He Wanted Her: The Gangster's Daughter

by Amy Faye

  Deirdre wiped a thin layer of sweat from her forehead, more from the effort of concentration than the heat of the sun beating down on her back. She couldn't guarantee that the second would live. He'd taken a bad hit, into the gut, and she knew that it was more than likely his wound would go septic regardless. The damage was already done.

  But what would happen if she told someone that? They might tell her to try again, or they might leave the man for dead. Perhaps they would think the sword a faster end to his pain than letting a wound go bad over days or weeks. Deirdre already knew that she couldn't accept that. So she worked, and as she worked she tried to think.

  These men were in trouble. All of them, regardless of their wounds. Their time in prison had tired them all out tremendously, and the flight from Norwich had taken its toll. Some, even those without injuries, looked as if they could barely stand up straight, and as much of a show of stoicism as they put up, she could see it in their faces. A stiff wind might blow them off their feet.

  She moved from body to body, mechanically. After two of them, she knew that Gunnar watched her, from a discreet distance. Whether he was watching her or them, she couldn't say. Nor was she certain what he watched for. But she knew that he was waiting for her to finish, so when she had finally seen to the last of the injured, she stood back up, wiped her brow, and made her way over to him.

  His lips softly brushed hers. He was showing her the affection that he felt, but in another way he was every part the commander that she had first met. He was thinking as much or more about his men than about her, and she understood it, even if she didn't like it.

  "What do you think?"

  "As a healer?"

  "As a healer, yes."

  Deirdre nodded. Professional was not what she was used to, but she understood the need to be direct. "They will live, most of them. One or two might be close, but—"

  "Good," he said softly.

  He let out a breath and Deirdre was reminded of how tired he must be, how long the past weeks must have been for him. While she was riding around, he was aware that his life was nearly over. It had been mere chance that her distraction had allowed them not to execute him on the spot when the Northmen made their ambush.

  "I don't think they're in any condition to fight. They're worn out, on their last legs."

  "I know. But I can't let that affect my decisions."

  "How long do we stay here?"

  "You're the expert, how soon can we leave?"

  She turned back, scanned the group, and tried to think of what she had seen.

  "They could be moving, albeit slowly, as soon as you need them to be. But be careful. They won't be moving quickly for some time. Days, weeks—I can't say."

  "Then we'll have to get them moving sooner. The sooner they are back in their homes, the sooner that they can truly rest."

  Deirdre nodded. The problem was, how would they manage it?

  The march was hard on Gunnar's legs, and he was one of the strongest. It was not lost on him that he had pushed the march hard, and that the entire camp behind him was suffering for it.

  But they couldn't afford to take the risk of pushing any less hard. They needed to be gone, and they needed to be out of this place yesterday. It was only a matter of time until the English managed to figure out which direction they had gone. The nights they had spent in the same place already were a big enough risk.

  He knew what it looked like to them, as well. He demands they wait, then he shows up with his woman the next day and then it was time to get moving in a damn hurry. Well, he could take that criticism. He knew exactly what it looked like, and he couldn't find a better answer for them. Maybe that was exactly what it was.

  If he were there for himself, then so what? His face hardened and he pushed himself a little harder. How hard could he keep going? For how long? It was easy to say that he could force the march as long as they had to, until they reached the sea, but he couldn't outrun the stragglers, and the men would be hurting.

  But how long would it take to make the sea? Three days? A week? How long could they continue to push their luck in enemy territory, with half their men wounded?

  Well, if he had to be the bad guy, then he would accept it. He'd pushed them hard for the past two days, and he would keep pushing them hard. Valdemar let him lead, and Gunnar was thankful for that, at least. Now if only he'd left the whole thing well enough alone, the men they had lost might still be fighting. They might not be in this mess.

  He was so determined to keep pushing that when they came into view of the wide open sea, he kept walking for another minute before he realized what they had been looking at.

  A coastal town sat a ways down the shore, far enough to look like dots on the shore, but now that they knew that they'd made it, Gunnar felt the weight on his legs lessening, the last days' march already forgotten by his tired muscles. Looking back on the men as he walked, the others seemed to feel similarly.

  They had needed this, needed something to confirm that they weren't going the wrong direction entirely. Something concrete. Now they had it, and everyone felt greatly rejuvenated. An hour's march outside of town they settled down, the sun still more than visible over the horizon.

  Leif and Eirik went off hunting, but no one had high expectations for them. It had been a day since they had anything to eat, and that had been a half-dozen hares for twice as many people. The return to Denmark couldn't come fast enough for any of them.

  Since Valdemar's rise to power Magnus had gotten a good deal of work, and now was no exception. He was the smallest of them, and the easiest to pass off as English, so he would be the one that they sent to look around the city. Scout out their security, and the boats docked at the harbor, and come back.

  Gunnar had tried to shield Deirdre from the hunger as best she could. Given her all of his portion, less a bite or two, and he could feel the effect it was having on his body. As if he were wasting away. It was only a matter of time until he had something to eat, and he could wait. As long as they didn't hit a calm on the sea, it was a short couple of days across the way. No stops.

  He let out a breath, ignored the pain that had started to gnaw at his stomach. Unless they found something big—a stag, perhaps—then he would be better off not eating at all. It would only make it harder to cope with the pain.

  Magnus, to the entire band's vague disapproval, was the first back. Still, they had to hear out his report. They had sent him out to find information, after all—not to come back after food hopefully had arrived. Information, they discovered, he had brought back.

  They were small, with a few larger buildings that might have been a meeting hall, a church, and what he guessed was a dining hall. A few dozen homes, but only one man patrolling the streets. Things were, by all accounts, quiet.

  At the port, a gig sent out by a ship flying English colors with perhaps a crew of ten men, though he hadn't seen anyone on it. Most were likely on shore leave, with only one man on guard, and him not too attentive at that. Plenty of space for thirty, if they pressed in just a bit.

  The words sparked a feeling that Gunnar hadn't expected, and he knew he wasn't the only one feeling it. It wasn't going to reimburse them for one-tenth of the things that they had lost. All the loot in the world wouldn't bring back their dead comrades.

  But it was a chance at redemption, and more than that, a chance at food. He could feel himself salivating. Deirdre sat beside them cross-legged, and he could see from her face that she didn't understand, but she was doing her best to pretend that she had a place in the conversation.

  Taking pity, he translated for her, her nodding her understanding as Valdemar said exactly what Gunnar had found himself thinking. Food and a little loot, easy enough. They'd be able to redeem themselves, bring something back to show for their deadly journey. It was basically a gift given to them straight from the Gods.

  Gunnar could see how well the idea was sitting with Deirdre—or rather, how well it wasn't. She struggled for a moment t
o decide whether or not she had a right to speak, and then seemed to decide that she did. Whether she was right or not, they were both about to find out.

  "How many have to die? What if you succeed? Does that mean you get to try again? You get to carve another path across the countryside, until you get stopped again? When does it end?"

  Her voice was irritable and sharp, but Gunnar had to admit that the point was more salient than any of them would have liked to admit. Valdemar rubbed his beard thoughtfully. As good a sign as it could have been, Gunnar thought. The outburst could have easily led to a fight, but thankfully it hadn't, and that was about all that he could as for.

  The rant seemed to ride through the men in waves, as those who spoke no English had it translated for them, and then made their various reactions. Some agreed, he could see it right on their faces.

  Others wanted to roll the dice one more time. This early, they could be in and out before it was too dark to fight, and then out to the ship. They'd have a fight to take it, but it would be mostly-painless. They would be able, if nothing else, to find a use for their weapons.

  "And if you attack now, you risk using up your energy for taking the ship when night falls."

  Thirty-Seven

  She could feel her heart beating at a million miles a minute. She didn't know how in the world she was supposed to convince them. After all, they were stronger than her, Valdemar at least as smart, and each and every one of them valued their glory much higher than they viewed human life.

  She wasn't sure how they would feel about their own men, but she had hoped that if she tried to appeal to their sense of danger, that they might be putting themselves at risk, it would tip the balance in her favor. Slowly, scratching their beards and thinking over her words, the men circled around nodded.

  Deirdre knew she shouldn't have been there. Knew more than that, she shouldn't have spoke. She should have kept her mouth shut. She wasn't a fighter, and she certainly was no man.

  But the feeling in her gut told her that it was too big a risk to the lives of the men and women in this little fishing village to let the Northmen attack it. Now that she had the opportunity to stop them, she had to take it. How could she live with herself if she didn't?

  The sight of everyone seeming to agree with her let her take her first breath in what felt like an hour. The time had stretched so thin that the space between the seconds felt like an eternity as she had waited to see if her little argument had worked, and by the Gods she'd succeeded.

  They were still speaking their Northern tongue, and she was still left out of it, but it didn't seem as if they were discussing their attack plans any more. Rather, they were working on the logistics of taking the ship. If she looked hard in the failing light, she could almost make it out, anchored off the shore. How they would get to it seemed to be the subject of some debate.

  But for Deirdre, the realization was sudden and striking. She'd never been more than hip-deep in water in her life. Outside of bathing, she hadn't ever been up to her neck in water, and there was no way that she would be able to reach the bottom all the way out.

  If they took the boat, then she might be able to make it out, if they forced it. She tried to remind herself that it didn't matter. Still, she realized, of course it did. She'd spent so long letting things go by because they were unlikely, or because they didn't work with what she wanted. Well, she had learned her lesson with that.

  She would have to figure it out when the time came. That was the only answer. Even as they closed in on the boat that would take the Vikings back home, she reminded herself, there was still time for Gunnar to change his mind. To go back with her. She wasn't sure what he intended, but she had plenty of room to hope.

  As they spoke, she turned. No reason to keep her attention too closely on the conversation, not when they seemed to be calmly discussing. The blood lust was gone from their eyes. Now it was cool discussion about what to do next, and she wasn't a part of that conversation.

  That might have been why she was the first to notice as Eirik and Leif came up. They moved jerkily, and she knew they were dragging something. A small deer, she saw. Luck was on their side after all, and it seemed that when it rained, it poured. They would eat tonight, and they would eat well.

  The rest of the camp saw them a moment later, and then it was a rush to go and help them carry, to skin and clean it, and then when the fire got going, things were in full swing. Deirdre had never preferred venison, but after the past few days she had been through, it tasted like nothing she'd ever eaten. The best meat she'd had in years.

  Gunnar leaned into her, eating his own fill. He hadn't been eating much, she knew, but he had insisted. She was glad to see him eating again. At least he would be alright. One last feast before they left for Denmark, and they would bring with them nearly enough food for a four-day boat ride.

  Deirdre smiled. Good for them. They'd left the town alone, and now it had payed off for them almost immediately. Sometimes it paid to be good, and sometimes it payed well.

  Something sat in the back of her mind. A contradiction in terms. Where did she fit into all this? Gunnar had joined into the strategy talk just as much as any of them, and she'd let him. It was what he was good at, what he had always been preparing for his whole life, far as she could tell. He was a leader, and he was a soldier, and she knew that.

  Whatever their life together would look like in the future, he was who he was, and she couldn't bring herself to take that from him. Still, she thought, did that mean that he had planned on being there himself, to lead those men into the fight? How would that work?

  "A few days, darling," he said softly. The meat in his stomach seemed to have left him feeling satisfied, and he spoke like a man who wasn't too worried about what would come next. Not that she thought he should worry, but it set Deirdre at east. "Then we'll be able to start our lives together."

  She leaned into him, her head resting comfortably on his muscled shoulder. That sounded wonderful. She imagined her little cottage, seeing him living there. It was a little silly to imagine. He would dwarf the place, she thought, and the idea brought a smile to her lips.

  She couldn't understand them, but the men, circled around the fire and chatting, were clearly telling stories, their bodies animated as they acted out different parts. It was easy to laugh at their jokes, even not knowing what they were. Not laughing because she thought they were funny, but laughing because it felt good to laugh with them.

  Still, what she wouldn't have given for a few minutes alone with Gunnar. A few minutes to talk to him about what was going to happen. To ask him all the questions that were burning a hole in her chest. She couldn't do it, she realized. She couldn't ask him, because she couldn't deal with either answer. If she asked, and he had planned on her coming with him, she knew that he would change his mind.

  She would be able to have whatever she wanted. She could see it in him. He didn't have the will to fight her. But at the same time, was that what she wanted? Did she want to hurt him? At the same time, she couldn't bring herself to ruin the image she had in her own mind. To give up the life that she had envisioned for so many days now. The fantasy world that felt so real she could taste it.

  So she snuggled her head into the crook of his neck, smelling the scent that was so deeply Gunnar, and enjoyed the storytelling and the jokes that she couldn’t understand. Because it wouldn't be long until they were past the last minute, and the decisions were made.

  The feeling of Deirdre's head on his shoulder was a comfort, but it wasn't enough. No, that wasn't right. He couldn't let it be enough, not yet. He wasn't out of the water yet. They still had a fight on their hands, even if he hoped that it could be as painless as possible.

  They needed to take the ship. It was too early, still, and with their fire they would do well to wait a little longer. Let anyone who had seen it think that whatever the situation, they were asleep now. Wait until the moon was high and they could start to navigate by the light of the moon and t
he stars.

  He wrapped one arm around her shoulder, pulled her tight against him. They were going to be fine. An easy trip up the shore, late in the night, and then they hop on the gig, take it up to the English ship, and kill anyone they couldn't capture quietly. Easy. He repeated the word to himself again, trying to quiet the doubt inside him. Easy.

  The men were starting to quiet down from their revelry. The word had gone out long before Leif and Eirik returned. They were going tonight. With luck, they'd be back in Denmark by the full moon. Less than a week now. The idea that they were so close had set them all on edge, nobody quite sure of how to approach any of it, except that they needed to be careful. The last moment was the easiest time to take risks that they couldn't handle.

  Gunnar sucked in a breath, kissed Deirdre on the forehead, and stood up. His legs protested, already tightened up from inactivity after the long days that they had marched before. He couldn't afford to pay attention to that. It was too much of a risk.

  The rest of the men followed suit, and he reached a hand down to help Deirdre to her feet as well. He strapped the blade to his waist as they kicked dirt onto the fire, putting out the last embers. It was time to go. His eyes adjusted quickly to the darkness. Now that they were close, he let his pace slow. There was no need to hurry, and every unnecessary risk could put the men in danger.

  He couldn't—wouldn't—let another one die, not when they were so close to safety. Gunnar turned, looking over their faces, barely visible in the oppressive dark. They were behind, and they all had the stone-faced expression of men marching to do whatever needed doing.

  Good, Gunnar thought. They would need that determination. Unless they were very lucky, there was no chance that the little boat they had taken in to port carried more than a dozen, and that meant not one nor two, but three trips. That meant that whoever was left on the third had to fend for themselves, if they were caught. A fighting retreat was the last thing that they wanted, but it was a very real possibility.