She lifted her hands helplessly. “All I can give you is my word of honor.”
He shook his head. “That is why we have the laws. Once a woman is brought to Asgard, she may never leave. Regardless of how convincingly she promises to keep our secret.”
“And the woman has no choice in the matter?” Her temper flared. “That is barbaric! It is unspeakably cruel—”
“It may seem cruel, but it is the only way to ensure the safety and peace of this island and its people. There is naught to be done, Avril. Least of all by me. I am the vokter here. The peace-keeper. The man charged with enforcing our laws—”
“Well, you will not force me to obey them!” She stalked closer until they were almost face to face. “You had no right to bring me here and you have no right to keep me against my will! The devil take you and your laws! I will not sit tamely by while you destroy my life—”
He touched her cheek and her breath caught.
It was a gentle, startling contact of his palm, his fingertips, barely grazing her skin. The unexpected sensation of his hand—so strong, so warm—lightly stroking her face rendered her mute and held her still far more effectively than any force could have.
He touched her as if she were the most fragile, delicate woman he had ever met.
“I was trying to save your life,” he said roughly, his eyes dark, his voice somehow both quiet and forceful at the same time. “If I had not stopped Thorolf...”
He left the sentence unfinished. His words held an edge of tension, yet Avril also heard genuine concern, for her safety. For her. Which only confused her even more.
All at once, she was aware of how their breathing sounded together, rapid and shallow. How dark the room was. How his gaze traced over her features, the color of his eyes deepening to a midnight blue.
His attention settled on her mouth. Her heart fluttered, then began pounding hard. A muscle flexed in his tanned, beard-stubbled cheek.
Abruptly he withdrew his hand and turned away from her. “There is no point in discussing this further.” He stalked over to the cold hearth on the opposite side of the chamber. “You will not be leaving Asgard. You should not torment yourself by holding out hope of rescue, and you cannot escape. There is no way off this island.”
“I-I will make a way,” she insisted, wishing her legs would stop trembling.
“You misunderstand, wife. What I am telling you is that no one leaves Asgard Island.”
She spun toward him. “That is a lie! You left. You and the others who came to Antwerp—”
“Such voyages are rare. We do not even keep boats. The longship we used to sail to Antwerp has already been destroyed. Unless you are skilled at shipbuilding, you will not be leaving.” He braced one arm against the hearth. “Neither of us may like it, but this is your home now. And we are husband and wife—”
“We are not husband and wife! There was no church, no priest. I spoke no vows—”
“You will adjust. All the women do. It is but a matter of time.” He glanced up at the wall, at the display of weapons and artifacts. “And time is something we have in abundance here.”
Those words—or mayhap his hollow tone as he said them—sent a chill down her back.
“If I were here a hundred years, I would never stop trying to gain my freedom,” she replied hotly. “You do not understand. I have a daughter at home in France. A three-year-old daughter. She needs me. I must return to her!”
For a moment, he did not reply, remained utterly still.
Then he gave her a heated glance over his shoulder. “And to your husband as well? Does he not need you?”
“Aye,” she amended quickly. “I must return to my daughter and to my husband.”
She cursed herself for forgetting. He would never believe her word of honor if he caught her in a lie.
He turned around, leaning back against the hearth, his eyes narrowed. “Why did you not mention him before?”
“Because...” Because I had no idea you meant to keep me here forever. Because he has been dead for more than three years. Because... “Why would I disclose anything to the brigand who abducted me? I told you I come from a powerful and influential family. And I wear a wedding band. You must have noticed it.”
“Aye, I did.” His gaze dropped to her hand and his voice dropped to a deep, almost predatory tone. “This morn when I undressed you.”
She gasped, partly from the bold way he said it—and partly from the heat that curled through her midsection as a shocking, unbidden image filled her mind.
Valbrand’s dark, strong hands on her body... sliding cloth downward to reveal bare flesh... gently lowering her to the sheets...
She clenched her left hand, as if the ring Gerard had given her were a talisman that could right her wayward thoughts and ward off this daring Norseman.
But the wedding band felt cold against her damp palm. Powerless.
And strangely, she swore she could feel heat radiating from the silver brooch that rested above her heart, where Hauk had pinned it to her bodice.
His gaze lifted to hers, slowly. “Odd that I noticed no husband with you in Antwerp,” he said when she did not speak. “What kind of husband allows his wife to go running about the streets unescorted?”
“He...” She fervently bade her jumbled thoughts to untangle themselves. When she fixed her mind on Gerard, the words came. “He is generous and kind and loving and the best sort of man.” Her voice strengthened. She added a bit more for good measure. “And I am his wife and I belong to him body and heart and soul.”
Hauk did not move. Not one muscle.
But the look in his eyes became hot. Intimate. Challenging.
“I am not interested in your heart or your soul,” he said in that quiet, predatory voice, pausing before he added, “or your body.”
Trembling, Avril wrapped her arms around her middle, caught in a storm of conflicting emotions that drenched her like hot rain. The silver brooch almost seemed to burn her skin. She tried to unfasten it, but could not work the clasp.
Frustrated, she ripped it from her gown and threw it aside. “Then you have no reason to keep me here!”
His attention suddenly fastened on her bodice.
Avril looked down and gasped. In tearing off the symbol of his claim over her, she had ripped her linen gown. The violet fabric gaped at the top, revealing the pale upper curve of her breast. She grabbed the torn material, covering herself.
And glanced up to find Hauk watching her with potent male hunger etched on his chiseled features. He straightened away from the hearth, took one step toward her. Then he started to advance slowly.
Avril felt that unnerving, unwelcome heat spilling through her. She stumbled backward a pace. Struggled to find her voice. “Nay.”
She did not know which she was denying: his intentions or her own bewildering feelings. But he halted. For a moment he remained frozen, his hands clenching and unclenching.
Then he turned sharply and stalked to a chest beneath one of the shuttered windows. “All that you have need of, you will find in the town.” He opened the trunk, took out a leather sack, and began stuffing clothes into it. “Food. Drink. New garments, if you do not like the ones I chose for you. Ask the shopkeepers for whatever you wish and it will be given you. We use barter rather than coin here.”
Avril could only stare at him, trembling, her thoughts tangled like a dozen strands of yarn all knotted together.
He let the chest’s lid fall and moved on to another. “A few people in the village speak French. If you cannot make yourself understood, one of them can translate for you. I will leave Ildfast, my horse, here for you. He can be unmanageable at times”—he slanted her a quick glance—”but I do not think you will have any trouble with him.”
She shook her head, surprise and disbelief battering her senses. “You... you are leaving?”
“One of my duties is to patrol the shoreline and see that our border remains secure. I am often away.” He took a pair of glov
es and a length of rope from the next trunk and added them to his pack. “While I am gone, you are free to go where you wish—”
“Norseman—”
“See your friend. Visit the town. Explore the island.” Carrying the sack, he stalked toward the weapons displayed above the hearth. “But stay away from the cliffs. People fall now and then. And keep out of the western part of the forest. There are wolves there—”
“What makes you believe I will be here when you get back?”
He did not look at her as he selected a battle-ax and lashed it to his pack. “Do not hope that my absence will make it easier for you to escape from Asgard,” he said quietly. “It will not.”
He slung the pack over his shoulder and headed for the door.
Shaking with desperation, with astonishment, Avril followed him. “You cannot mean to keep me here! You must let me return to my child!”
He turned to face her. “Avril—”
“You are not a barbarian. If you were, you would have let me die in Antwerp.” She moved closer, touched his arm. “You seem to have some code of honor or chivalry by which you live.”
He did not reply, went utterly still.
She lowered her gaze to the stone floor, willing to abandon all pride, to humble herself, willing to do anything to get home to her little girl.
“Hauk,” she pleaded quietly, letting her hand drop to her side. “Do you want me to beg? Then I am begging you. Please, in the name of whatever gods you believe in, show mercy. My little Giselle is only three. When I left for Antwerp, I told her I would be gone but ten days, no more.” Dampness burned in Avril’s eyes. “She did not understand, so I gave her ten raisin sweetcakes and told her to eat one each day, and when the last one was gone, her maman would be home—”
Her voice choked out. Had Giselle eaten the last cake yet? Had she looked at Celine and Gaston with tear-filled eyes and asked why Maman had not returned, why Maman had broken her promise?
“S-she is barely more than a baby. I still sing her a lullaby every afternoon before her nap.” Avril lifted her head to find him looking at her intently, and she could not stop the tear that slid down her cheek. “She loves pink flowers and butterflies and pretty dolls. The toy I had in my hand in Antwerp, the one I dropped when you and I collided? I bought it for her. I promised I would bring her a spinning top from the fair. She calls them ‘pretty spinnys.’” Another tear slipped past her lashes. “Would you do this to an innocent child? Would you take a baby’s mother from her?”
He said naught for a moment, remained frozen.
Then he looked off into the darkness and answered her, his voice flat, emotionless.
“I already have.”
“Damn you!” She slapped him hard enough to leave the red imprint of her hand on his face. “Damn you to Hell’s deepest pit, Norseman! If you try to keep me here, I swear I will—”
“Kill me?” An odd, self-mocking expression curved his mouth. “I doubt that.”
Turning on his heel, he strode away from her. “Heed what I have told you and do not make things more difficult, Avril. I will return in two or three days. Until then, I bid you farewell.”
With that, he walked out and slammed the door behind him.
She could only stare in open-mouthed disbelief at the spot where he had last stood. Robbed of a target for her fury, she could not even move for a moment. Turning her head, she looked around the vast, empty chamber with its guttering candles and silent shadows.
Then she rushed over to the door and tried the latch.
It was open. He had not bothered to lock her in. Which meant he was entirely confident of what he said: There was no way to escape from this island.
Avril sagged against the door, despair closing in on her, dark and overpowering. She pounded one fist against the wood, but the futile gesture only hurt her hand. Her throat tightened until she could not seem to draw breath.
She shut her eyes, remembering the last time she had seen her baby, with her ruddy cheeks, her raven curls shining in the sun, her chubby fingers waving farewell.
“Giselle.” The cherished name came out as a sob. “My sweet Giselle.”
After a long moment, Avril pushed herself away from the door, shaking her head, refusing to accept what Hauk had told her. If she could not hope to be rescued, then she would rescue herself.
It was too dark to venture out tonight, but as soon as dawn broke, her escape efforts would begin.
“I will return home to you, ma petite papillon,” she vowed. “Even if I must build a boat with my own two hands!”
~ ~ ~
Hauk strode down the moonlit path, the sound of his pulse competing with the distant roar of the surf in the darkness. His fingers gripped the leather sash of his pack, but he was only distantly aware of its familiar weight on his shoulder, the jagged stones beneath his boots, the night wind cooling the sweat from his body.
He could hardly see or even think past the fatigue and frustration and unwelcome emotions that clouded his brain. By Odin’s black ravens, all he wanted was for this accursed night to end before some new torment presented itself.
How could a woman—any woman—affect him this way, in so short a time? Had he not sworn only an hour ago, at the althing, to remain cool and distant, to never allow his new bride into his heart? He could not even seem to make the vow last one night. Could not resist touching her. Was beginning to admire the way she stood up to him, all courage and boldness and curses.
And he had been utterly unprepared for the impact of her tears.
Hauk shifted the pack to his other shoulder and kept walking, trying to forget those two glistening droplets, gliding down her cheek one after the other. For one horrible moment, he had felt as if he were drowning in them.
In that instant, he had glimpsed a completely different Avril—not defiant and fierce, but tender and soft-hearted, utterly devoted to those she loved... and utterly vulnerable.
And he could not banish the uncomfortable feeling that stabbed at his belly as if he had eaten a bowlful of thorns.
Guilt.
I have a daughter. A three-year-old daughter.
His cheek still stung from Avril’s slap—but he felt as if she had punched him in the gut with those words. By all the gods, he had never suspected she had a young child awaiting her in France along with her husband.
But she would not be returning home to them. Not now, not ever.
He glanced up into the black, star-strewn sky and spat an oath, cursing the gods for throwing her into his path on that crowded streetcorner in Antwerp. If she had been a few moments earlier or he a few moments later, if Keldan had not insisted on chasing after her, if she had not attacked Thorolf...
Nei, it was too late for regrets now. What was done could not be undone. He could not risk the lives of everyone on Asgard for the sake of one woman.
Or even one child.
He fastened his attention on the trail before him. At least the child still had her father. At least she would not be alone.
That was more than he had had growing up.
Forcing those thoughts to the back of his mind, he focused on the familiar curve of the path beneath his boots, the brine-scented wind in his face, the journey that lay ahead. His life had been wrenched out of his control on that ill-fated voyage to Antwerp, and he felt an urgent need to put it back in order. What he needed was routine. Habit. A good night’s sleep and some hard, physical work.
He needed some distance from the mesmerizing little beauty who had just become his wife. Enough to keep him from thinking of her spice-scented hair and her body soft against his and her shamelessly ripe, full lips.
You are not a barbarian, she had said.
Hel, he had never felt more like a barbarian. Had he remained in her company all night, he would have done much more than merely caress her cheek. He would have had his lovely bride on her back in his bed, ravishing her until dawn, until they both...
He cut the image short, thoroughly annoye
d. He would not allow himself to develop any sort of feelings for her. Not even desire. He would drown these heated thoughts in sweat. Remind himself of what was most important—his people and his duty.
When he returned in a few days, he would be able to deal with Avril’s presence in his life coolly and rationally.
It took half an hour to reach Keldan’s vaningshus. The young groom had spent the better part of the past year building it in a meadow west of town, in anticipation of enjoying a secluded and happy sojourn here with his new bride.
Hauk pounded on the door, a single blow of his fist. Since Keldan was mostly to blame for his predicament, Keldan could grant him a favor.
The polished pine door opened quickly—and the young groom in question looked surprisingly glad to see him. “Hauk! Why are you not with your lady? Nei, never mind. Thank the gods you are here!” Kel grabbed his arm and hauled him inside, his expression matching his agitated voice. “You must teach me to speak French. It is accursed difficult to woo a woman when she cannot even understand what you are saying.”
He gestured to the far side of the chamber, where pretty Josette stood in a corner, her face damp with furious tears, what looked like wreckage strewn about her feet—upturned jewel chests, ripped garments, shredded velvet pillows with their goose-feather stuffing spilled everywhere, and the remains of what had been a gracefully carved chair.
“The gifts did not work,” Keldan explained, dodging a flagon of perfume she flung at him. It sailed past him to shatter against the wall.
Hauk realized that Josette must have been hurling bits and pieces of debris at her new husband’s head for some time, for the wall behind Keldan had been newly decorated in disgusting shades of dripping wine and precious oils, with a few goose feathers stuck to the goo here and there.
“By Tyr’s blade, Kel.” He waved a hand in front of his nose. “It smells like a bawd’s bedchamber in here.”
“Do you have any helpful comments to make?”
“I was the one who warned you that language differences could be a problem.”
His Captive Bride Page 8
