The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  He leaned forward, hoping to adjust the crooked legs of the stool beneath him. But a loud rip sounded as the leather seat tore in two, depositing him solidly on the cold floor. His face froze in shock and embarrassment.

  Ronan’s deep chuckle filled the room. “You are indeed clumsy, Viking oaf. But no matter. If you’re not too injured, may I suggest you speak with the king tomorrow and ask for his daughter’s hand in marriage? It is the proper course of action, and I believe you know that.”

  Ari sat, rubbing his seat and thighs. Visions of a future with the princess flashed into his head. Would they sail to his home? Or stay in her castle?

  Did it matter?

  “Thank you for your wisdom, brother, and for sacrificing the woman you have loved. I can never repay you.” He pulled himself up to a standing position, rubbing his hip.

  “You can repay me by choosing sturdier chairs, Viking,” Ronan said. His good-natured laughter followed Ari out the door.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Sigfrid was alone in the great hall when Ari emerged. He jerked his thumb toward Valgerd, who lay on a makeshift cot that had been shoved into the kitchen doorway.

  “He wants to be nearby, should the warrior have pains in the night,” Sigfrid explained. “I will return to our camp soon.” He paused, shooting Ari a knowing look. “The Irishman has given you something to think about?”

  Ari nodded. “I must decide my course. Before we even sailed, you sensed that revenge was not the only thing that drove me to this land. I could not give it words, but restlessness jabbed like a dagger point into my soul. Yet now I feel a peace I could not lay hold of in our land.”

  “The princess?” Sigfrid guessed.

  “It is true she has comforted me, but my peace comes from elsewhere. I have believed in the Christian God, Sigfrid. This is not the news my parents wanted to hear.”

  Sigfrid narrowed his gaze and muttered, “Perhaps you are wrong.”

  “What did you say?”

  “Do you know your parents so little?” His old friend clasped his arm. “From the time your brother died, your parents have searched for meaning, for answers. Our gods offer them nothing. Just before you sailed, your father told me they were visiting the Christian church. They did not want you to know, for fear you would accuse them of foolishness in their old age.”

  His head swam. His parents? Visiting a church? He could not hide his awe. “This God is surely great, if He reaches into hearts in our land also.”

  Sigfrid did not agree, but he did not contradict him. “You will stay behind when we sail tomorrow?”

  Ari hesitated.

  Sigfrid filled in the words. “I have loved only once in my long life. You know my wife died too young. But I see in your eyes the same feeling I had for her, the same desire to protect her from the evils we have seen in the face of battle. This princess will be your first concern now—even above your parents. I will tell them of your decision to stay with her and to follow the Christian God.”

  He clasped Sigfrid in a hug, tears filling his eyes. “May we meet again.”

  “Surely we shall.” Sigfrid unlatched a small pouch on his belt and handed it to him. “Here is something from home to remember us by.”

  Ari loosened the leather straps, and a piece of ivory walrus tusk rolled into his hand.

  “Many thanks, my friend. I will treasure this as I do my bronze bottle.”

  Sigfrid smiled. “But soon you will have a wife to treasure more.”

  Britta sat curled on her bed, bare feet tucked up under her sleeping gown. Half-open books lay strewn about her like an abandoned fairy circle. She could not read more than one page tonight, it seemed. Her mind kept returning to her impossible situation.

  Ari would sail tomorrow with his men. She would have to say good-bye.

  Unless she stowed away with him…but no princess in her right mind would join a crew of Vikings just to be near one man who hadn’t even declared his love for her yet. Besides, he was a pagan and not her husband. He would probably sell her into slavery or something equally barbaric.

  She would stay home. Perhaps she would marry Ronan after all. She would be safe.

  Yet in the Bible stories, God seemed to put a higher value on obedience and trust than on safety.

  She prayed aloud. “Oh, heavenly Father, I do not know what You would have me do! I am so confused about Ari—the man is not a Christian, yet he pulls at my heart. You know my obligations here, that I cannot leave my father and our castle. Please point the way in the direction I must go. Close any doors I should not walk through.”

  Someone had stoked her fire, and her room was uncommonly cozy. She did not even pull the curtains on her bed but snuggled beneath the covers into her down mattress. Cricket chirps and night-bird warbles soothed her senses. Her thoughts ceased their tumbling and her limbs released the tension of the long day. She drifted into much-needed sleep.

  A deep, guttural scream woke Britta. Disoriented, it took her a moment to ascertain that she was still on her bed. Though a tiny flame still flickered in the hearth, the room was cloaked in darkness.

  She held her breath, waiting to see where the cry had come from. It only took a moment for a terrifying sound to rend the air: her father, calling for help.

  Jumping from her bed, she grabbed a candle and shoved it into the low flame of the hearth to light it. Holding it close to her chest to protect the stuttering wick, she crept from her door and stood in the hallway. Two men raced toward her father’s room—she couldn’t be sure in the dark, but she thought one was Ronan.

  Entering the king’s chamber, Britta tried to make sense of what she saw. A dark pool of blood spread under a man in a leather vest who lay facedown on the stone floor. The red-blond hair told her it was not her father who had been killed.

  For the man was surely dead. A sword protruded from his back. Even as Ronan and a guard felt for his pulse, it was obvious he had not survived the blow.

  She looked at the sword closely. The beautiful sheen on the blade and the elongated, ornately carved hilt forced her to a horrifying realization.

  It was Ari’s sword.

  As her father came to her side, she stepped into the comfort of his open arms. “What happened? Were you hurt?”

  He squeezed her more tightly, as if he could protect her from the gruesome sight in front of them. “I was preparing for bed, and Clancy stopped in to give a report. He was going home for the night, and Garth was going to take his post and patrol this floor. I had asked them to stay tonight, in case any intruders were around.”

  Father didn’t clarify, but she strongly suspected he counted the Viking warriors as intruders. Now it seemed his hesitation to trust them had not been unfounded.

  He continued. “After Clancy put out the lamps, another knock sounded. He went to open the door, expecting Garth. I could not see who stood there, because my fire was low. But as Clancy turned to tell me something, he must have been stabbed in the back. He fell just as he is there. When he groaned, I shouted and lit a lamp. The scoundrel fled, leaving the sword.”

  She could not hold back her tears. Clancy had a wife and small children. Was it possible Ari would have committed such a ruthless murder?

  Her father glanced again at the incriminating sword. His voice was both reflective and foreboding. “My deepest fear about the Viking has been realized. We never convinced him that we did not kill his brother. Yet I foolishly assumed his eagerness to fight on our behalf was proof of his loyalty. Instead, it was merely a means of winning our trust and infiltrating our castle.”

  She wanted to protest. But her father was so widely traveled, and he had met warriors of every stripe—both friend and foe. Although she wanted to, she could not deny that his conclusions were consistent with Ari’s actions.

  Father’s words hit her heart like flaming arrows. “Indeed, I doubt his men ever sailed. They simply waited to swoop in as our saviors, all the while plotting our demise.”

  She clung to his arm, a
ll the goodness slipping out of her sheltered world. Was it true? That sunlit kiss, those caring words? The invincible way she had felt with her hand tucked into Ari’s?

  She tried to catch Ronan’s eye, but he was busy wrapping Clancy’s large body in a blanket. The sword had been removed from the man’s back, but she could not bring herself to look at it again.

  A guard strode in and whispered in the king’s ear. Her father nodded.

  “The castle has been searched, and he is not here.” He spoke loudly so the others could hear. “I doubt they will attack in the night, when they are spent from the battle. Tonight we will throw their sleeping Viking healer in a cell and set a guard on the castle. At first light, as soon as my troops can prepare, we will storm the Viking camp and take no prisoners.”

  Ronan simply nodded, shock etching his face. He would have to deliver Clancy’s body to his wife tonight. She remembered Clancy’s wife—a petite brunette with wide-set doe eyes. Innocent. Oblivious.

  Just as she herself had been, until Ari’s sword had ripped a hole in her heart.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Pale sunlight roused Britta from a mere hour’s sleep, and she stumbled downstairs. She did not see Valgerd’s cot, a sure indication he had been secured in a basement cell.

  She peered into the scullery and found Florie pouring hot water into ceramic mugs. The nursemaid came to her side and hugged her gently. She motioned to the table, handing Britta a full mug of the fragrant liquid. “Please drink some, m’lady. This brew of lemon balm, lavender, and chamomile might ease your worries some.”

  Britta knew nothing could ease her worries, but she sat and sipped at it anyway, in hopes it would excuse her from eating. She could not eat until she knew the truth about Ari.

  Father joined her at the table, wearing his tunic that would soon be covered with a mail shirt. Although she should not question her father’s wisdom in kingdom matters, she had to ask one question. “Will you kill him, Father? After all he has done for us?”

  He gave her a grim smile. “You have been strong, my daughter—like your mother. I regret you had to see what happened last night. But perhaps it was for the best. He had convinced us all of his goodwill—even Ronan, and that is no easy task.”

  Perhaps Father was right, and vengeance had driven Ari to contrive such an elaborate deception. Yet if his goal was to destroy their kingdom, surely he would not have hindered the Norman rider from capturing her yesterday?

  She leaned forward, anxious to resolve the issue in her mind. “Father, where are we holding the Norman rider? Was he badly injured from his fall?”

  Her father’s soft gray eyes widened. “What Norman rider?”

  She gasped. As soon as she had entered the castle yesterday, she had been consumed with Ronan’s recovery. She had forgotten the Norman lashed to the tree, and perhaps Ari had, too.

  “A Norman rider tried to charge and kill me yesterday. Ari—”

  Ronan walked out of the small room, circles under his eyes. His limbs moved stiffly.

  Meeting her concerned gaze, he said, “Do continue, Britta. What did you say about Ari?”

  She sank deeper into her chair, sensing the disappointment in his tone. Hadn’t he warned her about Ari from the start? And she had refused his advances for those of a murderous barbarian.

  Guilt ridden at her own gullibility, she tried to redirect the conversation. “I am sorry you had such a sad task last night. I pray Clancy’s widow finds comfort. Perhaps you should rest today, until your wound is fully healed.”

  Ronan shook his head, returning to the topic at hand. “You had something to share about Ari.”

  Before she could respond, an armed guard burst into the great hall, his sword tip pointed into the back of the very man they spoke of.

  “Walked up to the castle gate, bold as bold. Asked to see you, King O’Shea.”

  Ari could not understand why the guard had such an arrogant tone. Hadn’t he fought alongside him just yesterday? He turned to see if the man was in jest, but the sword tip pinched through his tunic into his skin, assuring him the man was in earnest.

  “One more word from you, and I’ll stab you in the back, just as you did our man.”

  Stabbed in the back? Who had been stabbed? Desperate for answers, he locked eyes with Britta. She looked tired and confused. Ronan’s gaze was serious, his hand resting on his sword hilt.

  King O’Shea stepped closer. “You have nothing to say, Viking?”

  “Why should I say something? What has happened?”

  The king’s lips tightened. “Your feigned ignorance will no longer sway me.” He nodded at the guard. “Take him to the cell. He can join his friend.”

  Friend? Who was he referring to?

  The guard shoved him none too carefully to the basement door, then down the musty stone stairs. A torch on the wall hissed as it burned down, its light nearly extinguished. Valgerd’s familiar voice greeted him.

  “Welcome, m’lord.”

  They had taken the Viking healer hostage? But the man had saved Ronan’s life.

  Everything was upside down, the complete opposite of what it should be. The Irishmen should be praising Ari and his men, not throwing them behind iron bars.

  When the door locked behind him, Ari clung to his only hope—the God he had so recently believed in. He fell on his knees and begged Him for mercy.

  As soon as Ari was taken away, Father retired to his chamber to pray. Britta knew he had to act quickly or risk losing his advantage over the Vikings.

  Ronan rubbed at his beard, meeting her eyes. “I am unsure.”

  She felt the same way, but she needed to make sense of the facts. “Ronan, we cannot explain his sword. None of our men would have killed Clancy simply to lay blame on a Viking. What Father said rings true—Ari won our trust so he could get close, and then he attempted to kill our king. We were blind and foolish.”

  “Yet you had come to love him,” Ronan said simply.

  “Yes, but perhaps my feelings led me astray—although I cannot understand why he didn’t leave me to that Norman, if he wanted our castle.”

  “What Norman?”

  “I could not elaborate earlier, but there was a straggler Norman horseman who charged us in the field. Ari thwarted him, and the man fell over a small precipice. We left him tied to a tree but forgot to retrieve him last night in my haste to come to your aid.” She frowned. “I suppose the Norman’s attack was fortuitous for Ari, because he protected me, making me trust him more.”

  “No one has checked to see if he is still there today?”

  “I suppose not. After Clancy’s murder—”

  Ronan jumped to his feet. “Tell your father he cannot attack until I return. Then you must go and speak to Ari.”

  “But I—”

  Ronan strode forward, cutting off her protests by gently taking her chin in his hand and forcing her to meet his brilliant gaze.

  “You will never rest if we slaughter innocent men. Yes, innocent. Something was not right about that sword, Britta. I have looked cold-blooded murderers in the eye, and Ari is not one of them. You know I would never put you in harm’s way. I am asking you to speak to the man and find out what he has to say in his own defense.”

  She did not want to ask Ari for his explanation of last night—hadn’t she played the fool for the man too many times already? But the fervor in Ronan’s voice forced her to capitulate.

  “I will do so.” She determined to be wise as a serpent when she questioned the beguiling Northman. “Just be careful with your wound, whatever you do. It needs time to heal completely.”

  He kissed her cheek. “Of course.” His dark eyes probed hers. “And you must be careful with your heart. Real love is not so easily tossed aside.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Ari sat on the cold stone bench, wishing Valgerd could recount what the Irish guards had said when they took him away. But his friend understood little of their language and was just as perplexed as he was.


  His guard had mentioned that one of their men was stabbed in the back. It seemed they had concluded it was his doing, but why?

  Unless…

  He sat bolt upright. He had left his sword behind when he walked Sigfrid back to camp. He had only planned to stay a short time, to speak with the men before they sailed. Yet he was so bone weary at the end of a battle day, he had drifted to sleep by the warm fire. When the sun rose, he’d woken on the dewy grass, a wool blanket draped over him. He had come straight back to the castle.

  There was only one conclusion: in the meantime, someone had used his sword to murder an Irishman.

  He rubbed his hand across his forehead, abhorring the filthy state he was in. He had not washed himself since the battle, so his clothing and his body were still splattered with blood and dirt.

  Would he be executed in such a state? He could not let his thoughts wander that direction, yet he knew it was unlikely the king would spare his life a second time.

  Valgerd had fallen silent, his light brows knit in fury. Suddenly, he grunted and leaned forward on his bench. “We never should have trusted the Irish—slippery demons. We offered up our lives for theirs in battle, and what thanks did we receive? Gold? Jewels? No. They threw us in prison. And what evil have they planned for our crew, Ari?”

  Ari’s empty stomach clenched. It was a valid fear. If the Irish had been so bold as to capture him, knowing he was the Viking leader, what would they do to his men? Although his crew kept weapons on their belts nearly all the time, they were relaxed and not expecting any trouble. Would Sigfrid see the Irish approaching in time to prepare for another battle?

  In desperation, he loosened his belt and wrapped it around the iron bar. Perhaps he could pull the door down. He yanked it backward with all his might, but it only gave a slight creak and remained fast.

  Light cut into the dark dungeon, and a rust-colored skirt dusted the steps above. When Britta’s pale face came into view, he wrapped the belt around one hand, shoving it behind his back.