She slumped beside him, unable to protest. It was her own fault they had come to this. Her pride and fear were twisted so tight inside her, they’d blinded her to things even a youth of ten and six could plainly see.
Oh, but there was more, more than Ottar could fathom. Her fierce independence, this visceral need to conquer, to win, to prove her worth in a world where all save a few had considered her worthless. That’s what had landed them all in this mess.
Her cheeks blazed hot with shame.
“If only I’d told him,” she whispered.
Ottar shook her. “It’s not too late. Send word to Wick when we reach your father’s.”
“Nay, Grant has his own life—and a new bride.” Would that she could turn her heart to ice to stop the pain.
“You are his bride, the wife of his heart, no matter what bargains he need keep for king and clan. I’ve watched the two of you together for weeks now. I know him, and I know you.”
She looked at him and a film of tears stung her eyes. “Lawmaker would have been proud of you, were he here this day.”
“You love him,” Ottar said. “Admit it.”
“Ja.” She nodded. “I do.”
“Well then—”
A whoosh cut the air above them, and her heart jumped to her throat. They both looked up to see the butt end of a Viking spear protruding from the slag pile where they hid.
“I knew you’d not go far,” a chillingly familiar voice said behind her.
Rika scrambled to her feet, wrenching the dagger from Ottar’s belt before he could stop her. She knew it would come to this, and she was ready.
More than ready.
“Brodir,” she said, turning on him. “How good of you to join us.”
“Where’s the bloody fog when we need it?”
George crouched low beside MacInnes and peered over a tumble of rocks and down into the quarry. A score of guards hovered around a bonfire outside the slave barracks. More patrolled the southern perimeter.
“Aye,” MacInnes said, and spared a look at the clear dark sky. “We’ll have no cover tonight.”
“Christ, it stinks to high heaven.” He wrinkled his nose at the stench wafting from the slag heaps below them. The fresh salt scent of the sea did naught to disguise the fetor.
“Sulfur—and copper and lead, as well.”
Behind them on the moor a horse whinnied. “Keep those damn nags quiet,” he hissed at MacInnes’s men.
“I had no idea there would be this many.” MacInnes nodded to the guards below. “It’s been years since I’ve been to this wretched place. Methinks some o’ them must be Brodir’s men.”
“Aye, and from what Sinclair’s kinsman told us, this Brodir holds the quarry master in his back pocket.”
“Are ye certain she’s down there?”
“Aye. Dead certain.” The description Sinclair’s kinsman had given of the Norsewoman left no doubt in his mind.
“There’s nothing for it then. There are too many o’ them and too few of us. We must wait until your brother returns with Rollo and his men. ’Twas a good idea to send for him. Let’s hope to God he’s of a mind to come after his daughter—and his son.”
“He’ll come, but I willna wait on him.”
MacInnes arched a brow in the soft moonlight. “Ye canna think to—”
“I can and I will. My wife’s down there—in the hands of a beast.” He locked gazes with the Scot. “Are ye with me?”
MacInnes grinned in the dark. “Aye, but we’ll have to be bloody ghosts to slip past the guards unnoticed. We canna take them openly. The fewer go in, the better.”
George checked Gunnlogi for the dozenth time. “All right then, let’s do it.”
MacInnes picked two of his men to go with them. To the others he said, “Wait here. If we’re no back with her by the time Rollo arrives—”
“We’ll be back.” In his mind’s eye George pictured the layout MacInnes had described. “Come on. We’ll take the path leading off the slag heaps. From there we’ll snake to the castle.”
MacInnes nodded.
George took off at a run, skirting the perimeter of the quarry, taking care to avoid the guards, making his way toward the pale glow of torchlight that marked the ruined castle where he was certain Rika was held.
Pray God, she was still alive.
MacInnes and the others dogged his steps. In minutes they reached the crumbled seaward side of what once had been a fine stone and timber structure. They’d been damn lucky thus far.
Now, how to get inside without being seen?
It didn’t look as difficult as George imagined ’twould be. After all, the quarry and castle headquarters were designed to keep people in, not out. At the end of the workday the slaves were rounded up and secured in their barracks.
Few prowled about outside the castle. The only guard who proved too sharp to elude in the dark, now slumped to the snow-covered ground, his throat slit. George sheathed his bloodied dirk and dragged the body behind a pile of rubble.
A moment later his ears pricked. Footfalls and the laughter of approaching men. George dropped to the ground. MacInnes and his men ducked into the slag heaps flanking the path. Had they been spotted? Nay, he didn’t think so.
There were six of them—Brodir’s men, he guessed, given their speech and attire. Another few yards and George would be discovered. MacInnes and his men were on the opposite side of the path, cut off from him. Damn!
He had but one chance, and he took it.
Lightning fast, George slipped around the corner of the ruined castle, dirk in hand. No one was about. Seconds later he came upon a side entrance that was unguarded and clearly not part of the original construction. MacInnes had been dead right about that. He could kiss the man.
George slipped inside, his heart in his throat, and crept silently along a corridor toward a splash of torchlight and the murmur of voices. Turning the corner into a dark alcove, he stopped dead.
Rika stood rigid in the chamber directly across from him, hands fisted at her sides.
Thank Christ! He wanted to shout it from the rooftops, but bit his tongue instead. He willed himself not to move, for fear she’d see him and give away what little advantage his stealth afforded him.
Behind her stood—Ingolf! What was the blackguard, immortal? This time he’d make certain the murderer got his due. With him stood another of Brodir’s henchman.
Beside them, lashed to the timbered posts supporting the mud and stone wall, were four youths, three whom he knew. Ottar, Erik and Leif, who looked surprisingly healthy given their situation.
The fourth lad had not fared so well. Dried blood matted his white-gold hair. He hung there, unconscious or dead—George couldn’t tell which, beaten bloody at any rate. His resemblance to Rika was startling. Tall and fair, if a bit thin. No surprise, given the hellish conditions he’d no doubt survived these long months in bondage.
Gunnar, son of Rollo. Rika’s brother.
She cast a glance in the youth’s direction and her eyes saddened. In that moment George understood everything. Were it his own brother who’d been held here, he would have done anything to have freed him.
Lied. Killed. Anything.
Aye, he understood her well, and his heart swelled with an aching visceral love.
Slowly he unsheathed Gunnlogi. Torchlight bounced off the fine metalwork of the blade, bathing the carved runes in fire. Would that Lawmaker had bestowed him with the knowledge to invoke the magic the weapon was rumored to hold. George would have sold his very soul for it.
“Will you deal?” Rika said to a shadowed figure at the edge of George’s field of view.
“Why should I?” The figure stepped into the light and George sucked in a breath.
Brodir.
Sweet Jesus, he was huge. Garbed in Viking battle gear, and all muscle by the look of him. The Norseman raked his dark eyes over Rika’s form and laughed.
George felt the blood rage hot through his veins.
“I have you—and him.” Brodir nodded at Gunnar’s slumped body. “Why should I deal?”
Rika stepped toward her captor, and George held his breath. “Because if you let them go—” she gestured to the youths “—all of them, I will give willingly all that you would have from me by force.”
Ottar began to protest.
George closed his eyes and gritted his teeth to still the sickness rolling up from his gut. Steady, he told himself. Bide your time, man. Choose the right moment. He drew a breath and opened his eyes.
Erik and Leif joined the youth’s protest until Ingolf landed a fist in Ottar’s belly.
Brodir snickered and stepped toward her. Rika held her ground. “But that would take all the pleasure out of it.” He slid a thick finger across her scarred throat. George redoubled his grip on his broadsword.
In a move that startled them all, Rika sprang backward. Out of the corner of his eye George caught a flash of light.
“She has a weapon!” Ingolf started forward; Brodir called him off.
George moved into the corridor, his heart pounding.
“And I know well how to use it.” Her eyes blazed murder as she circled Brodir like a predator.
Wait, George commanded himself. Wait for the right moment.
“Come on then.” Brodir waved her toward him.
“Rika, no!” Ottar cried.
She ignored him and moved forward, graceful as a cat. One more step and George would put a stop to it.
Brodir cocked his head and frowned. Rika stopped in her tracks, apparently confused by his expression. George waited. One second more.
To his surprise, Brodir pointed at the silver brooch pinned to Rika’s rumpled shirt. ’Twas the first time George noticed it. His throat constricted and his heart swelled.
“I remember that,” Brodir said. “It was your whore of a mother’s.”
Rika’s eyes widened ever so slightly. Aye, she remembered, too. George watched as the confusion in her face dissolved, hardening to recognition, then clarity. She tipped her chin at the Norseman. “My husband gave it me.”
Brodir laughed.
“As my morgen gifu.” A proud smile bloomed on her face, and George’s chest tightened with love for his beautiful and courageous wife.
The grin slid from Brodir’s face. He raised a beefy hand as if to slap her. Rika, true to form, God love her, stepped toward him and tipped her chin higher, blue eyes blazing.
’Twas time. George sprang into the light wielding Gunnlogi. “Lay a hand on her and you’re a dead man.”
Chapter Eighteen
She was dreaming.
Ja, that explained everything.
“Grant!” Ottar cried, snapping her out of her stupor.
Rika blinked, believing him a vision, and drank in the glorious sight of the Scot. Nay, he was no dream, but flesh. “Thor’s blood, what are you doing here?”
Grant’s eyes flicked to hers for the barest instant. “I would ask ye the same—wife.” He nodded to the corridor. “Move behind me, now.”
Wife.
His voice was so commanding and her brain so addled by his unexpected appearance, her feet began to move before she realized his intention. “How did you know?”
“Had I any sense, I would have—”
Ingolf and his henchman shot forward, weapons drawn. Rika froze.
“Hold!” Brodir called, then grinned wickedly at Grant. “So, this is the husband, ja?”
“Ja.” Grant glared at him and raised Gunnlogi higher.
“Do not!” Rika stepped out from behind him, brandishing her ridiculously short dagger. “This is my fight, not yours.”
Grant’s eyes widened. He stared at her in disbelief, as Ingolf and his man slid closer, snickering. “Ye canna mean that. Ye expect me to stand by and let ye—”
“I do.” She drew herself up and leveled her gaze at him. “There is a score to settle here—my score.”
Brodir’s grin widened.
“But…” Grant shook his head, incredulous. “Ye’re my wife, and your battles mine. And if ye think I’ll stand down while this blackguard yet lives—” he nodded at Brodir “—ye dinna know me.”
Ingolf lunged.
Rika was ready.
She spun as he grabbed her, and his dark eyes popped wide. His breath was foul. She recoiled as he slid to the floor, the hilt of her dagger protruding from his chest.
Grant had not stood idle. Ingolf’s henchman, a Norseman she did not know, lay slumped at his feet. Gunnlogi dripped blood.
Ottar and Leif and Erik struggled against their bonds, shouting encouragement. Rika spared a quick glance at her brother, but he did not stir. “Hang on,” she whispered to him.
All at once, Brodir advanced on them, his face twisted in rage.
“Dinna touch her!” Grant said, and raised his sword.
Brodir stopped short.
“Your business is with me, for I stole her from ye.”
Rika moved toward her husband. “Nay, I told you, I would slay him myself.”
A terrible smile curled the edges of Brodir’s mouth. Oh, how she longed to wipe it from his face with her blade.
“Aye,” Grant said, “and conquer the whole bloody world on your own while ye’re at it?” His anger startled her. “That night on the ship, Lawmaker went over the side of his own accord.” He kicked at Ingolf’s dead body. “And no just to thwart this whoreson. Ye know that, don’t ye?”
Their eyes locked, and a chill snaked up her spine.
She did know.
“He did it so that I would have no choice but to…trust you.”
Grant nodded, and pain colored his expression.
“Foolish old man,” she breathed.
“No so foolish, Rika.”
“Enough!” Brodir slid a double-headed ax from the belt at his waist, and backed Grant toward the wall where the struggling youths were tethered.
Rika swept her dagger from Ingolf’s chest and moved with them. “George, you do not know him as I do. He’ll kill you. Please, let me—”
He ripped the dagger from her grasp and tossed it to Ottar who had managed to free one hand. In seconds, all three youths were freed, but the dagger the only weapon between them.
Brodir called out toward the empty corridor.
“Coward,” Grant said. “Can ye no disarm me on your own? Must ye call for help like a woman?”
Brodir let out a war cry and lunged at him. Rika froze, her breath caught in her throat. Grant deflected the heavy ax stroke, but just barely.
“Get her out of here!” he cried, and nodded at the youths. “And her brother. MacInnes waits for ye outside.”
Brodir lunged again, and Grant turned his attention full on him.
“Nay!” Rika rushed forward. Ottar caught her and dragged her back. “Let me go! I must help him!”
“Get her out!” Grant’s face contorted into a hot meld of rage and courage.
Ottar dragged her, kicking, toward the corridor. Leif and Erik followed, bearing Gunnar’s limp body between them.
“You fool, he’ll kill you!”
Nay, he would not.
George lunged and Brodir backed off, affording him the chance to glance at Rika as Ottar dragged her from the room.
“George!”
George.
How he’d longed to hear her call him by his Christian name. His heart nearly burst for love of her. “There are things of which we must speak—but later.”
“I love you,” she breathed. Her words seared his soul.
Ottar jerked her down the corridor, and she was gone.
Dawn crept over the snow-dusted moor surrounding Rollo’s castle. Rika steadied herself against the stone window ledge and gazed west into the mist toward Dunnet Head.
Did her husband live or die?
The anxiety of not knowing would surely drive her mad.
“Get some sleep,” Ottar said. “You’ve been standing at that window since we arrived yesterday morn.
/> She fought the crushing exhaustion bearing down on her. “Nay, I’m fine,” she said absently.
But she was not fine.
She fisted her hands and opened them again to stir her blood and stave off the chills. Each time a horseman materialized out of the fog on the moor below, her stomach tightened in anticipation. And each time, as she realized it was not him, a sick feeling washed over her.
“He lives,” Ottar said. “You must believe in him.”
She did believe in him, at long last. Too late, perhaps. The clash of Brodir’s ax against George’s sword still rang in her ears, and gnawed at the tenuous hope she clung to for her husband’s safe return.
“The nerve of my father.” She strode to the heavy timber door and beat it fruitlessly with her fists for the hundredth time. “To lock me in like this.”
A weak laugh drifted from the bed.
“Gunnar,” she breathed, and rushed to her brother’s side. His color had returned, and he looked much improved from yesterday when, after constant tending, he finally roused from unconsciousness. She touched her finger to his battered head, and he winced.
“It’s for your own good, sister. I would have locked you in myself had Rollo not beat me to it.”
“Thor’s blood, I hate him!”
Gunnar smiled in that gently admonishing way she used to love. “Nay, you merely make a show of it. As does he.”
Still, she could not believe her father had come for her. George had sent his brother to fetch Rollo, and he’d come. Just like that. George, too. And MacInnes. She shook her head, afraid to believe what their aid implied.
“Our mother’s brooch.” Gunnar clutched at her tattered shirt.
Twice Catherine had bade her don something more suitable, a gown, but she’d refused. She must be ready to ride, should an opportunity arise for her to escape this ridiculous incarceration.
She shook off her dark thoughts and smiled at her brother. “Ja, it was hers. I remember now. I didn’t…before.”
“You mean, when Grant gave it you?”
She shot him a surprised look. “You know?”
Ice Maiden Page 23
