making her shoulders droop even lower. Though the air felt almost sultry, she shivered at the thought of that fog. It seemed unnatural somehow, reminded her of the mist she had seen around Gaston’s castle on the night before she left for Antwerp.
Shaking her head, she told herself not to be foolish. It was only fog. Harmless. A mere trick of the weather.
She turned the stallion inland, away from the sea and its silvery cloak. She had to find Josette. Avril had not intended to be gone all morning, had hoped to bring good news and a plan for escape back from her ride—and now she felt like both a terrible failure and a terrible friend. Her heart thudding with worry, she prayed that Josette was still safe and well.
She tapped her heels against the stallion’s flanks, galloping down the grassy hillside, heading for the town. Mayhap someone there would help her find her friend. Hauk had said she could visit but had neglected to mention where Josette would be.
The thought of her captor brought an unexpected knot to her stomach. She had been trying all morn not to think about the rough-hewn, perplexing Viking warrior who had brought her to this place. His words and actions last night still mystified her. What kind of man could kidnap her, marry her against her will, keep her from her child—yet also be capable of honor and gallantry, gentleness and concern for her?
And how was it possible that his every glance, his lightest touch, could rob her of reason and kindle unbidden heat within her?
Blushing, she banished Hauk Valbrand from her thoughts. She was supposed to be thinking of escape, not of her captor. For now he was gone, and for that she was grateful.
At least his destrier had proven to be more manageable than its owner. Ildfast responded well to her firm hand on his reins, carrying her swiftly down into the vale and across a rolling meadow. The wind caught at her braid and her skirts as she rode, the air thick with the scents of foliage and flowers in bloom. All around her, the sun blazed over tall grasses that danced in the wind.
The village that lay ahead had been built on a green, fertile plain, between the ocean on one side and a small range of mountains on the other. She could just discern the outline of the craggy peaks in the distance.
She might have called this place beautiful, Avril thought grudgingly, were she a willing visitor.
She slowed the destrier to a trot as she drew near the town, which was much larger than it had seemed from a distance last night. From here she could see scores of rooftops, large and small, of wood or thatch or stone. One odd fact made her brow furrow in puzzlement: There were no walls around this village. No towers, no gates, no defensive barriers of any kind. Not so much as a single sentry on patrol.
Her heart thudded. These people would not leave their homes so vulnerable to attack—unless they trusted that the cliffs and the rocky coast and the fog truly made it impossible for anyone to invade their island.
Or for anyone to escape.
The destrier’s hooves clattered on flat, smooth cobbles that paved a wide street as she entered the town’s outskirts. People bustled about their daily tasks—men, women, children. The air buzzed with dozens of conversations in that incomprehensible Norse tongue. Two boys of about fifteen walked by with fishing poles over their shoulders. Housewives leaned on windowsills, chatting with friends. A blacksmith’s hammer rang out on an anvil. A dog yapped at a squawking gaggle of geese.
Glancing around, Avril felt astonished. After being surrounded by a brawny sea of muscular Vikings last night, she had not expected to find the town so peaceful, so... normal. One by one, every head turned her way, and people slowly set aside their baskets and bundles and tools and pitchforks and stared at her.
Avril’s pounding heart seemed to fill her throat. For an instant, she regretted leaving behind the brooch Hauk had pinned to her last night. She refused to wear a badge of ownership that marked her as his.
But how would these people receive a strange woman in their midst? Especially when she looked a sight, as Avril knew she must, with her hair all askew and her gown stained with perspiration and dirt from her long ride. Might they be unpleasant, even hostile?
Several in the crowd started animated conversations with their fellows, gesturing at her and speaking quickly. Everyone gazed up at her with expressions of amazement and avid curiosity.
Then a few began to smile. Some called out what sounded like greetings.
And they all quickly left their work behind to gather around her, bowing or inclining their heads. Avril’s hand tightened on the reins and she drew the stallion up short, startled by the gestures of respect.
Ildfast tossed his head and she abruptly remembered that she was riding Hauk’s stallion. And from what little he had told her, he held a position of some importance among these people.
Apparently his wife—or rather, the woman they believed to be his wife—was due a certain amount of honor.
“Good... good day to you,” she said uncertainly, wishing more than ever that she knew a word or two of their tongue. Her whole life, she had been enamored of languages. Words in all their vivid colors fascinated her the way that spices in a kitchen fascinated other women. But now when she needed the skill most, it availed her naught. “Do any of you speak French?”
She doubted they could even hear her over the din. Her arrival was creating quite a commotion. Dozen
s more people came out of their dwellings to take a look at her. Before she knew what was happening, someone thrust a bouquet of flowers into her hands. Then a basket full of fruit.
“Wait... nay... I do not want any gifts. I need to find my friend. I—”
Ildfast snorted and reared skittishly. One of the men took hold of the reins to calm him. Someone else tucked a flower into his bridle. Before Avril or her horse could protest further, they were being led through the town in a festive procession. Someone started to sing a song.
“Wait, wait,” Avril cried, baffled at the way these people seemed so overjoyed to meet her. “I do not have time for this. Please, I must find my friend Josette—”
“Avril!”
Avril turned to see Josette pushing her way through the throng. “Oh, thank God!” She slipped from Ildfast’s back, thrust her armful of goods toward the nearest happy villager, and rushed into her friend’s embrace.
Josette wrapped her in a fierce hug. “Avril—”
“Josette, sweet mercy, are you all right?” Avril stepped back to hold her at arm’s length, breathless with relief to find her safe. “Hauk told me that you would not be harmed, but I was not certain I could believe—”
“Do not worry over me, Avril. I am fine. It was you I was concerned about. After breakfast this morn, Keldan and I stopped by your vaningshus—”
“Who? My what?”
“Vaningshus. That is their word for these odd dwellings of theirs.” She indicated the homes along the street, most built in the same style as Hauk’s: long structures made of stone, with roofs covered in thatch or overlapping squares of tree bark.
“And who is Keldan?”
“That is his name.” She indicated the tall, dark-haired man who elbowed his way through the crowd until he stood at her side—the man who had “married” her in last night’s ceremony.
“He speaks only a few words of French,” Josette continued, hooking an arm through Avril’s and leading her down the street. Some of the festive crowd followed along, one of them bringing Ildfast. “I cannot understand most of what he says, but he has been quite kind.”
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