Loving the Norseman: Book 1: Rydar & Grier (The Hansen Series - Rydar & Grier and Eryndal & Andrew)

by Kris Tualla

  The horizontal pole swung across the middle deck propelled by the sail, the wind, and its own tree-trunk weight. Alarm shot arrows through Rydar’s chest and sapped the strength from his limbs.

  “Look out!” he shouted, though he knew it wouldn’t save Lars from being pinned against the rail.

  The thick pop of Lars’ arm breaking made Rydar’s knees wobble. The young man loosed a scream that would banish a banshee.

  Rydar felt like he was swimming through the air as he moved across the deck. He tugged at the spar, jerking it away. Gavin jumped to tie it down. When the spar released him, Lars looked at his mangled limb and his face contorted into disbelieving shock. His eyes rolled back and he slumped to the deck in a ragged, bleeding heap.

  Rydar shifted instantaneously to captain, taking charge and barking orders.

  “Come here! Come here!” He motioned to Kristofer. “Help me lay him out straight!”

  The young man did so, but then sat down hard on the wood, staring at the piece of bone that protruded from his younger brother’s shattered arm.

  “Gavin!” Rydar hollered. This was no time for shock—they must act quickly to save Lars.

  “Sir?” White-faced, Gavin appeared beside him.

  “Ride to the castle and bring Lady Grier! Quickly! Take Salle and whip her to death if you must, but bring the lady and bring her now!” Rydar demanded. “GO!”

  Gavin didn’t hesitate. He vaulted over the edge of the boat and was gone.

  ***

  Andrew’s lids lowered over his eyes in a sleepy, sensual way. “Certainly you have kissed a man before, have you no’?”

  “Well, yes…” Grier admitted.

  The tip of his nose brushed hers; his parted lips were only a breath away. “And, so?”

  “I—it’s only that—I mean…” No good reason came to her mind, which merely conjured the image of Rydar’s lean bearded face and pale green eyes, that not in any way helpful in this particular situation. “What do you—”

  A desperate shout from the keep interrupted them. Grier turned toward her salvation.

  “Lady Grier! Come quick! There’s been an accident!” Moira screamed. “At the boat!”

  Grier moved before Moira finished calling her. Jumping to her feet, she hiked her skirt way above acceptability and ran toward the keep as fast as she was able. Her heart rammed her ribs and blood roared in her ears, urging her on.

  Please, God, do no’ let it be Rydar!

  Moira disappeared through the castle gate.

  Grier ran over the wood bridge, past the gate, into the kitchen, and through the keep to the front door. Gavin sat outside on the steps with his face between his knees and Moira was admonishing him to keep it there. Salle panted in the yard, head down and sweat foaming over her flanks.

  Grier dropped to the step below the boy. “Gavin! What happened?” she cried, unable to stay calm.

  The young man raised his head, his face a distressing shade of gray. “Twas an accident. The wind caught the sail and spun the spar. None of us could catch it…”

  “And?” Grier knew she sounded hysterical. She didn’t care.

  “And it broke his arm. Bad. The bone came through.” Gavin’s eyes widened abruptly. He turned aside and vomited on the step.

  Grier leapt out of the way.

  “Moira! Get my basket!” she shouted. The maid straightened and hurried into the keep. Grier resisted the aggravated desire to shake Gavin until she learnt what she needed to know. Her terrified stomach threatened to mimic his.

  “Whose arm was caught?” she demanded, even though the boy was not yet recovered. “Whose!”

  Gavin wiped his mouth on his sleeve, swallowed roughly and coughed. “Lars,” he squawked.

  Hot relief rushed through Grier, with guilt close on its heels. Her arms and legs tingled with the conflicting emotions. She drew a deep breath to steady her nerves and turned to Salle. The mare was too winded to carry her back to Durness quickly enough. For all Grier knew, Lars could be bleeding to death. Moira thrust her basket in her face, reclaiming her attention.

  “Is Raven in the stable?” Grier pressed. “I must go quickly. The boy might—” She caught Gavin’s horrified gaze and stopped. “I must go as quickly as possible.”

  A deep voice behind her responded, “I’ll take you.”

  Drew leapt past her and bellowed toward the stable, “My horse! NOW!”

  Kennan ran from the stable, leading Drew’s gray stallion. In her fear, Grier had forgotten the knight’s presence, but at this moment he was her hero. He mounted the prancing war horse and reached down for Grier’s hand. He lifted her without visible effort and set her in front of him.

  “Hold your basket, and I’ll hold you!” Drew commanded. His arms circled her and he kicked the steed into motion.

  Grier leaned against the knight, eyes squeezed shut, momentarily afraid for her life. The animal beneath her shot forward in a ground-devouring gate. Grier risked opening her eyes, but their speed blurred everything they passed. She tried without success to relax in the steely arms that held her, keenly aware of how secure she was in the knight’s sturdy grasp.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “Blankets!” Rydar barked.

  Kristofer raised his eyes to Rydar’s. He looked confused, his face a mess of red splotches on slack, pale skin. Rydar tried to recall the things he saw Grier do for the injured she tended. He remembered they often started to shiver and she covered them with blankets.

  “Kristofer! Go below and bring me all of your blankets. Quickly!” Rydar urged.

  The boy jerked a nod and rolled to his feet. He disappeared through the opening in the deck. A moment later, blankets fountained out of the hole and spilled onto the planks. Rydar grabbed them and covered Lars, then folded one and put it under his head.

  Lars’ eyes blinked and he started to squirm as his senses returned. “O-o-h-h-h!” he groaned.

  Rydar knelt by the young fisherman’s head and rested the heels of his hands on Lars’ shoulders, immobilizing them.

  “Hold still, Lars. Don’t move,” he said calmly. “Lady Grier is on her way.”

  “M-y-y-a-a-a-r-m!” he wailed. His lower body twisted in pain and panic.

  Rydar waggled his head at Kristofer so the boy would come closer. “Help me,” Rydar said. “He must hold his arm still!”

  Kristofer, visibly shaking but obedient, approached and dropped to his knees beside his younger brother. He leaned over the squirming boy.

  “Lars? Can you hear me?”

  Lars’ eyes rolled wildly then settled on his sibling. “Kris?”

  “Lars, you have to hold your arm still,” Kristofer said, his voice cracking. He laid his hand on Lars’ left cheek and pushed his face away from the injury. “Don’t look at it.”

  “Will I lose it?” Lars cried. “Will I lose my arm?”

  A visibly terrified Kristofer looked at Rydar. The answer hung in the air, a breathing thing waiting to be spoken. Rydar swallowed thickly and decided to tell the boys what they needed to hear.

  “No, Lars. Not if you hold still.”

  Rydar felt the boy’s body relax a bit. Kristofer kept his hand on his brother’s face, but Lars wasn’t trying to turn toward the break.

  “L-lady G-grier? She’ll know wh-what to d-do?” Lars stammered. He was starting to shake. Kristofer tucked the blankets closer around his brother’s prostrate form.

  “She fixed my leg when it was broken.”

  “Your leg was broken?” Kristofer asked, surprised. “When?”

  “About two months ago. And see?” Rydar smiled at Lars. “You can’t even tell!”

  Lars relaxed a little more then.

  So did Kristofer. “She’s a good healer, is she?” he asked.

  “Yes. She is.” Rydar mentally crossed himself and said a silent prayer that he hadn’t just lied to the boys. “The best I’ve seen.”

  The pounding of iron-shod hoofs pulled their attention. Rydar stayed where he was a
nd kept Lars still, but Kristofer stumbled to his feet and ran to the boat’s edge.

  “It’s Lady Grier! She’s come on a big gray warhorse with the King’s man!”

  Skitt.

  Rydar was not pleased that Lord Andrew was here. As he watched the edge of the boat Grier’s head appeared. Then her body rose up as if being pushed from below. Kristofer helped her climb over the rail and reached for her basket. A moment later, Lord Andrew pulled himself onto the vessel.

  Grier’s gaze, intense and questioning, met Rydar’s. He shrugged a little, then shook his head slightly. He understood her silent query, but he truly didn’t know if she could save the boy’s arm. She moved close and knelt between Rydar and the injured appendage.

  “Lars, my boy. What have we got here?” she cooed. She plucked at the bloody sleeve, pulling it from the protruding bone. Her eyes narrowed.

  “It hurts awful bad, Lady.” Lars’ chin trembled and tears started to leak from his eyes.

  “I imagine it does, Lars.” Grier opened her basket and retrieved a small pottery jug. She pulled the cork from its mouth.

  “Will ye save it, Lady? My arm, I mean?” he whispered.

  “Aye,” she assured him. “But first I’m going to give ye some medicine to stop the pain. Is that aright?”

  Lars nodded.

  “It’s a bit bauch on the tongue,” she warned.

  “Aye, Lady.” Lars sniffed and gulped determinedly. Then he licked his lips and opened his mouth.

  Grier dribbled the dark, bitter liquid into the young man’s mouth, waited, and dribbled some more, all the while talking soothingly in his ear. Lars’ eyes slowly blinked shut and Rydar felt the boy relax completely. He removed his hands from Lars’ shoulders.

  Grier looked up at him. “You did a braw job with the blankets, Rydar. And holding him still might have saved him from bleeding to death.”

  “I watch you and learn,” he demurred, though pleasure from her praise warmed him throughout.

  “I’ve a sharp dagger.” The hard intrusion of Lord Andrew’s voice startled Rydar, who had managed to forget the courtier’s presence for a pace.

  “For what?” Grier asked, her brow lowering.

  “To take the arm off, of course!” he stated. “It will require a dagger sharp as a razor plus a bit o’ muscle to cut it through.” He moved forward with the lethal implement gleaming in his hand. Kristofer cried out a wordless wail of denial and thumped to his knees on the deck.

  “No!” Rydar shouted. Grier grasped his arm in warning.

  “Drew, I’m going to try and save his arm,” she explained, still using the calming tone.

  She calls him ‘Drew’ now? Rydar’s previous pleasure vanished, replaced by a sense of looming disaster.

  Andrew shook his head. “I’ve seen many such wounds in battle. There’s no hope for the arm. ‘Twill only fester and kill him!”

  “I differ with ye, Drew.” Grier lifted a larger corked jug from her basket. Then she handed Rydar a small knife. “Will you cut away his shirt?”

  Rydar set himself to do her bidding when he felt Andrew’s large hand clamp down on his shoulder. He froze. A crimson surge of rage made it impossible for him to see the fabric in front of him.

  “Hand off me!” he snarled.

  Andrew didn’t seem to hear him. “Grier! I must insist! This boy’s only chance of survival lies in the removal of his arm and the burning of the stump. Now move aside and let me be of service!”

  Rydar straightened quicker than an untied spring. He whirled to face the knight and held the tiny knife close to the man’s face. He was taller than Lord Andrew and used that to his favor, staring down his nose into the broad man’s startled golden eyes. How he longed to let the knife slip—only a little—and draw blood from this pompous nobleman who dared to challenge healing skills he had not yet witnessed.

  “Lady. Grier. Say. No.” The Scots English words were hard, separate, and distinct.

  “Rydar, stop!” Grier cried.

  “Are you threatening me, Viking?” Andrew sneered. The deadly dagger he held moved into the corner of Rydar’s vision.

  Rydar lowered the small blade. “No’ threatening. I warn.”

  “Warn? Me?” Andrew scoffed and wagged his knife.

  “Aye,” Rydar grunted, glaring at the knight. Only a little cut. Over his eye. It would bleed a decent amount and leave a scar. His fists tightened.

  “Ye’re an intruder in this land, Hansen. I could easily remove your hide to Edinburgh’s dungeons for such a crime!” Andrew pressed.

  “Aye.” Rydar didn’t move or soften his expression, and he struggled mightily as fury nearly overtook reason. The small knife in his hand begged to be used.

  The courtier lifted one brow. “Touch me, Viking. See what I do.”

  “Drew, let him be!” Grier pushed herself between the two men. She splayed her hands against their chests and straightened her arms. She faced Andrew. “I require Rydar’s help, Drew. He’s learnt much about healing and he’s helped me many times afore!”

  Lord Andrew threw a dark look down at the resolute burst of orange and blue flame that stood between them. Rydar drew an angry breath and stepped away. He turned his back on Andrew and set to his assigned task, choosing to pointedly ignore the courtier. That was more of an insult to the man than any tossing of words could be.

  And killing him now would only distract Grier from the more important task at hand.

  “I must be about my business here and quickly,” she stated. “I thank ye for your offer and should I find the task daunting, I’ll make use of it. But for now, leave us be, I beg you!”

  Andrew stood motionless for a long minute before he deigned to give way. Grier knelt beside Rydar again, holding the jug. He had finished cutting away the sleeve.

  “I’ll pour the wine over it now,” she said in a quavering voice, and did so. A soft moan escaped Lars and the fingers on his broken arm twitched. She pulled a deep sigh and nodded. “Tis a good sign.”

  Grier took the knife from Rydar. Grimly determined, she sliced into the skin and muscle around the exigent bone and spread the enlarged gash with her fingers.

  Rydar looked for Kristofer and saw him still kneeling a few feet away. “Can you bring a narrow piece of wood to brace his arm?” he asked. Kristofer nodded and climbed unsteadily to his feet. He disappeared through the deck to search below.

  “What did you say to him?” Grier asked.

  “Wood… spoon,” Rydar pointed at the arm.

  She looked a little puzzled. “Aye? Well… Might ye grip his wrist and straighten his arm?”

  Rydar fixed his attention on Grier and tried to adjust the arm exactly when and how she needed him to. She wrested the splintered bone end through the opening she had cut in the muscle. Bent close, she closed her eyes, relying on touch and sound to tell her when the bone was correctly aligned. Rydar was amazed that she could accomplish such a thing, but he had seen her do it before and knew she was capable.

  “There,” she whispered. She opened her eyes just as Kristofer nudged Rydar with a slim board about two feet in length.

  Rydar held Lars’ wrist with one hand and passed Grier the board with the other. He grinned a little. “Wood spoon, aye?”

  “Oh! Aye.” Grier chuckled. “Ye’ll be a healer on your own soon.”

  Rydar missed her words because he was momentarily lost in the blue of her eyes and the lilt of her voice. Grier slipped the board under Lars’ arm. She lifted a length of linen and a wad of wool. To Rydar’s surprise, she handed them to him.

  “Use the wool to pad the linen strips. And do no’ tie it too tight, ye ken?” she instructed. “Remember how your leg was?”

  “Aye.” Rydar began his task, pleased that she trusted him to do it right. Grier threaded her needle and soaked it in watered wine. Then she flushed the gash—made by the broken bone and her knife—with the same liquid before she set about sewing it closed.

  Grier and Rydar worked side by side, sil
ent and intent. He sensed when she needed him to move out of her path, or help hold the skin closed while she stitched it. She similarly pulled back when Rydar had to slide the linen under the wood and he shifted to wrap Lars’ upper arm. It was a dance in which each partner correctly anticipated the other’s moves. It was a dance of reparation. And it was a dance of unpredictable intimacy.

  When they finished, Rydar took Grier’s hand gently in his. He smiled into her eyes. “You are healer, Grier. Is very good work.”

  “It’s no’ finished yet,” she breathed. Her gaze fell on his lips. He almost forgot himself and kissed her before Andrew made his presence known once again.

  “Lady Grier?”

  Her eyes left Rydar’s and he ached to reclaim them.

  “Yes, Drew?” she answered, facing the knight.

  He appeared perplexed. “What else is to be done?”

  Grier abandoned Rydar’s hand and climbed slowly to her feet. “He mustn’t be moved.”

  “How long?” Rydar asked her, thinking of their imminent journey. And thinking as well that, if he desired her gaze and her touch this strongly, how could he possibly think to leave her behind in Scotland and yet continue to live?

  “A week at least. And he must be kept warm and watched for fever.” Grier seemed quite certain of her instructions.

  The wedding was eight days away; Rydar hoped to leave in nine. Lars could still sail with his brother and cousin, even if he was injured. That information was acceptable—especially if his healer was on the voyage as well. He needed to make that happen, whatever it took.

  “I watch for fever tonight,” Rydar offered. Though it would take him away from Grier and forestall his decision to tell her of his feelings, the warm look of gratitude she gave him was well worth the delay. “Kristofer and Gavin next nights, aye?”

  “I’ll sleep beside him!” Kristofer added. “Every night!”

  “He’ll be in pain, and that’s for sure,” Grier said. Her mouth puckered and she tapped her lips with one fingertip. “I’ll need to return and give him more poppy medicine.”

  “I’d be pleased to escort you back following the evening meal,” Lord Andrew stated. “And return you safely to the keep afterwards.” He glanced a challenge at Rydar.