The Message in a Bottle Romance Collection

by Joanne Bischof

  “Britta, I am sorry for your man’s death. I know nothing about it.”

  She held up a slim, small hand. Her slightly imperious gaze indicated that she had come in her capacity as princess, not out of love for him.

  “Ronan is not convinced that you killed Clancy.” Her tone remained aloof and impersonal. “But I am not certain what to believe. Your sword was in his back.”

  So it was Clancy who died. He shook his head in disbelief. First he had accidentally broken the poor man’s arm, and now he could only assume his sword—his Peacebreaker—had taken the Irish warrior’s life. Even more distressing, the man had been stabbed in the back, an action beneath contempt.

  “I would never—”

  “But someone did. And it makes sense it would have been you.”

  “How does that make sense? Why would I want to kill Clancy?”

  “You thought he was my father.” Her voice wavered, exposing the depth of her emotion. “You wanted the king dead so you could take our castle for your Vikings. It was your plan all along.”

  Did she truly believe these lies? If so, the past weeks had meant nothing to her. Yet those weeks had changed his life.

  He recalled the sweetness of her lips as they had met his, the womanly feel of her waist under his palm, and how her heavy hair brushed against his hand. When he was injured, she had been so patient as she read to him, pointing out the Latin words so he could sound them out. Had it all been a ruse, a plan to win his trust before concocting an excuse to kill him?

  Helplessly, he met her eyes, and he recognized an anguish that belied her harsh words. At some point, she had trusted him—perhaps even loved him?—enough to allow him to hurt her. Of course she was angered that someone had attempted to kill her father. He would try a different approach.

  He pressed his face to the cold bars. “No Viking would ever leave his most treasured sword in a dead body. Ask anyone. Ask Ronan! If I wanted to slay your father—which I would never do—I would have been sure to stab the right man. And I would not have stabbed him in the back. I would have made him look into my eyes, even as he died. I would have been prepared to die an honorable death if captured. You know that what I am saying is true.”

  She stepped closer, her face pensive.

  He spoke again before she could respond. “I am a Christian now, Britta. I would not kill a man in that way—like a coward.”

  A small gasp escaped her lips. “You are a Christian? But you never told me.”

  “You had already retired when I left Ronan’s room.” He grimaced, recalling how impatient he had been to speak with the king about marriage today. What a fool he had been, to believe a Viking would ever be accepted in this land!

  As her gaze wavered between him and Valgerd, Ari spoke again. “Execute me if you deem it right, but do not attack my men. Allow them to sail home as planned.”

  “It is too late.” Her face blanched. “My father already prepares for battle, and his men have gathered. When Ronan returns, they will attack the camp.”

  He gritted his teeth. Perhaps he would not be able to escape death in Ireland, but he must escape to fight with his men one last time.

  “Lean in,” he whispered.

  She shot him a questioning look.

  “Lean in toward this bar. I will not harm you, but I must go to my men and warn them. Do you believe what I have told you? That I am innocent?”

  The confusion on her face melted into a slow certainty. “You have convinced me, despite my misgivings. Ronan was right to send me to speak to you. Now I realize you would never stab a man in the back, nor plot evil against my father.”

  She glanced at Valgerd, who stood by mutely, waiting to see what would happen. When her eyes slid back to Ari, her gaze was so intense, so searching, he had to say the words burning like hot coals inside him.

  “I love you, Britta. You make my heart glad. I cannot leave this land without you.”

  All her hesitation seemed to give way, and she leaned into the bar, her cold nose nearly touching his. Holding her steady gaze, he took his belt in both hands and wrapped it loosely around her neck.

  “Guard!” he shouted into the darkness. “Release me or I will strangle your princess!”

  Heavy steps pounded down the stairs in response to his threat. He held his ground, hoping this deception would enable his release. He tightened the belt slightly to make it more convincing, and Britta let out a sharp cry. Immediately, he loosened it, but she winked, letting him know that she, too, could play her part.

  Ronan strode into the dungeon, torch aloft. He had tucked his mace into his belt. His dark gaze was hard to interpret.

  “Drop the belt, Ari. I know what has happened, and I have told the king.”

  What did this mean? Ari kept the leather strap taut. “I will not. You must explain.”

  Ronan walked up to the cell, inserting a key in the lock, which forced Ari to drop the belt before the door swung open.

  Britta did not hesitate but rushed into the small space to stand by Ari. Ronan did not restrain her. That could only mean one thing.

  The Irish warrior believed him. Relief and thankfulness flooded Ari. He boldly slipped an arm around Britta, and she sank into his side. But urgency to save his men propelled him to speak again.

  “What did you tell the king? Will your men attack? I must know.”

  Ronan’s smile unknotted the fears that had held him hostage. “I told the king to stay his attack on your Vikings. You did not murder Clancy. It was the Norman.”

  “The Norman!” His eyes dropped under Ronan’s steady gaze. Of course. He had been so enthralled by Britta’s kiss, then so distracted by her single-minded concern for Ronan, he had forgotten to send someone for the wounded Norman. He had eaten and slept and forgotten his captive strapped to a tree. It was shameful.

  Ronan continued. “The man somehow loosened his binds and escaped, but he still craved a Norman victory. He crept into the castle through the gardens and took up your sword—”

  “Peacebreaker.” Ari strengthened his grip on Britta’s waist, wishing he could distract her from the recitation of his failures. “I realized I had left it behind when I reached our camp, but I fell asleep before I could return for it.”

  As if sensing Ari’s discomfort, Ronan hastened to tell the rest of the story. “The man did not take long to locate the king’s chamber, and he decided to steal in and murder him. When Clancy opened the door, the Norman assumed the man was our king and took the opportunity to stab him when he turned. But when he heard the king’s shout and realized others were coming, he tore down the back staircase.”

  Ari groaned. “He knew the sword would point to a Viking attack.”

  “Of course. Even though his plan to kill the king failed, it could still be effective if we rose up against your Vikings. Then the Normans could return and take the castle in the midst of the chaos.”

  Choking back his own guilt, Ari spoke. “And now a man lies dead because of my grievous mistakes. How many others could have died because of them?”

  Britta did not respond with anger toward him, but toward the murderous Norman. “Where has this conniving Norman run off to, Ronan?”

  Ronan put an arm on hers. “Steady. He was caught in the next town, raiding eggs from a henhouse. The farmer sent word to the castle that he had a Norman prisoner. Once I knew the man was alive, it was easy to ascertain the true events of last night.”

  Valgerd rapped at the bars, impatient with their discussion. He used one of the few Irish words he knew. “Freedom!”

  “You will have it.” Ronan calmly unlocked the other cell door. He motioned to Valgerd. “Now go, and report to your men that all is well with your leader.”

  Valgerd waited as Ari translated, adding his own instructions. “Tell them I am safe, and that they must sail while the wind is good.” He allowed his gaze to drop to Britta’s luminous, undoubting face. “And tell them I will not be sailing with them.”

  Chapter Twenty-One
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  Clinging to Ari’s hand, Britta followed Ronan up the stairs into the great hall. Father and his men sat at the table. The warriors had removed their chain mail and spoke easily as Florie set food before them.

  “See if that won’t hearten the lot of you,” Florie said. When she saw Britta, she winked. “It’s been altogether tense without you around, m’lady. I take it Ronan has explained things to you?”

  Britta nodded. Father summoned her closer, and she released Ari’s hand to draw near to his side. His eyes were filled with regret.

  “I have wronged you, Britta—and our kingdom. I made bad assumptions and nearly launched into a war with innocent men. We would have been no better than the Normans who attacked us without cause. Will you ever be able to forgive me?”

  “Of course I forgive you, Father. But there is someone else we have both wronged.” She looked at Ari.

  The king stood and faced the Viking. Ari hunched down a bit, as if he wished to disappear from the eyes of the Irish warriors who had so quickly turned against him.

  “Ari Thorvardsson,” Father began.

  Britta nudged his elbow. “It is Thorvaldsson, Father.”

  “Yes. Well, it is best I learn to say your name properly, Ari Thorvaldsson. You have given much for my kingdom, and I have yet to repay you. I understand today is the day you set sail. Before you do, I would like to offer you your choice of treasure from my coffers. I will lead you to them myself.”

  Ari straightened. His appearance grew more imposing, even with his unkempt hair and clothing. Britta wondered again if his family was in a high position in his country, because his bearing did seem regal.

  “There is only one thing I ask,” Ari said.

  Florie beamed at Britta from across the room, her cheeks rounded in a wide smile. Ronan was focused on the Viking, his lips in a resigned line.

  Britta started, realizing what Ari might request. Her hands went numb, and she sat down abruptly to forestall a swoon. If he asked to marry her, her father might still refuse. Yet if he requested some other treasure, her heart might break forever.

  “I would ask to be your bondservant for a half year,” Ari finished.

  Father’s carefully positioned smile faded. “But why?”

  A hush fell over the room as Ari explained. “Because, King O’Shea, I love your daughter. Yet our days together have ended in turbulence. This is no way to start a marriage. Instead, if I stay and serve you, I can prove my loyalty.” He bowed his head in respect. “I also wish to aid Clancy’s widow and family, to make amends for my careless behavior.”

  Blood rushed back into her hands. She rose to her feet and faced the king. “Oh, Father, please allow it! He is an honest man. I never should have doubted him. And now he has become a Christian man as well.”

  Her father’s eyebrows shot up. “Is this true?”

  Ronan stepped forward to answer. “Yes, I know it is.” He paused, thoughtful. “And if we let him stay, he will become more grounded in the faith, because Britta could read the Bible to him. Perhaps he could share more about Christianity with his people, who have already begun to convert.”

  She gave Ronan a thankful look then clasped her father’s hand as if she were a small child begging for a gift. “Please.”

  Father looked from her to Ronan to Ari. His men looked on, awaiting his decision. Florie wrung her hands on her apron.

  Finally, he spoke. “I offered you a reward, and although you did not ask for any of my goods, I see you have a greater treasure in mind. As my daughter said, you are an honorable man. I grant your request. You have safe haven in my kingdom as long as you choose to stay. But do not stay as a bondservant. I ask you to stay as our friend.”

  Britta’s tears mingled with laughter as she moved to stand by Ari.

  He took her hand in his then responded to her father. “I will stay of my own accord, but I promise I will be here a half year.” He leaned down to her ear, his low, determined voice setting her heart racing. “I promise,” he repeated.

  “It is settled,” Father said. “Now please, go and bid your men farewell so they may sail in peace. When you return, we must determine where you will live. There is room in the castle, of course, but it might not be circumspect, given your feelings for my daughter.”

  Florie burst out, “He’s welcome to stay with us, m’lord. Clancy’s widow and bairns live near our abode, and if he wishes to work for his supper, my James could use an extra hand on the farm.”

  Ari smiled. “I would welcome the work.”

  Britta squeezed his hand, unable to contain her joy. Ari was willing to leave his family and friends behind, to learn more about her God, her people, and her.

  How had her love so easily faded to distrust? Ronan was right—real love was not so easily tossed aside. Trust was based on a person’s character, who you knew them to be. Ronan had guessed that Ari was incapable of such a cowardly murder. Yet she had let fear drive her suspicions, overlooking the honorable way Ari had always behaved.

  As Father and his men dug into their meal, Ari led Britta outside and through the castle gate. The fallen soldiers had been removed, so only bloodstains and torn turf remained to show what a vicious battle it had been. The crisp air and snow-white clouds gave her the feeling that God was trying to sweep the land of its sadness.

  Ari stopped abruptly, angling her to face him. He located her wrists under her voluminous sleeves. Circling them in his fingers, he gently traced her arms up to her elbows. The sweetness of his touch contrasted with the strength of those hands—hands that had wielded swords and steered ships.

  “Remember what you promised,” he said. “You will teach me to read if I teach you my language. I want you to understand every word I say, Britta.”

  It would never become tiring, to hear her name on his lips. She looked into the limitless blue of his eyes, so like the ocean. His blond lashes caught the sunlight.

  “And I want you to understand this,” she said, wiping a smudge of battle dirt from his face. “You have showed me your valor and your honor many times, never once asking for my thanks. But I thank you, Ari Thorvaldsson. And I hope to kiss you again…once you have had a chance to wash yourself.”

  Laughing, she lightly pushed him forward, so he could say good-bye to his men. Would he be happy here, in her land?

  Only time would tell.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Summer, One Year Later

  Dangling her bare feet in the creek, Britta knew her hemline would be drenched, but she did not care.

  She munched an apple, puckering her mouth at its tartness. Florie would tell her that eating too many early apples would upset her stomach and ruin her meal, but she felt like fully indulging today.

  After all, there was much to celebrate.

  The Normans had agreed not to invade their kingdom again, once their prisoner had been sent home, bearing gruesome tales of Viking warriors protecting the area. Her father had banded with other Irish kings and it seemed that much of Ciar’s Kingdom would be saved.

  Ari had stayed longer than he’d promised—a full year had passed since he had arrived on their shores. James had taken him under his wing as if he were his own son. With plenty of assistance, Ari had learned to read Latin fluently. Now he and James challenged each other to memorize scripture.

  She leaned back into the moss, resting her head in her hands as she watched the thin clouds drift by. A smile broke across her face as she considered the tangible proof of Ari’s love for her.

  Only this morning, Ari had finished building his own home—a longhouse in Viking style. He had asked for her preferences each step of the way, from the wood they chose for the door to the perfect spots for windows. Tucked into the hillside with its turf-covered roof and wooden beams, it looked cozy and inviting, nothing like the cold castle she had grown up in.

  It looked like a home, and she prayed it could be hers.

  He had not asked her yet. He was determined to build his house before the leaves dropp
ed from the trees, and she had never seen a man so single-minded. What Ari determined to do, he most certainly accomplished.

  Over the past few months, she had reveled in his touches, for Ari did not withhold affection from her. Yet there were times when the clench of his fingers, the darkening of his eyes told her they were on dangerous ground. At those times, he would inevitably remember some chore he needed to do for James, and he would leave her abruptly. She knew he was trying to protect them both, and she loved him all the more for it.

  Ronan still lived nearby, advising her father. But he no longer looked at her in the same way. It seemed that as his friendship with Ari had strengthened, theirs had deteriorated, yet all was as it should be. Ronan, loyal as he was to her family, would not have been the man for her. She prayed every night that God would bring him a woman to soothe his wounded heart.

  “Deep in thought, I see.” Ari’s voice sounded behind her, and she sat up abruptly, her half-eaten apple rolling into the creek.

  “Now look what you’ve done! That was my last apple.”

  He opened his palm, exposing two more of the tiny green apples. “I know how you crave these sour beauties, although I cannot understand why.”

  She took them and tucked them into her favorite leather pouch. The pouch was useful when she went on walks, allowing her to gather unusual rocks, colorful feathers, or other things that caught her eye.

  She noted Ari’s bronze bottle dangling from a cord on his belt. “Why did you bring your bottle? Are you so very thirsty? This creek is full of fish.”

  He unlatched the bottle, and she noticed its gleam. He must have polished it recently. When he handed it to her, she touched the dent the mace had left.

  “How different our lives could have been,” she said, tears springing to her eyes. “What if Florie’s aim had been true?”

  “But it was not, for God willed otherwise.” He shot her a curious look, as if waiting for her to notice something.