Ragnar sobered. ‘Elena hasn’t spoken much at all. But she’s afraid—that, I can tell you.’
Styr pulled hard on the oar, his arms straining as the wooden blades cut through the waves. Afraid of what? He would protect her from any harm, and he was more than able to provide for her.
‘What else do you know?’ he demanded.
‘The men are tired. They need rest and food,’ Ragnar said. His friend’s face mirrored his own exhaustion, after they’d been awake for so long.
‘I wasn’t talking about the men.’
Ragnar rested the oars for a moment, sympathy on his face. ‘Just talk to Elena, my friend. She’s hurting.’
He knew that was the obvious answer. But Elena rarely spoke to him any more, never telling him what she was thinking. He couldn’t guess what was going on inside her head, and when he demanded answers, she only closed up more.
He didn’t understand women. One moment, he would be talking to her, and the next, she’d be silently weeping and he had no idea why. It made him feel utterly helpless.
As their boat drifted closer, he eyed Ragnar. ‘I’ve been saving a gift for her. Something to make her smile.’ He’d bought the ivory comb in Hordafylke, and the image of Freya was carved upon it. When he showed it to his friend, Ragnar shrugged.
‘It’s a nice gift, but it’s not what she wants.’
Though his friend was only being honest, it wasn’t what Styr wanted to hear. ‘Do you think I don’t know that? Do you think we wanted to be childless all these years?’ His temper broke out, and his words lashed out louder than he’d intended. Elena was holding on to her waist, and she didn’t glance back at either of them. He didn’t doubt his wife had overheard their argument. But as cool-headed as she was, she’d never confront him.
‘I’ve made offerings to the gods,’ he admitted, dropping his voice lower. ‘I’ve been a good husband to her. But this curse is wearing on both of us. It has to end.’
Ragnar stood, preparing to lower the sail. ‘And if it doesn’t?’
Styr stared at his hands, not knowing the answer to that. But he strongly suspected that there was nothing he could do to make his wife happy again. He stole a last look at her, and at that moment she turned back. Her pale face was shadowed, her eyes holding such pain, he didn’t know how to heal it.
In the end, he busied himself with the ship, unable to bridge the growing distance between them.
* * *
The Lochlannach were here. Caragh’s heart beat so rapidly, she could hardly breathe. There were a dozen men walking through the shallow water, and their size alone dwarfed her kinsmen. Battleaxes and swords hung from their waists, while they carried round wooden shields. Several of the men wore chainmail corselets and helms with narrow nose guards. One man was taller than all the others, possibly their leader. His eyes narrowed upon the ringfort, and Caragh remained hidden behind a pile of peat bricks.
She’d managed to evacuate most of the people, aside from Brendan and his friends. The young men worried her, for they seemed intent upon attacking the Lochlannach. If they did, doubtless they would be slaughtered in the attempt.
She didn’t know what to do. Should she approach them and find out what they wanted? Their leader drew closer, and he was so tall, he stood a full head above her brother Brendan. He had fair hair bound back, and his shoulders were broad, like a man accustomed to hacking his way through a battlefield. His cloak was black, and a golden brooch fastened it on one side. Beneath it, she caught the glint of chainmail, though he wore no helm. There was no trace of mercy in his visage, as if he’d come to plunder and take everything of value.
She tried to calm the wild beating of her heart, but in the distance, she spied her brother moving behind the men. Four others were approaching from opposite corners, intending a surprise attack.
Why wasn’t Brendan moving towards the boat? With horror, she realised that he’d changed his intent. No longer was he planning to raid their supplies.
It seemed her younger brother and his friends were planning an attack of their own. Caragh swallowed hard, praying for a miracle. If only her older brothers were here to stop him. Or any of the other men. She had to do something to protect Brendan, but what?
She started to rise from her hiding place, when suddenly, she spied a female standing back from the men. Her skirts were sodden from walking through the water, and she stared at the ringfort as if she were nervous.
If these men had come to raid, they would never have brought a woman along. Who was she?
Caragh had no time to consider further, for her brother and his friends made their move. Within seconds, they surrounded the woman, dragging her away from the other men.
Her scream cut through the air, and the Viking leader charged after the young men. The other Lochlannach followed, but their movement lacked energy, as if they had not fought in some time. The leader showed no weakness at all, and a roar erupted from him as he ran, his battleaxe unsheathed.
He was going to kill them.
Caragh bit her lip so hard, she tasted blood, when the Viking was surrounded by her kinsmen. He swung his battleaxe, his chainmail shirt outlining immense muscles and a honed body well accustomed to fighting. The blade sank into one of the young men trying to hold him back.
She closed her eyes tightly, her blood pulsing so hard, she felt faint. Although the Norseman was outnumbered, the young men’s efforts would come to naught. They would die for this—Brendan among them.
She couldn’t stand aside and let it happen. Caragh slipped back into the blacksmith’s hut, searching for a weapon she was strong enough to wield. Precious time slid away and she tried to lift her father’s hammer, without success.
Something. Anything. She whirled around, and this time, she saw a wooden staff in the corner. Although it was heavy and thick, at least she could lift it.
She rushed out of the hut, only to find that several more of her kinsmen had returned from their hiding places, and had surrounded the Lochlannach. Older men charged forwards with their own weapons, and several lay dead. Others had managed to subdue several of the enemy men, tying them up as hostages.
But it was the Viking leader who held her attention now. He’d torn his way free of the people and was running after the woman, blood lust in his eyes.
Straight towards her brother.
Caragh didn’t think, but raced after him, her lungs burning as she ran. She didn’t know what she could possibly do to stop the warrior, but she gripped the wooden staff in her hands, praying for strength she didn’t have. Her terror seemed to slow, magnified by the need to save Brendan. Her brother had seized the woman with both hands, leaving him powerless to defend himself.
‘Brendan, let her go!’ she shouted, but he didn’t. The Viking raised the battleaxe above his head, prepared to strike.
Without knowing where her strength came from, Caragh swung the staff at his head. The man turned at the last second and the staff caught him across the ear. He dropped hard, the axe falling from his hand. The woman screamed, reaching towards him as she cried out words in an unfamiliar language.
Caragh felt the woman’s pain, and she met the woman’s eyes with her own, wishing she could make her understand. She’d had no choice in this.
Chapter Two
Styr awakened, feeling as if someone had crushed his head. When he tried to sit up, a rush of pain poured through him.
It was eerily quiet, and it took him a moment to reassemble what had happened. He smelled a peat fire, and when he tried to sit up, he realised that his wrists were chained behind his back, around a thick post. He was now a prisoner.
Where was Elena? Had they taken her, too? His eyes adjusted to the darkness and he struggled to stand. There was only a woman standing on the far end of the room, watching him with wariness. He listened hard for the sound of his language, for any evidence that his kinsmen were alive. But there was nothing.
He knew the Irish language, after his father had taught him many fo
reign tongues. As a voyager, Styr knew how valuable it was, and he’d mastered several languages as a boy. But he asked the woman no questions, not revealing his ability to understand her words. He might learn more about Elena and Ragnar, if he pretended he knew nothing.
‘Where have you taken the others?’ he barked out, using a Norse dialect he knew she wouldn’t understand.
She flinched at his tone and remained far away. Good. In the shadowed light, he couldn’t quite make out her features, but it surprised him that her family had left her here alone with him. Where were the other men? Why was there no one else to guard him?
He began examining his bonds more closely. They had chained his arms behind his back, around a thick beam on the opposite wall. He guessed the circumference of the beam was the width of his thigh, for when he leaned his weight against it, it did not budge.
‘Let me go,’ he demanded, still using the Norse language. To emphasise his words, he strained against the chains.
When the woman stepped into the light, he was shocked by what he saw. Her face was terribly thin, her eyes sunken from lack of food. The bones of her wrists were narrow, and though he recognised her as the one who had struck him down, he couldn’t imagine how she’d done it.
There was no possible way she’d had the strength to move him here and put him in chains. She looked as if a strong wind would knock her over.
Her eyes were a strange blue, so dark, they were almost violet. Her brown hair hung to her waist, unbound except for a small braided section at her temples.
She might have been beautiful, if she’d had enough to eat.
He found himself comparing her to Elena. His wife was nearly as tall as he was, with long reddish-blonde hair and eyes the colour of seawater. Their families had arranged the marriage in order to ally their two tribes together. Although she was a quiet woman, the first few years had been good between them.
A chill took hold within him as he wondered what they’d done with her. Was she alive?
But demanding questions of this waif would accomplish nothing. Better to bide his time and gain her trust. Perhaps then he could get her to unlock his chains, and he’d slip away into the night.
‘I can’t understand your language,’ she admitted, drawing nearer. She was far shorter than Elena, and the top of her head only reached his shoulders. ‘But I’m sorry for all of this. I just...wanted to protect my brother.’
He said nothing, staring at her. The young woman’s voice revealed her fear, but there was also a sweetness to it, as if she were trying to soothe a wounded beast.
‘My name is Caragh Ó Brannon,’ she informed him. Touching her chest, she repeated, ‘Caragh.’
Styr said nothing at all. If she wanted his name, then she’d have to set him free first. He sent her a hard look, willing her to release him.
‘If you’ll allow it, I can tend your wound,’ she offered. ‘I truly am sorry for hitting you. I was afraid I’d killed you for a moment.’ She lowered her gaze, wringing her hands together. ‘That’s not the sort of woman I am.’ Her mouth tightened, and she sighed. ‘I don’t know why I’m even speaking to you, for you can’t understand a single word.’
It didn’t seem to stop her, though. Caragh began talking in a stream of conversation, and Styr was so taken aback by her ceaseless speech, he had trouble following some of her words. She kept apologising while she found a basin of water and a bowl of soup. Then he came to understand that it was her way of hiding her fear. By talking her enemy to death.
When she stood an arm’s length from him, Caragh stopped mid-word. Her eyes stared at him with regret, and she set down the bowl of soup at his feet, along with another basin, presumably for his personal needs.
‘I’m sorry to keep you like this,’ she said quietly. ‘But if I let you go, you’ll kill my family.’ Her eyes drifted downward again. ‘Possibly me, as well.’ She dipped the linen cloth into the water and hesitated. Water dripped down into the bowl, and she admitted, ‘I probably shouldn’t have taken you prisoner. But if I hadn’t, you’d have gone after my brother again.’
It disconcerted him that he’d been captured at all. If he and his men had been at their full strength, it never would have happened. The lack of sleep had slowed their reflexes, making it difficult for them to respond to the surprise attack.
Caragh reached out and touched the cloth to his temple, washing away the dried blood. The gentle gesture was so unexpected, he gaped at her. She was intent upon her work, though from the slight tremor in her fingers, he sensed her fear of him. The cool water soothed the swelling, but he spoke no words.
Why would she bother tending his wound? He was her enemy, not her friend. No one had ever touched him in this manner, and he couldn’t understand why this waif would attempt it. Either she had a greater courage than he’d guessed, or she was too foolish to understand that a man like him didn’t deserve mercy.
‘I wish you could understand me,’ she murmured, while a water droplet slid down his cheek. She was staring at him intently, her blue eyes so dark, he found himself spellbound. When her fingers touched the drop of water, an unbidden response flared inside him. Styr moved forwards, stretching the chains taut.
Forcing her to be afraid.
She jerked back, stammering, ‘I—I’m sorry. I must have hurt you again.’ She pointed towards the bowl of soup on the ground. ‘I haven’t much I can feed you, but it’s all there is.’ She shrugged and retreated again, nodding for him to eat.
Styr eyed the bowl of watery soup and then sent her a questioning look. Exactly how did she expect him to eat with his hands bound behind his back?
She waited for a moment, ladling a bowl for herself. With a spoon, she began to eat slowly, as if savouring the broth. ‘Don’t you want—?’ Her words broke off as it dawned on her that she would have to feed him if he was going to eat at all.
A slow breath released from her. ‘I should have thought about this.’ She stood and reached for another wooden spoon. For a moment, she studied him. Her mouth twisted with worry, but she picked up the bowl again.
Styr could hardly believe any of this. Not only had she treated his wounds, she’d offered food and was about to feed it to him.
For a captor, she was entirely too merciful. And it enraged him that he was trapped here with a soft-hearted woman attempting to make the best of the situation while Elena was out there somewhere. He had to escape these chains and find his wife.
Regret stung his conscience, for he’d failed to protect Elena. He didn’t know if she was alive or dead, and guilt weighed upon him. What if another man had violated her? What if she was suffering, her body ravaged with pain?
Styr ignored the soup and called out in a hoarse voice, ‘Elena!’ There was no reply. Again and again, he shouted her name, hoping she would hear him if she was within the ringfort. Then he called out to Ragnar and each of his kinsmen as he tried to determine if he was the only hostage. Or the only one left alive.
‘They’re gone,’ Caragh interrupted when he took another breath. ‘I don’t know where, but the ship isn’t there any more.’ Her face flushed and she admitted, ‘Brendan took the woman hostage. I saw your men lay down their weapons, but I don’t know what happened after that.’
Her gaze dropped to the ground, and he suspected she was withholding more information. He turned his gaze from her, so she would not know that he’d understood her words.
Turbulent thoughts roiled within him, igniting another surge of rage. Where was his wife? Was she still alive? And what of his men?
When Caragh dared to touch a spoonful of broth to his lips, he used his head like a battering ram, sending the bowl flying. She paled and retrieved the bowl, wiping up the spilled soup.
In fury, he kicked at the wall, smashing the wattle and daub frame until he’d created a hole in the wicker frame. He roared out his frustration, straining against the manacles in a desperate need to escape. Over and over, he pulled at the chains, trying to break them.
A
nd when he’d failed to free himself, he cast another look at Caragh. She’d picked up the remains of his soup and added it to her own bowl. When he stared at her, she showed no fear at all. Only a defiant look of her own, as if he ought to be ashamed of himself.
* * *
Caragh slept fitfully, awakening several times during the night. Dear God in Heaven, what had she done? Imprisoning the Viking had seemed like a good idea at the time, but now, she regretted it. She shouldn’t have saved his life. He was planning to kill Brendan and had already killed two others. He didn’t deserve to live.
It was several hours before dawn, but she rose from her pallet and tiptoed over to the fire, adding another peat brick. A flicker of sparks rose up, and she stoked the flames to heat the cool interior. In the faint amber light, she studied the Lochlannach man who lay upon the earth.
She had removed his cloak and brooch, not wanting him to use the pin as a weapon. He wore a rough linen tunic beneath the mail corselet protecting his chest, while his fair hair was tied back in a cord. His face was strangely compelling, even in sleep. She sat upon a footstool and studied him.
Though he was harsh, his body strong from years of battle, she couldn’t deny that he was handsome, like a fallen angel. None of the men she’d met over the years even compared to this man’s features.
He was the sort of man to carry a woman off and claim her. Without warning, her mind conjured the image of kissing a man like this. He would not be gentle but would capture her mouth, consuming her. A hard shiver passed over her, for she’d never before imagined such a thing. It was madness to even consider it.
But she’d glimpsed the fury on his face when the woman was taken. He’d fought hard for her, striking down any man who threatened her.
Caragh studied his profile in the firelight, wondering what sort of man he was. Was he a fierce barbarian who would kill her as soon as she freed him? Or did he possess any honour at all?
Michelle Willingham Page 2
