Bjorn

by Jane Burrelli

  The trail snaking through the winding hills, Rhiannon dropped down into a sheltered wooded valley, the cool shade played over her skin, and she sighed with relief. The prickling feeling on her neck worsened, and she took comfort in the heavy sword at her waist. Senses alert, she pressed deeper, the trees growing closer together and only allowing thin fingers of light to penetrate the leafy canopy. A twig snapped, and her muscles locked. She couldn’t ignore that! She was being stalked and hunted, but whether it was man or animal remained to be seen. Rhiannon forced herself to continue and, fighting the urge to bolt, she squeezed through the gap between the trunks that looked to open into a glade, branches snagging at her clothes. Alpin’s guiding voice echoed in her head: ‘A good leader picks the place of the confrontation.’

  The trees parted into a clearing just as she’d hoped, and she breathed a little easier. There was space to draw her weapon unhindered. She paused at its heart and slipped her arms from her pack before throwing it to the side, silently unsheathing her sword, the light bouncing off the polished surface.

  “Who is there?” she challenged with a bravery she didn’t feel. “Show yourself!”

  For a moment there was nothing, and her heart continued to beat hard against her ribs. Foliage rustled to the left, and she half turned her body in the direction of the sound and braced her feet. Three men emerged from the gloom, and she narrowed her eyes, trying to pick out their features. They looked vaguely familiar. She ran her tongue over her teeth and tightened her grip on the well-worn hilt of her sword.

  “What do you want?” Though panic tore deep at her belly, her voice remained strong and sure. “I have no valuables with me.”

  The man in the middle cut a sly glance to his companions. “What do we want, Seoc?” he asked, a hint of laughter in his voice, like she had asked a humorous question.

  His voice tugged deeper at her memory. This morning, when she’d passed through the small hamlet, he had been there. He had stared at her with dark eyes like she was walking about unclothed. Her skin crawling, Rhiannon hadn’t been able to leave fast enough.

  The one that was short and stocky, with thick, ham-like arms answered, cutting Rhiannon a smirk. “I don’t know, Fingal. What do we want?”

  The other two broke off and circled in opposite directions, and she gritted her teeth. They were playing with her.

  The third pretended to think and said, “What does any man want?” He grinned, revealing missing teeth, a smudge of gappy yellow on his grimy face. “But for a hot little cunny to sink into.”

  Over. Her. Dead. Body.

  Her hair stood on end at their raucous laughter, and bile burned her throat. Breathing through her nose, she fought the blackness threatening the edge of her vision and shifted her weight to the balls of her feet. If she waited for them to reach her, she would be outnumbered. She had to cut them down, even the odds. She. Had. To.

  With a nod from the front man, who was obviously the ringleader, the other two moved, and so did she, charging to the man on the left. His eyes widened—they hadn’t anticipated a woman to fight back and certainly not with this level of aggression. He stuttered in his step, not even trying to defend himself when Rhiannon slashed her blade in an upwards cut. A shrill scream pierced her ears, and he dropped to his knees. Blood oozed sluggishly through the desperate fingers clutching his belly, staining the leaves and undergrowth black.

  She didn’t have time to revel in her triumph and kicked him in the face, flinching at the sound of the nose snapping. Rhiannon turned just in time to meet the long knife arcing directly at her. She caught the blade on her sword. It scraped along its length, the metal screaming in agony and setting her teeth on edge before she kicked her assailant in the chest and knocked him back.

  Rhiannon ducked and weaved, using the reach of her sword to keep the man’s shorter knife at bay as he lunged at her. It was taking too long. Where was the third man? She advanced, delivering a deft slice to the back of his leg. He dropped back to clutch the injury. Shit. Her eyes darted right and left.

  Where was the third man? Seoc’s dark, beady eyes were trained over her shoulder, but she didn’t dare take hers off him. There was a harsh thump somewhere behind her, and his attention was diverted. It was the last mistake he would ever make. Seizing the opportunity, Rhiannon neatly avoided his guard and executed a clean thrust, sliding between the ribs and straight into the heart. One more left, just one more. Once again, she raised her sword and spun on her heels to meet the last threat and froze. Instead of the man with the cruel eyes, she found a familiar blond giant reaching down to tug his axe free from the body that was planted facedown on the earth. A warm feeling burst from within her like a shooting star. She was so happy to see him. Their gazes caught, and her breathing hitched. Gone were the eyes that reminded her of a summer’s sky she was used to, replaced by a steely blue and roiling with the rage of a storm-tossed sea. She had ruined any regard he held for her when she’d run.

  Bjorn then moved to the whimpering man on the ground and, ignoring his pitiful pleas and cries for mercy, swiftly dispatched him. Rhiannon flinched, but she didn’t feel guilt. They would not have granted her mercy. She forced herself into action, going through the motion of wiping the blade clean on the dead man’s trousers. Bjorn’s presence was burning into her side. Her hands shaking, she sheathed the sword at her waist and, unable to put it off any longer, she turned to face him.

  “I…” Rhiannon’s lip trembled, and the words dried up. What could she say? She was sorry? Thank him? Curse him?

  Any words she could offer seemed insignificant. Rhiannon never did figure out what she was going to say. Instead, she found herself pulled into a tight embrace, and her body slumped into the hard wall of his chest. She inhaled deeply of the tang of salt from the sea, clean sweat, and a scent that made Bjorn uniquely him. Home. She never wanted to leave the warm, safe haven. But far too soon for her liking, Bjorn drew back and cupped her elbows.

  “Did they hurt you?” he asked roughly, his accent thickening.

  She shook her head and licked her dry lips. “They…they followed me from…” The rest of her words were lost as temper sparked in Bjorn’s gaze and his grip tightened, manacling her to him.

  “Do you know how foolish you’ve been?” he demanded, giving her a little shake. “Your mother and Eithne are sick with worry.”

  She blinked up at him, trying and failing to form a coherent thought. “I-I…didn’t think…they’d miss me,” she finished lamely.

  “You thought wrong!” he snapped, unbuckling the sword from her waist despite her slapping hands. He tossed the sword on the ground and, seizing her wrists in one of his large hands, bound them with a length of leather, pulling it tight.

  She hissed, and Bjorn jerked her close, her breasts crushed against the hard planes of his chest, her heart speeding up. He was strong, a dominant force of nature and above all, male.

  “I offered you the honour to be my wife.” The hushed words were like a raw, open wound.

  She flinched at the emotion behind them.

  “It is a honour I have never sought.” It hurt so much to speak those words, like a knife to the gut. She had to protect him, even if it meant angering him now. He deserved better than her.

  The muscles in his jaw worked furiously, and her body tensed.

  “Start walking.” He growled, “I’m taking you home.”

  “But if I don’t wed you, I will have to leave.” She tried to explain in vain, “It’s better this way, don’t you see?”

  His firm lips curled, and he leaned into her space, blocking out the trees surrounding them, and Rhiannon fought the building instinct to retreat.

  “I never thought you a coward, Rhiannon.”

  Bjorn turned to walk away; the derision in his words scolded her.

  “I’m not a co—”

  He tugged on the lead, and she staggered forward, biting off whatever she was going to say. Rhiannon dug her heels in. Another yank. Her body lurched, and s
he sucked in a breath.

  “Stop it!” she shouted at his broad back. “Bjorn!” Her words fell on deaf ears. It didn’t matter what she said, whether she stuck her heels in or threw her weight back, the bonds just tightened and cut into her wrists. Next, she tried curses, continuing to tug at the bindings.

  At last he’d had enough and turned swiftly on his heels to glare down at her, and Rhiannon fought to keep from running into him.

  “Heed me well, little wild cat.” His eyes glittered fiercely. “Do not cause me any further trouble or I swear by Thor’s mighty hammer I will cut a switch and stripe you every step of the way home as you so richly deserve.”

  She clicked her teeth shut and almost swallowed her tongue. Bjorn was angrier than she had ever seen him. He reached his hand across, and her muscles locked, waiting to see what he would do. He rubbed his side, revealing how much his newly healed injury was bothering him, and she released her breath. His message delivered, Bjorn continued his clipped, angry pace, forcing Rhiannon to keep up when she just wanted to curl up on the ground, lick her wounds, and cry.

  She was disgusted with herself. When did she ever back down from a fight? That he was able to make her feel this weak stoked her rage, but what hurt the most was Bjorn’s hard silence. In the blink of an eye they’d become awkward, stilted strangers. She didn’t realise how much she missed the ease of conversation between them until she’d lost it.

  The sun dropping, Bjorn led them off the path and into one of the valleys, the steep-sided incline guarding them from the buffeting winds. When they drew level with a copse of trees, Bjorn at last called halt. Rhiannon sagged with relief, her legs wobbly, warily watching Bjorn stretch his arms over his head, face scrunched until an audible click came from his back.

  The tension eased from his face with a relieved sigh, and Rhiannon hoped he had forgotten about her with his mind being absorbed by the tasks to make camp. That hope was rudely trampled. Bjorn neatly captured her chin and tilted her head for her to look into his disapproving face, though he appeared calmer, or perhaps that was wishful thinking on her part.

  “What were you even thinking, running away?” Bjorn asked, his gaze searching.

  She couldn’t even begin to explain, not without revealing everything, and then he would no longer look at her the same way. Cinioch of the Nechtain had despised her afterwards, made it known that he would not wed her, held her up for ridicule and made the suggestion that he would still take her to his bed but not as his wife. The hated and humiliating memory strengthened her resolve, and she pressed her mouth into a thin, mutinous line as she jerked her chin from his grasp.

  “Let me go, you bastard,” she hissed the unimaginative insult.

  Bjorn’s face darkened, and he muttered something in his tongue that she couldn’t quite catch. He seized her arm and yanked her over to a fallen tree trunk. Rhiannon’s stomach sank, knowing exactly what he intended, and with her bound hands there was little she could do to stop him. “No!” She stomped her foot and threw her weight back but was no match for the hardened warrior. “I won’t let you.”

  Despite her words, the outcome was inevitable, and Bjorn forced her to bend over his broad thighs, the seat of her trousers stretched tight over her bottom.

  Though expected, it was still a shock when his hand connected smartly with both cheeks. She yelped, jerking from the impact. Her legs shot up, and Bjorn immediately pushed them down.

  “Do I have your attention now, Rhiannon, or should I use my belt?” he demanded, his palm cracking against her fullest part of her globes.

  “I did what I thought was best,” Rhiannon tried to explain, squirming across his knees, her hands hanging uselessly in front of her, mocking her. “This is nothing but hurt pride, Bjorn!” she shouted over her shoulder, angry and frustrated in equal measures.

  He leaned down and put his lips next to her ear. “I don’t think it’s very wise to argue with me right now, Rhiannon.”

  She thought she had injured his pride? When he’d come upon her, that third man was almost at her back, knife drawn. He’d almost choked on what could have happened to her, if he had only been a little bit later. The wench was more trouble than she was worth and somehow had maddeningly got under his skin. Her safety was vital, had become as important to Bjorn as drawing his next breath, and if she didn’t realise it, she soon would.

  “Do you know what could have happened to you?” He almost lost his mind at all the possibilities racing through his head, and anger mounted again. Bjorn stayed his punishing palm, settling it on her hot skin. He took a cleansing breath and brought himself back under control. She was safe. He let that thought sink into the depths of his bones and soothe him. Rhiannon was safe and in his keeping; he had not rescued her only to injure her. Discipline was one thing, but he would never raise his hand in anger to her. Certain that he had his own emotions tightly controlled, he continued with the lesson he was determined to impart.

  “You could have fallen down a gully, broken your leg, and starved to death.” The hard swat pushed her forward, the globes of her bottom bouncing in the aftermath. “Eaten by wolves.” Swat, swat, swat! “Enslaved by passing traders.”

  More fiery spanks descended, and Rhiannon cried out, her bottom blazing.

  “Raped.” He spat out the bitter-tasting word, and his hard hand descended an innumerable amount on his squirming target. The pain building, she twisted round and managed to sink her teeth into his calf. Foreign, unknown words bellowed out above her, and his grip eased for only a moment. It was enough. Rhiannon wiggled for all she was worth, spilled out onto the ground and, clawing to her feet, ran.

  “Rhiannon! Get back here, it’s not safe!”

  She didn’t slow, hopping nimbly over the fallen debris of the copse, praying she didn’t stumble. She didn’t have a plan beyond getting away from the fool who was intent on turning her arse bright red. Didn’t he understand it was for the best if she just disappeared? Her friends didn’t need her anymore.

  She didn’t know where she was running to or in which direction. Darkness was descending quickly, and she struggled to discern obstacles in her path. Bjorn’s heavy footsteps crashed behind her, far too close for comfort. She pumped her arms harder, speeding up. Her ankle snagged upon an unseen object, and her body hit the ground hard. Rhiannon coughed, and time slowed. Her stomach dropping away, she slipped sideways down the steep bank, the gravel rolling and crunching beneath her, scratching at her skin. A hard body landed on top of her and crushed the remaining breath from her lungs. Thighs squeezing together to pin either side of her hips, rough hands gripped her and flipped her onto her back. She pushed at his chest, and he rose above her on his elbows, but that was as far as she could move him. He caught her bound hands, and in the next heartbeat, they were pinned above her head.

  Rhiannon froze, her body shaking, her vision fading. She remembered the scents of grass, the stones pressing into her back. Her breathing sped up, and still she couldn’t get enough air into her lungs. She thrashed her body, uncaring of grazes she was adding to her skin. She had to get free. She had to fight! But the weight sitting on her stomach was immovable and suffocating.

  “Rhiannon?”

  She knew that voice but had to get safe. Tears choking her throat and blinding her, she fought harder, bruising her wrists against the grip that held her.

  “Rhiannon, what’s wrong?”

  “Get off me!” The scream raked up her throat, breaking through the mind-numbing fear. “Get off me, get off me!”

  She cursed, the weight shifted, and she scrambled backwards, sobbing and twisting her head to find her rapist. There was nothing there. Bjorn knelt not far away, his eyes spooked and wary, hands held up in a non-threatening manner.

  “Rhiannon, I’m not going to hurt you,” he attempted to soothe her.

  Oh gods, it hadn’t been real. Tears tracked down her cheeks. “I’m sorry.” She sobbed. “I’m so, so, so sorry.” Burying her head in her hands, she cried openly, not rem
embering when she had last reacted this badly, but then again, she had avoided all men apart from her family. The rustle of grass had her whipping her head up, and she flinched away from Bjorn’s outstretched hand.

  “I won’t hurt you, little warrior,” he said, crouching at her level. “Come on, we need to get you warm.”

  The dew from the grass dampened her clothes, and she shivered, the cold penetrating to the bone.

  It was killing him. Rhiannon’s dull eyes stared unseeing into blank space, the dark smudges more prominent than ever. His heart twisted to see her so distressed, but he now understood what Eithne had tried to explain. When he had first caught her, he’d thought she was fighting him. It wasn’t until she had cried and screamed that he’d realised something much more powerful held her in its grip and he’d released her immediately. Odin’s balls, he wished he could torture the bastards who had touched her.

  He stayed silently close by, the muscles in his thighs protesting as he remained crouching, but he would not frighten her. Not like that. Never again. “All is well, Rhiannon, you’re safe.” He whispered the words again and again until her breathing calmed.

  Rhiannon reached hesitantly for his hand and, rising, Bjorn helped her stand.

  “Good girl,” he encouraged.

  Her teeth chattering, Bjorn wrapped Rhiannon in his cloak, infusing her with his warmth and, mindful to keep his touch gentle, he guided her back towards the glade. Though he hoped to make do without a fire, Bjorn would risk them being noticed. Rhiannon was too cold, and she would not appreciate the alternative to warm her.

  Back at their camp, she slid down and sat upon the felled tree trunk that he indicated, and her lack of comment concerned him. Bjorn coaxed a small flame forth, feeding it with tinder and dried grasses until the flames blazed. That job complete, he rubbed the back of his neck before turning his focus on Rhiannon and sighed, his disappointment sharp. She hadn’t moved a muscle. What if he had broken her?