“You need to stop running from the man.” Gladys snorted. “Put him out of his misery.”
Rhiannon scowled back. “I don’t want to talk to him.”
“Gladys,” Modwen warned gently, trying to defuse the growing tension.
Gladys crossed her arms over her ample chest and glared down her slim nose. “No, we all entered into to these marriages. At least you know your future husband beforehand, which is more than can be said for us.”
“I will not wed,” Rhiannon gritted out.
“You won’t have a choice,” Gladys said coldly, her eyes hard. “If you do not wed, you will have to leave.”
Rhiannon’s face drained of colour, all words of protest falling away, a bleak and grim future opening up to her.
“Gladys,” Modwen warned with a hint of growl usually reserved for bringing her children under control. “I’m sure it will not come to that. Once Rhiannon has had time to calm down, I’m sure she will make the right decision.”
It went unsaid that marriage was the only decision. Rhiannon wrapped her arms around her middle and clutched herself tighter, suddenly chilled to the bone. She wandered out the door in a daze. She had never once considered what the alternative would mean. Turning Gladys’ words over in her head, she followed the strained bellow of the cow she was supposed to be milking and became lost in the simple task.
“So, this is where you’ve been hiding.”
Rhiannon jerked her head up, the sudden movement unbalancing her, and she fell hard on to her tender backside with a solid thump. But she raised her hand, clutching the pail in triumph, not a single drop spilt. To waste food after the village had been on the brink of starvation was unthinkable. Panting, she blew strands of hair out of her eyes, and Bjorn threw his head back and roared with laughter. Rhiannon’s cheeks suffused with heat and, hugging the pail to her chest like it was her firstborn, she rolled to her knees.
Bjorn grasped her elbows with steadying hands and helped her to rise. “You are a hard woman to find.”
Her gaze fixed on the brooch at his shoulder, Rhiannon mumbled, “I had work to do.”
“How is your backside?” he asked offhandedly, like he was commenting on the weather.
The pail almost slipped once again from her fingers. She twisted her head to see if there was anyone lingering close by, but the lean-to was deserted. The corners of his lips quirked, and he appeared relaxed, carefree, the look inviting her to laugh with him, but it just irritated her. When she didn’t answer, the grin grew, as did her temper.
“That bad, huh? Perhaps you would like me to check?”
Rhiannon swallowed her tongue, the image taking root in her mind and blooming of its own accord, and she flexed her toes, curling them in her boots.
“I’ll survive.” Rhiannon sniffed, wrapping the remains of her tattered dignity about her and setting the pail safely away before she gave in to temptation and upended it over his head. Placing her palms in the small of her back, she stretched, moaning as her joints creaked, the tightness easing.
She found Bjorn frowning at her.
“You work much too hard. Once we are wed, I have thralls who will do these tasks,” he stated, as if their marriage was a foregone event.
It wasn’t in her mind.
“Now, why did you run from me earlier?” he asked, leaning against the stall. “You’ve been avoiding me.”
Her cheeks burned to the point they would have glowed in the dark. “I didn’t see you,” Rhiannon muttered, the lie blatant.
Bjorn curled his finger, dipping the knuckle under her chin, and with persistent pressure, raised her head. Rhiannon stared into his dark face and had to fight not to take a step back at his glower.
“Don’t lie to me,” he bit out, his face set in stern lines. “My first wife lied to me as often as she told the truth, and I don’t like it. You can disagree with me, but do not lie to me.”
Rhiannon blinked. His first wife? He’d been married before?
“Do you understand?” he demanded.
He ran his thumb back and forth across her lower lip, belaying the harshness of his words, and her heart beat faster. That heat built between her legs, and her stomach trembled. No, no, no! What was he doing to her?
Rhiannon jerked her head back, desperate to put distance between them. “Fine, I was avoiding you because I have nothing to say and you have not changed my mind.”
“Now that wasn’t so hard, was it?” Bjorn asked, his previous good mood returning.
Rhiannon shivered, having glimpsed the ruthless warrior that lurked beneath those laughing eyes. Bjorn was not a man to be crossed lightly.
Turning her nose up in the air, she beat a hasty retreat, only for his thick arm to bar the way.
“We need to talk, Rhiannon. I understand you are wroth over the marriage, but did you honestly have no idea? After all the time we spent together? Am I so unappealing as a husband?”
How could she even try to begin to explain? That she was being torn in two, that she was drawn to him but afraid. So afraid. “You don’t understand,” she blew out, responding at last. “We do not suit.”
Before she could guess his next action, with one hand he cupped her breast and lightly pinched the nipple through her shirt. Rhiannon inhaled sharply.
“I think that we suit well enough,” he said. “We desire each other at the very least.”
“Is that what this feeling is?” She gasped, frowning and struggling to suck in another breath. “Desire?” Bjorn’s face softened, and his touch turned tender, the pad of his thumb making circular motions on her nipple, and the bud hardened for him. “Yes, little warrior, you will find yourself never wanting in my bed.”
Fear blasted her, and she shivered. It was like someone had thrown cold, slimy pondweed down the back of her tunic. Rhiannon took a step back, and seizing the forgotten pail, she held it between them as a barrier. The look of confusion crossing Bjorn’s face stabbed her and hammered into her how broken she was. She skirted the edge of the lean-to, keeping the farthest distance between them.
“I’m sorry,” Rhiannon threw the inadequate words over her shoulder and scurried away.
Bjorn spied a tight-lipped Feidelm talking to an equally worried-looking Eithne, their lips moving furiously, speaking under their breath. Bjorn shrugged off the sense of foreboding. Both women were imminently sensible and could handle most problems between them. Eithne approached, a deep frown marring her face, and that feeling of wrongness intensified, settling like a weight in his stomach.
“Have you seen Rhiannon? She was meant to be gathering kindling for the fire, but that was hours ago?” Eithne asked, hesitating, like she was choosing her words with care.
Bjorn gave a laugh that held no humour. “No, I haven’t seen her in days. She has proven quite adept at avoiding me.” The wench was never in one place long enough for him to run his quarry to ground, leaving him bad-tempered and sullen. He missed his little warrior—he shifted uneasily—more than he would care to admit.
When Feidelm paled further, he was quick to temper his words. “But I’m sure she is well.” Eithne turned her attention to the others who were gathered in the village square and posed the same question. Heads shook in the negative. A search was mounted, and it soon became apparent that no one had seen Rhiannon since early that morning. Eithne paced and wrung her hands.
“She’ll turn up,” Ailsa offered, placing a gentle hand on Eithne’s shoulder. “She always does.”
Feidelm bit her lower lip, worrying it between her teeth, and shook her head. “No, I feel something is wrong.” She whirled around and headed back to the cottage she shared with Rhiannon, Eithne hot on her heels.
His heart seeming to beat in his throat, Bjorn trailed at the back of the group, helpless not to follow.
“Her belongings are gone!”
At Feidelm’s cry, he ran to the door, bracing his hands on the frame.
“What?” Bjorn demanded, his gaze scouring the cold, darkened room.
The fire was completely out, empty. He tightened his grip on the wood, and it whined in protest.
“All her things are gone,” Eithne said faintly, slowly turning back to him, her eyes glazed like she wasn’t really seeing him. “Rhiannon wouldn’t leave us, would she?”
His gut clenched at the faintly whispered words.
“I’ll find her tracks,” Ailsa shouted behind him.
He turned in time to witness Ailsa’s fast feet taking her south to the village and towards the woods.
“Ailsa, wait,” Thorolf called after her, but it was too late, she was already entering the woods. Thorolf cursed under his breath, muttering, “How many times do I have to tell her the woods are not safe?” The eagled-eyed warrior took off swiftly in the direction of his wife.
“Why would she leave us?” Eithne demanded, agitated, swinging between upset and anger like a boat bucking upon stormy seas.
It was enough to give Bjorn the feeling akin to seasickness, but that might have something more to do with the numbness invading his body.
“I thought she was resigned to this marriage?” she asked aloud, talking to no one in particular.
Glady’s gaze flickered away to the ground, and Bjorn’s suspicions were instantly raised. He wasn’t the only one to notice.
Eithne bore down on the woman, as if scenting that guilt. “What did you do, Gladys?” Eithne demanded, her soft voice unnerving. When the woman didn’t answer, just shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, Eithne raised her voice, the words unfurling and snapping out. “What did you do?”
“I just mentioned what you originally said, that if we didn’t wed, we had to leave.” Gladys shrugged.
Eithne bit out a curse. “Why? Why would you do that?”
Bjorn swore softly under his breath. The foolish woman. Didn’t she realise she had presented Rhiannon with an alternative, that she appeared to have latched on to it with both hands?
Gladys folded her arms. “You coddle her,” she accused. “You allow her special treatment so that she doesn’t have to pull her weight.”
“Pull her weight?” Eithne screeched.
Several people took a step back, and Bjorn’s brow disappeared into his hairline at Eithne’s unheard of display of temper.
“You know why she fears marriage and you said that to her?” Eithne hissed, advancing, eyes flashing, building momentum. “Who was it who went out hunting with fever wracking her body because we were starving?”
Gladys stumbled back a step, and her husband, Steinn, was instantly there to steady her. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean… mean for this to happen.”
Gladys’ words didn’t even faze Eithne, who kept coming. “Who among us worked until her hands bled to get the crops planted?”
Bjorn tensed, ready to separate between the two women, and Steinn, apparently having a similar thought, moved Gladys behind him.
“Who has been the first to step between us and danger again and again without any thought to her safety?” Eithne asked. “I agree she should wed, but not like this.”
Her face peeking around her husband, Gladys paled further.
Feidelm stepped forward, and she appeared to age overnight, the slight stoop to her shoulders hinting at a fragility. “She’s out there all alone.” Her pupils narrowed to pinpricks, and she breathed like she couldn’t get enough air.
The words hammered home the dangers facing a lone woman, and Bjorn speared his fingers through his hair. Odin’s balls, what a mess. Feidelm shook her head, and he watched her straighten and regain control.
“I need to find her,” she stated.
The determined gleam in her eyes told him she would not rest until her daughter had returned. That was just what they needed, two women out there instead of one. As she reached for her cloak, Bjorn placed a hand on her shoulder, halting her.
“I will find her,” he promised, his pride taking a beating. Knowing his prospective bride preferred to leave all she held dear rather than wed him wasn’t a pleasant realisation.
Feidelm’s eyes flared, and she shook off his hand. “No, she is my daughter—”
“Who will be my wife,” Bjorn reminded her, but not unkindly. “It is time she learns I am not a man to be crossed.”
Feidelm looked set to argue further, and Bjorn was beginning to realise Rhiannon had inherited that stubborn pride from both her parents.
Mercifully, Ailsa popped back up and prevented any further discussion. “I’ve found her trail through the wood before turning south-east.”
A moment later, Thorolf came crashing back, red-faced and clutching his side in what appeared to be a stitch. “Woman,” he gasped and pointed a finger in her direction, “you—” He collapsed back down, and words failed him. Thorolf sucked in a great breath and tried again. It was comical to see his friend brought low by his little slip of a wife. His lips curled of their own accord despite the seriousness of the situation. “We…we will be…discussing this…later.”
“Only if you can catch me, husband,” Ailsa shot back smugly.
Thorolf’s eyes narrowed, and with supreme effort, he straightened, towering above his wife’s slim build, looking more than ready to take up her challenge. Any other time, Bjorn would have been content to watch the two square off against each other, amused even. But now each moment he delayed, Rhiannon took another footstep from him.
“My thanks, Ailsa,” Bjorn said gruffly, heading off the woman before she pushed Thorolf any further. “Are you able to show me where her trail begins when I am ready to leave?”
Ailsa nodded once, and Bjorn turned in the direction of the cottage to gather supplies, Brandr following his steps closely.
“Take whatever you need,” Brandr instructed under his breath. “Rhiannon is strong, swift, and determined. Do you have enough of your strength back to catch her?”
Bjorn gave a clipped nod, grinding his teeth. He had yet to fully recover but he was still more than a match for the wench. The little fool. He smacked his palm against the wooden frame of the house, frustration boiling over. They’d heard the report of attacks up and down the coast; it wasn’t safe at the best of times.
Eithne entered and, cocking her head to one side, said without preamble, “Did she respond when you kissed her?”
Bjorn choked. The impudence of the woman! He was not one to explain himself, but the importance she placed once again on the strange question gave him pause.
“Aye.” Bjorn sighed in exasperation, throwing his hands up in the air. “I wanted to make sure I was taking a difficult bride, not an unwilling one.”
She nodded, satisfied, and Brandr came up behind his wife, wrapping his arms about her middle. “I’ve never known such a skittish virgin,” he commented offhandedly.
“She’s not a virgin,” Eithne interrupted.
Bjorn froze in the act of reaching for a water skin. What? He turned and folded his arms, looking at Eithne expectantly, but she didn't continue.
“Go on,” he prompted impatiently.
Picking at her skirt nervously, Eithne wouldn’t meet their curious gazes, and Bjorn’s heart fell. It was going to be bad.
“You’ve seen her restless spirit,” Eithne started slowly. “Rhiannon was barely more than a girl when a group of Eanfrith’s band found her, alone.”
Bjorn curled his hands into fists. Dear, sweet Freya, he hadn’t expected this. Raw, impotent fury fired his blood, and he wanted to strangle the bastards who had dared to hurt her with his bare hands and watch while he choked the life from their eyes.
Eithne grimaced. “I’m sure I don’t need to go into the details, but she only knows of pain at a man’s hand, not of the pleasure to be found with the right man.” Her fingers laced through Brandr’s, and her voice became hoarse. “She fought them with everything she had, and we didn’t think she would live. She has never spoken of it, will not acknowledge what happened to her.” She pinned Bjorn with her gaze. “I tell you this because you need to understand she lashes out in fear, not in defiance.
Rhiannon was changed that day, but with your help she may change again.” Understanding dawned. She wasn’t running from him but a ghost of a memory.
“I’ll bring her back safely,” he promised, silently vowing to protect her with his life if need be.
“I’m trusting you to do the right thing by Rhiannon.” Eithne smiled sweetly. “Harm her, and I will slice off your manhood and feed it to you.”
Bjorn blinked, and Brandr just shook his head, but there was amusement sparking in his eyes. Then the woman that had just cold-bloodedly threatened him became her regular self. “You have no time to lose. Rhiannon knows these lands like the back of her hand, and the only one faster than her is Ailsa.”
He closed his eyes and let the monumental task in front of him sink in for a moment. That woman was going to be the death of him.
“Still liking the challenge?” Brandr asked with a smug grin.
Bjorn wanted to punch him. Instead, he settled for a scowl.
“Aye,” he said darkly. “It’ll make our reckoning all the sweeter.” Already he was imaging his retribution once he had her safe in his keeping. He would make his displeasure known on her curvy bottom, turning it the colour of a ripe cherry under his palm, with nothing but the sweet sounds of contrition tumbling out of her mouth. Savouring the thought, Bjorn savagely yanked the strings closed on his pack.
Chapter 6
The back of Rhiannon’s neck prickled, and she reached a hand back to scratch at it, but it did nothing to relieve the irritating itch. She flicked her gaze over her shoulder, checking for the hundredth time that she wasn’t being followed. Nothing that she could see anyway; the track was barren. The unusually fair weather made the days unseasonably hot and the nights cold, and she was miserable. Rhiannon missed home; she even missed Bjorn and his quiet humour and teasing. Ignoring the gnawing ache in the centre of her chest, she rolled her shoulders, feeling the weight of her pack, trying to shake off the oppressive sensation, and pressed wearily forward. The hard, fast pace she had set for the last three days was taking its toll, and she doubted her decision to leave. She knew Bjorn was likely to set out after her—the man could more than match her in stubbornness and would not take being thwarted well.
Bjorn Page 6
