The Viking's Heart

by Jacqueline Navin

  She saw his arrogance and realized in a flash of clarity that she had made a dreadful mistake in trusting him. On the heels of this revelation, she heard the hoofbeats.

  Davey shot to his feet. “Who is that?” he barked accusingly, as if it were her fault. As if she would know who it was who approached.

  But she did.

  Oh, she did—she knew who it was, as if a part of her that was inexplicably connected to that Viking could sense his increasing nearness as his great destrier ate up the ground with every long-reaching stride.

  “I only hear one. Do you only hear one?” Davey’s anxiety was infectious. Her joy receded. Her heart began to hammer. “I think ’tis only one man, Rosamund. Stay there.”

  Frozen, she watched him steal into the forest. Was he abandoning her?

  She whipped around when the sound of snapping bracken pierced her confusion.

  Agravar appeared, breaking through the foliage like an apparition. He reared the destrier to a halt and slid off its back in one fluid motion. He went perfectly still, standing with his legs braced wide, arms loose at his sides, pinning her with those brilliant eyes of blue.

  Something filled her up. Inside, a bittersweet emotion flooded through her, drowning her apprehensions, overshadowing every thought.

  She had thought never to see him again.

  She walked toward him, her legs seeming to move of their own volition. Forgetting Davey, forgetting everything that was insane around her, she kept going, step after step. His eyes held hers fast and they were wild, as wild as the thing inside her that she could no longer keep under control.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Agravar was stunned when she flung herself into his arms.

  He had expected her to run, he had expected her to rile, to curse him, damn him. What he had not expected was to see the look of naked agony on her face as if she had been awaiting him. Wanting him for the longest time and he had finally come.

  Ah, God, she was alive.

  She fit beautifully up against his body, snug, with all the right parts meshing. Her soft breasts against his chest, her hips against his thigh, her long legs all along his. His arms pulled her tighter. He wanted to take her into himself, possess her, feel her—with such a fierceness it left his mighty body trembling.

  He placed a large hand over her head as she lay her cheek against his shoulder, his fingers pushing into her hair. Nuzzling her neck, her scent assaulted him. As always it made his head swim and his body hard. He looked up, seeking distance from its drugging effects, and breathed in deep, clean air to clear his head.

  Leaning back, she peered at him curiously. Taking his face in her hands, her eyes searched his features. There were tears brimming in her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, and then she kissed him.

  Her mouth was soft, supple. He was too taken aback at first to answer the timid demand, but then his need seized him and he slanted his mouth across hers. Opening her, he tasted gently, sliding his tongue between her lips, over her teeth, then deeper, boldly thrusting. She reacted with shock at first; she most likely hadn’t known about this new, intimate kind of kiss. But as his tongue twined around hers, she melted again in his arms, and answered with a dawning passion that flooded his head with intoxicating vigor.

  Some part of his brain that still functioned sent out a sluggish warning. He knew, remotely, inconsequentially, how strange it was that she would be here with him after fleeing, and that part clamored for answers. He acknowledged its weak prodding, designated it for a time in the future. Now was for sensation, the sweet foolish drug that stole away all sensibility. He could not get enough. This was Rosamund, he kept thinking, here at last in his arms. His. His at last, if only for a little while.

  Their lips parted. She looked up at him, dazed, heavy lidded. He slid his fingers over her cheeks, brushing away the lingering wetness.

  He didn’t understand why her eyes widened, or why she took a step away from him. “Rosamund?” he asked, his hands outstretched. He thought the look of horror on her face was for the fact that they had just kissed so crazily, and now, in her typically unpredictable and incomprehensible way, she regretted it. Then she did something that unnerved him further. She held out her hands for him and screamed, “Nay!”

  He was standing there dumbfounded when the blow landed on his head. There was pain, and a deep, abiding flash of disappointment. Then there was nothing.

  “Did you have to hit him so hard?” Rosamund shrieked, falling on her knees to Agravar’s side.

  “Of course, I had to hit him that hard, he’s a giant Viking!” Davey circled the downed man, the heavy branch at the ready lest the Viking prove not completely subdued.

  Rosamund rolled Agravar onto his back, smoothing the tangled strands from where they weaved into his lashes. He looked pale, so pale. Her hand trembled as it touched the back of his scalp where a huge welt had arisen. Her hand came back bloodied.

  “Oh, dear God.”

  “Don’t be a ninny,” Davey snapped. “I didn’t kill him. He is only unconscious, and for but a little while. Get the rope from my saddle. We must tie him before he awakens.”

  She shot him a resentful, doubtful look. Davey narrowed his eyes. “Go, or do you wish to be taken back to Lord Robert? What will he do to you now, do you think? Surely he will not be pleased at your having fled him.”

  Her mouth went dry.

  He continued, “You could beg his forgiveness, I suppose, but would it weigh on your conscience at all that I will hang?”

  Scrambling to her feet, she went to do what he told her.

  “Stop weeping,” Davey demanded when she returned and handed him the line of hemp. “Here, help me. He is too heavy.”

  Together they managed to get Agravar’s ankles bound together. Lashing his thick wrists behind his back proved more challenging. His arms were heavy, his shoulders overlaid with muscle so that it took all Davey’s might to hold the Viking’s hands behind his back while Rosamund quickly tied the ropes. Davey checked her knot, securing it. She winced at Agravar’s face being pressed into the dirt while they yanked and pulled at his massive form. “Be gentle,” she admonished. Davey threw her a mutinous glance and jerked the hemp tight.

  “Now help me drag him into the woods,” Davey said when they were done.

  Rosamund took one side, Davey the other. It was several tries before they even managed to budge their burden.

  Rosamund straightened, chest heaving. “We cannot do it, he is too large.”

  “Come, try again,” Davey urged.

  They did, making slow progress toward the copse. It sickened Rosamund to see how Agravar’s head lolled, his hair dragging. She thought of his wound and fretted he was being hurt anew. She worried whether he would ever wake again, then wondered with dread what would happen if he did.

  She felt like a betrayer. She was a betrayer.

  Davey paused, looking around them as he pushed a damp lock of hair out of his eyes. “We can leave him here. I shall tie him to the trunk of this tree.”

  “Nay,” Rosamund protested. “He will be utterly defenseless.”

  Davey spun on her. “Would you rather dump him into the water? We can take him back down to the river’s edge and do it.”

  Having had enough of the man’s imperiousness, she drew herself up and took a stern tone. “He shall not be left out in the open where any passing beast will have him at their will. Your mercilessness is appalling, Davey. I never intended to bring harm to anyone. We thought it out carefully for that purpose.”

  “Then what do you wish to do with him? Think you to bring him with us?” He sneered. “That would suit you, I’ll wager.”

  “Of course not. Let me think.” She pulled at her gown as she walked away a bit. It clung to her, her body wet with perspiration from her exertions, the cool turn in the weather notwithstanding.

  Whirling, she said, “Did we not see a ruin on our way here? ’Twas an abbey or something. We can take him there. ’Twill provide a shelter fo
r him.”

  “What? Ridiculous. That is in the wrong direction. We cannot head back to Gastonbury.”

  She cocked her hands on her hips and jutted up her chin. “I’ll not go another step if he is left thusly, Davey. Forget not I am your mistress and I shall make it a command if I have to. We will take him to safety or we will not go on.”

  “Rosamund, think of the time we will lose.”

  “What is this? Only moments before he arrived, you assured me that we had plenty.”

  “To a point, aye, but with this delay…”

  “Then you will have to make it turn out for the better, Davey, but I shall not waver. We head to the ruins. I shall not leave him to perish.”

  His lips pulled back from his teeth in an ugly grimace. “Is your heat for the Viking so great you would risk this for his sake?”

  Her voice was cold. “You will not speak to me in that manner. Now bring him. Together, we must do it.”

  Sullenly he grabbed Agravar’s arm. With no attention to the prone man’s comfort, he yanked, dragging him along the forest floor.

  “Gently, Davey, gently.”

  First there was pain. The physical kind, outside him, all over his body, and inside him, in his brain. His head throbbed.

  Then there was touch. Soft pressure at his forehead, soothing, caressing.

  Agravar slitted his eyes open and there were soft brown orbs staring back at him. Her lips trembled into the slightest of smiles, but her eyes stayed sad. “Hello.”

  He frowned. “What happened? Where are we?”

  She jerked her gaze away, suddenly reluctant. “You were struck.”

  “Who—?” He made to stand but several things stopped him. Pain, for one thing. It flared anew, nearly taking him back into the void. The realization that his hands were bound was another. His ankles as well.

  Her hands came to his chest and eased him back. “Rest, Agravar.”

  He looked around them. They were in some sort of a ruin, an old church, it looked like. A large one. Sections of walls, crumbling arches, empty window holes devoid of its glass were lined up on either side. Huge chunks of stone were strewn willy-nilly, as if some gigantic child had been playing and left his toys untidied. Grass grew around them, attesting to the mythical creature’s long absence. “What is this place?” he asked. “Rosamund, untie me. What are you about?”

  “I cannot. Please, just relax. I promise no harm will come to you.”

  “You kissed me!” he accused, his memory returning. “Then someone knocked me on the noggin.”

  “’Twas dreadful, I know.”

  His look was wry. “The kiss?”

  “Nay! My man striking you.”

  “The devil with the plumed hat. He was your man all along, was he not?”

  “Aye. His name is Davey.”

  “Is he a priest? I thought I saw a tonsure before I blacked out.”

  “Nay. He was posturing as one.”

  “Oh. I understand now. He was the one at Gastonbury. The one you were always running off to meet. Is he your lover?”

  “Nay!”

  He found relief in her denial. “He hit me.” It was a bit difficult to focus, but he could do so if he concentrated. However, the effort made him feel queasy. “It is time for answers,” he demanded weakly.

  “Be at ease.” Her delicate hands brushed down his chest, soothing him. It felt erotic. It wasn’t, it was sweet and tender, but anything this woman did would seem erotic to him. Embarrassingly, his body responded. God, this was agony of every kind!

  “Davey is helping me to escape.”

  “Why do you need to escape? Escape what?”

  “I am leaving Gastonbury. I am leaving England. I…”

  She looked off, her eyes searching the sky for something. Perhaps for some help. Perhaps for Davey. Where had the knave gone to, anyway?

  “You shall hate me when you hear it,” she said quietly. So demure, so deceptively reserved.

  He settled back, nesting the back of his head in the softness of some leaves. She must have fashioned him a little pillow. The thoughtfulness touched him. “Tell me,” he croaked. “Put an end to all of my wondering.”

  She took a long time to begin. “I do not wish to marry Robert. This you know.”

  “But I cannot fathom why.”

  “I know he is kind, I know he is gentle and good, and…how can I tell you how it is? There are no words. I wish to belong to no man. I have seen things, Agravar, that have made me afraid. My mother…” Halting her garbled confession, she drew in a shaky breath.

  “I shall start at the beginning, and then perhaps you will understand. My mother married Cyrus of Hallscroft when I was three. My father had been slain in a border raid in the Welsh marches, and we were forced to return to my mother’s home. My grandfather made the second match for my mother without knowing much about Cyrus, but I do not believe it would have made much difference if he had. Once, years after she was married, she ran away and made her way back to him. She told them about Cyrus, about what ’twas like for her. He brought her back to Hallscroft. He told her a wife’s place was with her husband, no matter what.”

  Words to ease her came to his lips, but he choked them back. He listened.

  “You met Father Leon. He was the least of the trials at Hallscroft. Hateful sermons on the corruption of Eve, dire predictions of Jezebel and Delilah and the whore of Babylon. I had the stories in my head to divert me.”

  “What?”

  “Oh…’tis another matter altogether. Suffice it to understand that the poisons Father Leon spewed—they were only words. Cyrus encouraged Leon, approved of his ways. I was put under his supervision.”

  Agravar ground his teeth to think of it. The action caused his head to feel as if a woodsman’s ax had split it asunder.

  His vision blurred, readjusted. “Rosamund, untie me.”

  She winced, obviously wanting to. “Nay, I cannot.”

  “I shall not harm you. I swear it.” He wanted to touch her. “Just free my hands. Please.”

  She hesitated. Finally she shook her head.

  Grimacing against the ache in his head, he sighed. “Very well. Let me hear the rest then.”

  She was silent so long, he thought he had ruined the moment with his demands, but she eventually spoke again. “Father Leon was not the worst of it, as I have said. ’Twas my mother—what I saw happen to her. I watched it, Agravar. Day after day as she…withered. Cyrus’s cruelty was so horrible.

  “She was kept as a prisoner—nay, worse. She had no more independence than one of the hounds that were trained to sit at their master’s feet. He governed every action, every move. She was not allowed out of her solar without permission. Sometimes she would beg to go for a walk in the gardens. Weeks would pass until finally her wish was granted. And Cyrus, with his smooth lies and falseness, would act as if it were the epitome of beneficence that he allowed it. When in the hall, she had to attend him. She would have to wait in silence for her husband’s bidding, and when he called, she was to answer without question. The smallest infraction, the slightest delay, was not tolerated.”

  She swallowed hard. She still hadn’t looked at him.

  “Once, when she was with child, we were at supper. She…she needed to use the garderobes. This was a frequent occurrence because of her condition. She asked to be pardoned to attend to her needs. Cyrus was in a foul mood. He refused, forcing her to remain and attend him until he saw fit to excuse her. As her discomfort grew, she began to weep. This made him furious. He ignored her. The hour waned. She…she was humiliated when she could no longer…He…was the first time he ever struck her in front of others.”

  Her chin quivered and she blinked rapidly, fixing her gaze on some far-off point, not seeing it anyway, for all her thoughts were focused within.

  “He killed her soon after that. I often wonder if the horror of that last time did not spark some rebellion in her. Did she provoke him too far, so far that he finally lost control of hims
elf?”

  “Dear God, Rosamund, ’tis a nightmare you describe. Did no one know he was a murderer?”

  “’Twas judged an accident. He pushed her from the battlements where she used to sneak off to walk sometimes. I remember how she used to climb the tower stairs with her cloak around her, with such a look of anticipation it used to make my heart ache. I think ’twas the only time she had peace. I’m glad ’twas there she had her last hours on earth. It was her happiest place.”

  “Ah, Rosamund, I am so sorry.” Bracing himself against the taunting fuzziness in his head, he pulled hard at the ropes at his wrists. He thought he felt them loosening. He desperately wanted his hands free, for the need to reach out to her was fairly choking him, but his strength ebbed abruptly and he had to stop.

  Dashing away the tears, she seemed to recollect herself. “So you see, I could never marry. I cannot marry any man, and be like she was.”

  He said, “Surely you know not all men are like Cyrus.”

  “How is one to know? No one looking at our family from the outside could have known the truth. Cyrus was crafty. So much of what he did was in private, and when my mother’s bruises showed, he always had an excuse ready. His men admired him and thought, if they ever did give the matter any consideration, that their lord was merely meting out just punishment, just as many husbands do to wayward wives.”

  “That was what you meant, then, when you said you were an expert in evil.”

  She nodded.

  “Surely there were good men at Hallscroft, who might have guessed at the truth. Men who could have helped if had they known. I cannot believe the entire castle was so misguided, or depraved.”

  “Oh, aye, I daresay there were. Good men who ignored their liege’s wife’s limping, or the purple bruises on her neck where it showed just above the neckline of her dress. No one questioned her long absences from the hall when the damage couldn’t be concealed and she had to hide herself away. ’Twas none of their affair, you see, so they lowered their heads when she hobbled by and drank their mead and no one helped us. Nay, Agravar, I have never in my youth known a man to be of a good and kind nature.”