It was impossible to discern if the shape was male or female. But if it were Britta or Florie, wouldn’t she speak up? The stillness grew heavy and ominous. He tried to slow his breathing, but his heart thudded like a bucking stallion. He could feel the intruder’s breath on his face.
He could bear it no longer. He shoved his hand out and wrapped it around the person’s throat—a thick throat, surely a man’s—when the sharp tang of a knife blade pinched the skin on his own neck.
He tightened his grip. “No knife,” he said, using Irish words.
Pressure from the knife lessened; then as he squeezed harder, the weapon dropped onto the blanket. Immediately, he shoved himself upward, slamming his forehead into the intruder’s jaw and knocking the man backward.
As the man groaned, Ari flung himself from the bed, directly onto the prone form. He pinned him to the ground.
“Halt.” The man’s rough command was easily recognized—it was Ronan. The Irishman had tried to kill him.
Lantern light shone into the room and Britta appeared in the doorway, unable to see them. She stood there, her white gown peeping from beneath a long, embroidered wrap.
Casting her light about until it fell upon the men, her voice rose in concern. “Ari! Ronan? What has happened? I heard noises. Did someone enter the castle?”
Ari rolled off the Irishman, glaring at the man as he grabbed the knife. He pointed the knife tip at Ronan. “This man tried to slay me.”
“No.” Her eyes flashed and color flushed her cheeks as she turned to Ronan. “Surely you did not?”
Ronan grunted. “Your father would have wanted it—in fact, I am sure he would have commanded this Viking’s death the moment he stole into our castle. He has brought nothing but trouble to us. You have examined our valiant guard Clancy’s arm after his tumble down the stairs, and you know his fracture will take many days to heal. We are left with only two guards and myself to defend these walls, should the Northmen invade. We will fall, Princess.”
Unwilling to believe Ari had deliberately injured the guard, Britta boldly extended her open hand for Ronan’s knife. Ari glanced at Ronan, then at her. Acknowledging her authority with a slight drop of his chin, he carefully placed the weapon in her hand.
She helped Ronan to his feet and handed him his knife. “Leave us for a moment. You can see he means me no harm.”
Ronan’s dark glare fell on Ari as he rubbed his reddened neck. “It is not wise. I cannot leave you alone with this unpredictable rogue.”
“It is an order. I have the final say in my father’s absence.” Her feet were planted and determination charged her words.
Ronan strode to the door. His voice was thick with emotion. “I will stand outside, but the door will stay cracked. If you so much as breathe my name, he is a dead man. Be cautious, Britta.”
Ari sensed the tenderness Ronan used when he spoke her name. The man cared for her—perhaps even loved her.
As the door began to close, Britta moved to Ari’s side. It was not hard to imagine how the Irishman had fallen for her. Her touch was soft, yet firm, as she cupped his elbow and helped him to his feet. As he stretched to his full height, he realized that although she had such an imposing presence, she was far shorter than he. Despite her curves, she was compact. In fact, he could pick her up with one hand and throw her over his shoulder….
Where were these thoughts coming from? He was thinking like a lovestruck fool, like a man starved for affection.
Maybe he was.
As he looked down into her earnest blue eyes, he fought his base urge to lower his chin and cover her full, half-parted lips with his own.
She seemed to sense his intent, but instead of drawing back, she stood still, as if transfixed. He restrained himself and waited for her to speak.
She cleared her throat and spoke slowly. “I saw your men today.” She withdrew his bottle from under her wrap and handed it to him. “I also wanted to return this to you.”
He fingered its familiar bronze shape, always cool to the touch. It felt a bit gritty with patina and could use a good polish. He looked at the daring princess, acknowledging what she had said.
“My men?”
She nodded, covering one eye with her hand. “Your one-eyed man agreed on a truce, at least for now.”
“Sigfrid,” he said, incredulous. He had unwittingly thrown himself down a flight of stairs to protect Britta from approaching this very warrior. Yet without his aid, she had secured a truce with the battle-hardened man.
She looked shyly at the floor.
Who was this woman who carried such magical charm?
Britta braced her feet, trying to restrain herself from taking a step toward the tall Viking.
It was as if her senses were only attuned to his presence. No other smell mattered, save his leathery scent. No other sight mattered, save her upward view of his neat blond beard and ocean-colored eyes. No other sound mattered, save the husky tones of his words.
Standing so close, her senses conspired against her, pulling her toward him like invisible cords. She had read love poems in her books, but nothing had prepared her for the sheer physical force the emotion carried.
Even so, her head told her that love was more than an emotion. It was a commitment, such as Florie had with her husband, James, who had been sick in bed with the coughing, consumptive disease for almost two years now. He was useless at maintaining their small stone house, and they had to hire a boy to keep up with farm chores.
As Ari began to lower himself onto the board bed, she extended a hand to help. Her guards had given her little say in their decision to move Ari into this room. Once they saw Clancy’s broken arm, they determined the volatile pagan could not remain in the king’s chamber. Besides, he had already rolled downstairs, which made it easier for them.
As he settled back, she voiced the question weighing on her. “Why did you try to escape? Did we not treat you kindly?”
Ari’s forehead wrinkled. “Yes, kindness. It was not escape—I went to aid you. With my men.”
Britta caught her breath. He’d intended to accompany her, even though it was a fool’s errand—he couldn’t have walked all the way to the Viking camp.
“You worried about my safety?”
In answer, Ari took her hand in his own. Unable to look away, she stared at his strong arm, covered in blond hairs and a sinuous dragon tattoo. She allowed herself to savor the feel of his large, rough palm, gripping her own small hand.
“Yes.” His eyes searched hers.
Unable to speak, she startled at the sound of shuffling shoes and deep voices in the great hall. Ari quickly released her hand. She stole to the door, peering out the crack.
Men moved around the great hall. Sensing Ronan’s presence outside the doorway, she boldly edged forward, watching torchlight illuminate their features. Catching sight of a familiar face, she gave a short cry and pushed forward into the hall.
“Father!”
Chapter Seven
Britta threw herself into her father’s outstretched arms. She clung to him, even though the small metal links of his chain mail shirt pressed into her exposed neckline. She pulled back to get a good look at him. His hair, streaked with white and gray, was trimmed and thick. He had not lost weight on his journey. His gray eyes twinkled. Things must have gone well with the high king—but hopefully not so well he had betrothed her to one of the princes.
“I see you have missed me, Daughter?”
She hugged him again, unwilling to be separated from him yet. “Indeed. The castle was empty without you.”
Behind her, she heard Ronan slide the bolt across Ari’s wide-planked door before stepping from the shadows. A heavy weight seemed to drop into her stomach as she waited for him to mention their Viking prisoner.
“Welcome, m’lord. Indeed, we are glad to see your safe return. I understand it is deep into the night, but we must discuss several things.”
Father’s face grew serious. “Of course.” He motion
ed to his weary men. “Disperse to your own homes tonight. Tomorrow evening we will gather here for a feast.”
Britta followed her father and Ronan upstairs, relieved she would have the chance to explain her actions to Father. But outside Father’s chamber door, Ronan shooed her away.
Anger sparked through her, and she felt her eyes widen. “I am not some servant you can whisk away, Ronan. I am the king’s daughter.”
Father turned and gave her a thoughtful look. “Indeed you are. But whatever Ronan has to say, I am certain it is as one warrior to another. You can speak with me in the morning, but now you must get your rest.”
Much as she longed to dig in her heels and explain what had occurred in his absence, Britta had learned long ago not to cross her father when he took that tone. He would not listen to a word she said and, in fact, would be more likely to go against her wishes.
Plodding into her room, she draped her midnight-blue embroidered wrap over a chair and tumbled into her bed. Pulling the heavy bed curtains shut, she yanked the blankets up around her. She wished her fire had not burned down to coals. Sometimes the wind seemed to prod through every chink in the castle walls, pushing the chill right into her bones.
Despite her exhaustion from her meeting with the Vikings, sleep would not claim her. After trying unsuccessfully to get comfortable, Britta finally drew the curtains, lit her candle, and picked up a book near her bed.
As she read the tale of a mythical hero who fought sea robbers, she found herself picturing Ari. She remembered the long, intimidating ships docked near the Viking camp. It was easy to imagine the tall Northman, his blond beard shining in the sunlight, sleeves pushed up to show his tattoo, as he sailed to conquer new lands.
But this was her land. And she did not want it conquered.
Despite her growing attraction to Ari, if she allowed herself to look at the situation dispassionately, she knew he had not changed his intentions since he stole into the great hall. Ronan knew this, too.
Would Ronan recommend execution to her father? And was there any reason for her to stand against it, since not only was her life at stake, but the lives of everyone in her father’s kingdom?
The castle forces had returned; Ari was sure of it.
His foot was stiff from the cold, so he could not creep to the door to observe, but the clamor of deep voices told him all he needed to know.
Britta seemed oblivious to his true intentions. Hadn’t he come to kill everyone, to bring revenge for his brother’s untimely death? He could never forget the turbulent emotions of that battle-torn day in Ireland so many years ago. He could never wipe away his mother’s lifelong loss and his father’s deep grief over the death of his firstborn.
He had come to make things right, not to become entangled with an Irish princess he could not give his heart to. When he healed—if they allowed him to leave—he and his men could attack, and this loathsome castle would be destroyed. How many years had he longed to tear it apart, stone by stone? To torch its wooden support timbers and watch it burn?
His room had no fire, so his thin clothing was altogether inadequate. He drew his blanket tighter. The stiff board beneath him made it impossible to become comfortable, and he was sure that had been the guards’ intent. Until now, they had been meticulous with his care. After his bungled attempt to protect the princess, which must have resulted in an injury to one of their men, they would be wary and give him no sympathy.
Except for Britta, who seemed tethered to him somehow. She was not put off by his size, his people, or his violence.
A new voice seemed to penetrate his heart—a truthful voice that seemed older than time itself. The voice said only one word, but he heard it very clearly: hope.
From her window seat, Britta watched the muted pinks and yellows of sunrise seeping across the deep blue inlet. Seeing God’s hand as He painted the world made her feel refreshed and composed. Perhaps Father and Ronan had decided on a reasonable course of action for Ari.
But her tranquility was undone as Florie entered her room, her words tumbling out. “I’ve already laid the morning meal for your father and Ronan. They will have many actions to carry out before the feast. I thought to myself, p’raps you might want to catch them first.”
Understanding what Florie had left unspoken—that judgment would fall on Ari today—Britta sprang into motion, throwing off her nightclothes and pulling a red brocade dress from her wardrobe. Red was not her favorite color, but she had no time to stop and think. She must catch Father before he spoke to Ari.
Florie aided her, tightening the laces in the back. “You haven’t been eating enough, ’tis sure, m’lady. But we’ll have fresh meat tonight and one of those apple pastries you love so much.”
The last thing she cared about was food, but she turned, taking Florie’s round face in her hands. She planted a kiss on each cheek. “Thank you for looking after me, Florie. I know you are stretched thin with your James abed.”
Florie shook her head. “There’s naught I can do for him that I haven’t already done. Looking after you and your family gives me a purpose, and James wants me over here, not clucking over him like a mother hen.”
Britta squeezed her nursemaid’s hand, hoping to derive a last measure of strength before she approached her father downstairs. As she pulled on her slippers and walked out of the room, Florie called after her. “May God fill you with hope, m’lady.”
Hope. An invisible comfort that seemed oceans away. The Viking tide that had washed onto their shore carried with it only one promise: dread. And her father wouldn’t tolerate it.
Ronan and Father were so deep in conversation, they paid no heed to Britta as she descended into the great hall. Only when she sat next to her father and tapped his arm did he look at her.
“My dearest.” He brushed her cheek with a kiss then took a small bite of his potato pie.
Ronan’s gaze fell heavily upon her, full of conflicted emotions.
Her heart sank. She took up her fork, absently tapping the shell of her soft-boiled egg.
Father spoke into the awkward silence. “Ronan has told me of the Vikings, and of this Ari who has enjoyed our hospitality although he arrived with evil intent. What have you to say to this, Daughter?”
Ronan spoke before she could reply. “I explained how we decided Ari was not a danger to us.” His deep brown eyes held hers, imploring her to play along.
So Ronan had taken the blame for her own lapse in judgment. Probably for Clancy’s resulting injury, as well. Her heart swelled with gratefulness.
She shared what Ari had told her. “Ari did not try to harm Clancy. He wanted to accompany me when I spoke to his men.”
“To trap you, I shouldn’t wonder,” Father mused.
“No, he feared his man would try to harm me. I think he feels protective of me.”
Her father shifted so he could look at her directly. “So he says, Britta. But a man will say anything to escape his prison, comfortable as it might be. No. I will speak to him myself and discern his motives.”
She felt like spitting out the bite of chewy egg she had taken. Was Father right? Had Ari lied to her? He seemed so earnest, but she had only run across one liar in her life, and that was a mouthy chimney sweep her father had released from service before he had even finished his job.
After the men finished eating, she stood with them and filed into Ari’s small room. If nothing else, she would be nearby when her father passed sentence on the Viking.
Chapter Eight
Ari was thankful for the fresh clothing Florie had brought him, even though the green tunic was a bit small and stretched along his shoulders. After her early morning ministrations with warm cloths and fresh linen strips for his foot, he felt strong enough to risk standing on it again. Despite the bruising, he could tell it had healed somewhat.
When the door opened, he sank quickly to the board. He did not want to let anyone know the speed of his recovery.
An older man stepped into the room, h
is gray eyes solemn. He wore a rich purple velvet tunic embroidered with a family crest. A heavy gold cross pendant hung from his neck. This was their leader, Ari was certain.
Ronan stood alongside the powerful older man, and Britta hung back, her gaze flickering from Ari’s foot to his face.
The man spoke. “I am King Kacey O’Shea, ruler of this land, and Britta’s father. You have come to our shore with plans for an attack. How do you answer?”
Ari understood most of the man’s thickly accented words, like ruler, father, and attack, but when he paused expectantly, Ari realized he had missed some question. He looked helplessly at Britta.
To the obvious discomfort of both men, she walked confidently to Ari’s side. She leaned toward him and spoke slowly. “Why did you come to Ireland?”
A lie would be easy and might spare his life. But there was no honor in a liar.
“Avenge my brother’s death…killed on a raid of your castle.”
Britta’s eyes clouded, but she nodded that she understood.
“Blood for blood,” he added.
As she explained to the men, her hands fluttered nervously. Dark hair slipped around her cheeks, but it did not hide the tears glistening in her eyes. She, too, feared the decision of her father.
Perhaps this was his chance to escape. Could he overpower both the king and Ronan before bolting for the door? He hesitated. The older man looked perplexed. He spoke rapidly to Ronan, and both seemed to agree. He turned and spoke to his daughter, but this time Ari understood every word.
“Vikings have not come to our shores before. It was not this castle. He is mistaken.”
Britta knew Ari must have recognized the truth in her father’s words, because he fell silent. When he finally spoke to her, the dangerous spark that had burned in his eyes was all but quenched.
The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection Page 4
